Tol announced who he was and why he had come, adding, “These men, and all the men in the ships you see offshore, have volunteered to serve the empire. For this I have offered them a pardon in the emperor’s name. Who is governor here?”
The young officer, Vanjian, was over his head. He knew the name of Lord Tolandruth-everyone in Ergoth did-but couldn’t equate the illustrious general of legend with the sodden, rag-clad man before him. Still, the question was easy enough to answer.
“Lord Tremond is Marshal of the Coastal Hundred,” he replied.
“Good! I know Tremond well. Take us to him at once!”
Vanjian was torn. Pirates would hardly tell such a fantastic story-it must he a ruse to introduce armed men into the citadel, yet, if this man was indeed Lord Tolandruth-
Backing his horse in a tight half-circle, Vanjian said, “I will take you to Lord Tremond, but you must lay down your arms first.”
Grumbling among Wandervere’s men boded ill until their captain stepped forward, unbuckled his sword belt, and handed it to the Ergothian commander. One by one, unhappy but compliant, his sailors followed suit.
“You have faith,” Tol said in a low voice when Wandervere took his place at his side.
The half-elf gave him a sidelong look. “The word of Lord Tolandruth must be worth something,” he replied, gray eyes amused.
With Darpo on one side and Wandervere on the other, Tol led the former pirates into Thorngoth. Lord Tremond met them in the outer bailey of his fortress.
Life in the fortress agreed with Tremond; he had gained weight since Tol had seen him last in Daltigoth. Blond, clean-shaven, and now in his forty-first year, he once more deserved his reputation as the handsomest man in the empire. When he recognized the muddy, bedraggled figure before him, he burst out laughing.
“Oh, for a portrait of this scene, that I could preserve your look forever!” he said, guffawing.
“Still plucking your beard, I see, Tremond,” Tol replied. It was his usual jab. Women plucked hairs from their faces; priests shaved. Most warriors sported full beards.
Good-natured jibes exchanged, Tol explained about the pirates. The marshal’s mirth vanished. Astonishment bloomed on his face.
“You captured the entire Blood Fleet single-handed?” he exclaimed.
Tol denied it and repeated what he’d said, about besting Xanka in a duel, but his words were lost in a welter of exclamations from the assembled soldiers: Lord Tolandruth had captured an entire fleet of pirates! The heads of half a dozen pirate chiefs decorated the bow of his ship!
“Tremond, will you stand by the terms I offered these men?” Tol said loudly, over the tumult. He gestured toward Wandervere and his crew.
“How could I break the word of Lord Tolandruth?” Tremond raised his dagger in salute. “Welcome, men of the Imperial Ergothian Navy!”
Dazed by the success of Tol’s gambit, the pirates stared at each other and at the crowd around them. Tol 4aluted them with an empty hand since his dagger was at the bottom of the bay.
“Welcome to the empire!” he said. “Serve it well, and you shall always have a home.”
Chapter 8
What Visions Come
When the weather cleared, the pirate ships passed by the fort and anchored in the estuary of the Thorn River. Freshly bathed and barbered, Tol stood on the battlements of the citadel and watched the ships nose in to shore and drop anchor.
Flanking Tol were enormous throwing machines, the likes of which he’d never seen before. Tremond said they were the work of an engineer named Elicarno, who’d come down from Daltigoth to install them. Two stout spars, each thrust into its own skein of cords, were mounted horizontally on a frame like a bow laid on its side. A windlass drew back a bowstring as thick as Tol’s wrist, on a sliding wooden tray. The bowstring was secured by an iron ratchet. The ratchet was released by a simple trigger, a length of lanyard. Once the bowstring was drawn back, a huge arrow-some six feet in length and half as thick as the bowstring-was placed in the tray to launch. The whole contraption was mounted on a timber pedestal, heavy but so precisely balanced two men could swing the device from side to side or up and down to aim it. Impressed, Tol asked, “How far can it throw?” Tremond shrugged. He cared little for anything but women, food, and face-to-face combat from horseback. “Ignoble devices, if you ask me,” he said. “Not worthy of a warrior at all. Still, they’re useful for dealing with hostile ships, I suppose.”
Before leaving the citadel, Tol met the maker of the remarkable catapults. Elicarno was dressed in a very plain, short-sleeved tunic of tan canvas. He had a shock of curly Mack hair and smudges of soot on his face. A pair of long scrolls were tucked under one arm. Earnestly, he lectured a member of Tremond’s garrison.
“The skeins have to be tightened daily-daily, do you understand? The sea air will slacken them in no time. You won’t be able to hit the ocean with a hambone if the skeins are slack!”
The gray-haired Ergothian listening to him rolled his eyes but nodded.
When Tol was introduced, Elicarno barely acknowledged him as he finished his instructions. Alone among the inhabitants of Thorngoth he did not seem to know or care who Lord Tolandruth was. To the busy engineer, Tolandruth of Juramona was merely yet another arrogant, ignorant warlord. When Elicarno finished speaking, Tol repeated his greeting. The engineer only grunted hello and walked away, studying the scroll spread wide in his hands.
The last pirate vessel, the great Thunderer, crept up the channel past the fortress. From this height, Tol could see crew members moving on deck. The beat of the oarmaster’s drum reached his ears.
Tol made ready to depart. Tremond had assured him he would carry out Tol’s plans regarding the pirate fleet. The Marshal of the Coastal Hundred, though not the brightest ember on the hearth, was honest and reliable.
“Don’t worry, Tolandruth,” Tremond had said. “I won’t have any trouble with these rogues. They’ll obey, or I’ll hang the lot of them.”
Tol suggested he take it easy on the pirates at first. “They’re not used to discipline, so don’t expect them to behave like imperial soldiers,” he said. “If this scheme works, we’ll have the beginnings of a real navy, and the Tarsans will think twice about raiding our shores again.”
In the courtyard below the battlements Darpo and the half-elf captain, Wandervere, were waiting for Tol.
“The fleet is anchored,” Tol reported, as he and Tremond entered the courtyard. “Before we bring the men ashore, there are some dispositions to be made.” He looked his old comrade in the eye. “Darpo, you will remain in Thorngoth after I depart.”
“But, my lord-!”
Tol held up a hand. “You must. You are now in command of the first fleet of the Imperial Navy.”
Darpo was thunderstruck. He struggled for words, finally exclaiming, “My lord, I’m not worthy of such a high command!”
“Nonsense. You’ve been a warrior for twenty years, and before that you were a sailor.”
“I’m not a Rider of the Great Horde-”
“What does a horseman know of ships?” Tol scoffed, and clapped his scar-faced friend on the shoulder. “You’re the man for the job, Darpo. We need an Ergothian in command. When I see the emperor, I’ll ask him to confirm your appointment. As for rank-” He thought a moment. “A fleet commander is an admiral, like Anovenax of Tarsis. You are now Admiral Darpo!”
Tol saluted. His friend returned the gesture, embarrassed but visibly pleased.
More than military expediency motivated Tol’s actions. Since leaving Tarsis, he had lost two old and valued friends to murderous magical attacks. He had no intention of losing any more. Making Darpo admiral of the new Ergothian fleet was a wise and proper decision-it was also a way to steer him out of harm’s way. The more difficult task would be trying to do likewise with the Dom-shu sisters,
The waterfront was jammed with onlookers. Idle fishermen, boatmen, carpenters, sailmakers, sutlers, and merchants crowded the narrow streets of Thorn
goth, curious and expectant. Word of the approaching pirate ships had first frightened the town. When the news spread that Lord Tolandruth had tamed the Blood Fleet, the crowd gathered to see the famous warlord as well as the fearsome pirates.
With an escort of forty spearmen, Tol, Darpo, and Wandervere marched down to the quay. The pirates had not come off their ships yet. The crowd on the waterfront spooked them. None of them was eager to step off a gangplank into what might prove to be a lynch mob.
Wandervere’s crew from the galleot Quarrel stood on the quay, awaiting their captain’s return. Seeing him with the Ergothians, they lined up on the dock in rough but regular order. Tol halted the escort and signaled to the carter who had been trailing them since they left the fortress.
“Captain, here are your men’s swords. Take them and the imperial cloaks that go with them.”
Quarrel’s crew broke ranks and helped themselves to the cutlasses piled in the dray. The scarlet cloaks around their necks didn’t make them look any more soldierly, but they did help reassure the former pirates that the promised amnesty was truly happening.
Aboard Thunderer, Tol, Darpo, and Wandervere were greeted by Faerlac. Behind the bosun stood Kiya and Miya, plainly unhappy they’d been left behind that morning. Dralie and Inika, dressed in their best finery, were present as well and eager to be off the galley.
Tol faced the former pirates. “Welcome to Ergoth! I have conferred With Marshal Tremond, and he will honor our agreement. No punishment will fall on you, so long as you don’t commit any fresh offenses. All officers will remain in command of their respective vessels.”
“Who will command Thunderer?" asked Faerlac.
“Darpo has been appointed admiral of the fleet. You will take your orders from him. Now take the crew ashore, Faerlac. Give them the liberty of the town.”
The sailors raised a happy shout and rushed forward, engulfing their commanders. After a few moments of joyous mayhem, Darpo shouted for order. The ex-pirates quieted a little and filed down the gangplanks, dirty and ragged, but delighted with the sudden change in their fortunes. Many had spent years aboard ship, haunting random islands in the gulf, never daring to set foot in any civilized port. To them, the outpost of Thorngoth beckoned with all the glamour of the imperial capital.
Inika and Dralie sought out Tol. The younger woman was dressed in unrelieved white-low boots, leggings, and doublet. Dralie wore another gauzy creation, this one the color of old gold coins but shot through with metallic threads in a rainbow of colors. Both women moved in an invisible cloud of perfume.
Inika said, “My lord, what’s to become of us?”
“Only the gods know, lady,” Tol replied, smiling. “You have your freedom. Make of it what you will.”
Inika’s eyes were troubled, but Dralie’s expression was serene as she swept past, the hem of her sparkly gown scraping the deck.
“I would ask the gods to bless you, Tolandruth of Juramona, but I perceive they already have,” she said. “Farewell."
Tol bowed. To Inika, still lingering, he said, “If you have trouble, lady, you may apply to Lord Tremond. He’s Marshal of the Coastal Hundred, and my comrade in arms. He will do right by you.”
Somewhat reassured, Inika departed.
The vast deck of the elevener was empty now, save for Darpo, Wandervere, Tol, and the Dom-shu sisters. Tol charged the new admiral of the fleet with freeing the slave rowers and dividing Xanka’s treasure among them. The sixty-odd ships held close to a thousand slaves, but there was booty enough for all of them.
Darpo went down the gangplank. On the quay, he mustered the waiting spearmen and led them back aboard. Soon Tol could hear the sound of chisels cutting chains belowdeck on Thunderer.
Wandervere had watched these events with a bemused expression. “You have a marked habit for making things happen,” he said wryly. “I shall miss your company, my lord.”
“No need to miss me yet. You’re taking me upriver to Daltigoth.”
Quarrel’s draft would permit it to ascend the Thorn River and ply the canal to the capital, but Wandervere raised a salient point. They no longer had any rowers.
Tol shrugged. “Hire some. There are enough strong, willing, and idle arms in this town to man your oars.”
Wandervere left to make ready for the journey, and Tol was alone with Kiya and Miya.
Their frustration was palpable in the extended silence. “Speak, before you burst!” he finally said.
“How could you leave us behind?” Miya erupted. “There we were, sleeping in that stifling hole of a cabin while you nearly got yourself drowned!”
In a quieter tone, but no less angry, Kiya agreed. “It wasn’t right, husband. Our place is by your side, wherever you go.”
“No longer.”
His calm words brought forth strong objections from both women. Tol let them vent their feelings, then related his concern about an assassin with magical powers.
“Pah! You do not fear magic,” said Miya. “The gods protect you from sorcery. We know it!”
He frowned and told her to lower her voice. “It’s not myself I fear for,” he added. “I lost two old friends on the trail here. I won’t lose any more-especially not you two.”
At that, Miya did something Tol had never seen her do: she began to cry. Seeing her brown eyes fill with tears, he was moved, but Kiya, regarding him sourly, snorted.
“We are your given wives,” Kiya said, folding her strong arms. “That we do not act as wives has been best for all of us. We’re also hostages to the good behavior of our tribe. We’ve long known that. Our lawful place is with you. We have given up much to live with our bargain.” That was true enough, he knew. Kiya continued. “We faced the beast XimXim with you. For nigh on sixteen years and countless battles, Miya and I have never left your side for more than a few marks, and we’ll not leave you now.”
Her declaration made Tol realize anew how much he valued his sisterly forester companions? With his parents and sisters gone the gods knew where, Kiya and Miya were his family. That realization only hardened his resolve not to be the cause of their deaths.
Sternly he said, “This is not a debate! We’ve always granted each other the liberty to speak and do as each of us wills, but not this time! Though we are good…” He groped for an appropriate word. “…comrades, the time has come for you to obey me. You will both remain in Thorngoth, even if I have to ask Tremond to hold you in the fortress!”
The volume of this forceful declaration temporarily quieted the quay around them. He regarded them with a ferocious scowl as the usual noises slowly resumed.
Miya said, “No, we’ll follow you.”
Only his discipline as a soldier kept Tol from stomping a foot in frustration. “You will not!” he repeated. “Get this through your thick forester skulls! I forbid you to accompany me to Daltigoth! Once I’ve settled this business of the assassin, I’ll send for you, but not before!”
The air fairly crackled with tension. Miya looked miserably at her sister, tears still trailing down her cheeks. Kiya glared at Tol. He glared hack.
At last the blonde warrior woman unfolded her arms and said, “Come, Sister.” She brushed past Tol and started down the gangplank. When Miya didn’t move, Kiya repeated her words sharply.
“But-!” Miya began.
Kiya whirled and stalked away. Tol turned a shoulder to Miya’s accusing, unhappy eyes, and the younger Dom-shu finally followed her sister to the quay.
The unaccustomed harshness left a bitter taste in Tol’s mouth. Far more bitter would it be if he were the agent of their deaths.
Quarrel was to sail at sunset that very day. A single cask of treasure was transferred from Xanka’s store to the galleot. Life in the imperial capital was expensive. To make an appearance required gold and plenty of it. Tremond provided two horses, armor, and provisions for the journey. He offered a contingent of troops, but Tol declined. Quarrel was a small craft, and such a heavy load would slow her greatly.
T
he lowering sun was painting the broad, sea-bound sky in shades of scarlet when Tol sprinted up the gangplank to the galleot’s foredeck. Wandervere, newly scrubbed and wearing fine raiment, greeted him.
“We’ve two rowers per oar, plus reliefs,” the half-elf reported, “and I had to turn away a dozen others who wanted to sign on.”
He bawled commands to his crew, and they cast off. Sailors poled the galleot away from the quay. The pointed prow caught the current.
The order was given to run out oars. Ten long sweeps protruded from each side of the boat. They hung, poised in the air, until Wandervere cried, “Drop oars! Make twenty beats!”
The oarmaster set the rhythm as ordered, and Quarrel pulled smoothly away from shore. Brown water curled back from the galleot’s ram. Fishing boats and other small craft scurried out of the way.
Lanterns at the bow and stern were lit. The sun was setting upriver. Thorngoth, lying low on the muddy banks of the river, seemed all brass and fire, painted by the dying light of day. Tol had said farewell to Darpo at the citadel, but hadn’t seen Kiya or Miya since they’d stormed off Thunderer. He imagined they were sulking somewhere.
Although small compared to Thunderer, among the river craft Quarrel seemed a giant. The sight of the long, rakish galleot sweeping past was enough to send lesser boats scurrying for the banks, their boatmen gaping in astonishment. Tol had borrowed an imperial banner from Tremond. The oversized flag, meant to wave from the battlements of the citadel, hung halfway down Quarrel’s mast and flopped in the slight breeze.
The country above Thorngoth was quite different from other parts of the empire. Tol’s homeland-the hills and plains around Juramona-was wild and largely unsettled. The north country, up to the borders of Hylo, was famed for its timber and cattle. The belt between Caergoth and the capital was covered by rich farmland and walled towns, and Tol had passed through the forests of Ropunt and the Great Green.
The Thorn River delta was low and damp, riddled with tributaries large and small which splintered off the main channel, seeking the sea. Quarrel kept to the deepest part of the river. As daylight waned and the stars winked into sight overhead, the river country came to life. Clouds of water birds whirled into the air, screeching. A mighty chorus of frogs sang in the shadows, their bass voices harmonizing with the high-pitched whirring of cicadas in the trees. The darker it got, the noisier the river grew.
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