A Hero's justice d-3

by Paul B. Thompson

  Ackal V spoke to a nearby officer. “Tell the captain of the Householders to clear that insolent trash out of the Inner City.”

  The soldier saluted and started to leave, but the emperor wasn’t finished.

  “Have the daggers gathered up. And send the chamberlain of clans and heraldry to me. I want every blade identified.” A slow smile curved the emperor’s lips. “I intend to see to it each one finds its owner again.”

  A small band of horsemen topped a rise in the Ackal Path, skidding to a halt. Before them, golden in the light of the midmorning summer sun, was the greatest vista in the empire: Daltigoth, capital of Ergoth.

  On the left, the Dalti Canal ran parallel to the road, its waters jade green, its shimmering surface undisturbed by boats. Commerce, disrupted by the twin invasions, had not revived in the face of the Army of the East’s advance. Peasant farmers and the usual stream of travelers flowing to and from Daltigoth were conspicuously absent.

  Between the canal and the road was a line of tall, weathered statues commemorating rulers of past ages. Tol, leading the group of horsemen, noted that the headless figures of Pakin Zan and Ergothas III still stood, just as they had many years ago, when he’d first come to Daltigoth. An image of Ackal IV had been raised since. It was half the size of the other colossi, an indifferent likeness carved in soft limestone. Given the winter storms common to the Great Horde Hundred, the statue’s features wouldn’t last ten years.

  The small hill on which Tol and his companions had paused was called Emperor’s Knob. Legend had it that Ackal Ergot had stood here when he first surveyed the site of his future capital.

  Tol drank from the waterskin Kiya handed him and reflected on the passage of time. When he’d last stood here, the land around Daltigoth had been gripped by winter, with deep snow blanketing the pasturelands to his left and the great orchards to his right, under a leaden sky. Now, the fruit trees were densely green and the pastures thronged with shaggy, red-coated cattle, the emperor’s own herd.

  Although still more than two leagues away, Daltigoth filled the view from horizon to horizon, from the canal in the east to the peaks of the Harkmor range, to the south and west. The great city wall rose like an impenetrable cliff face. Beyond it, and taller still, the wall of the Inner City enclosed the imperial enclave of palace, Tower of High Sorcery, and Riders’ Hall.

  It seemed impossible that they could overcome such a vast and imposing place. All Ackal V had to do was shut the gates, and the Army of the East would be powerless.

  “They said we couldn’t get into Caergoth either,” Kiya said, reading her husband’s thoughts. She took the skin back from Tol and drank deeply.

  Young Lord Quevalen muttered, “Why do we sit here alone? Where are the imperial hordes?”

  It was a trenchant question. In the two days since the battle that had cost them Pagas and gravely wounded Egrin, the Army of the East had encountered no serious opposition. A handful of patrols, a few bands of hired archers was all the resistance they’d met, and all were quickly swept aside. Where were Ackal V’s vaunted ninety hordes?

  Under duress, the customs officer Hathak had revealed that forces loyal to the emperor were gathering secretly behind the Army of the East. Minor crossroads north and south of the Ackal Path were the rendezvous points. Riders of the Great Horde had been sent out disguised as commoners, and only awaited word to take up hidden weapons and strike Tol’s men unawares from behind.

  Hathak obviously believed what he told them, but after some rumination, Tol decided he did not. Since entering the Great Horde Hundred, they’d seen no more than two dozen farmers. Where were all these supposedly hidden warriors? Where were their horses? He felt the story had been planted by the emperor to keep them off balance, to keep them looking over their shoulders rather than straight ahead. His warlords agreed with this sensible assessment.

  Since the army’s arrival at Emperor’s Knob, scouts had returned with other news. The city gates were shut tight, but there were signs that large numbers of mounted men had crossed the West Dalti River not more than two days ago-headed away from the city.

  Now, as they stared at Daltigoth in the distance, Tol and his warlords were discussing this peculiar development.

  “They mean to outflank us,” Mittigorn said. “With our attention fixed on the capital, the emperor’s hordes can sweep ’round behind us and catch us in a noose!”

  Two Riders from Zanpolo’s horde arrived, interrupting the debate. With them was a stranger mounted on a sturdy cob and bearing a standard. The plain white disk on its top was not a horde symbol Tol or his warlords recognized.

  “My lord,” said the young man. “I am come from my master, chief priest of Corij, of the great temple in Daltigoth.”

  The assembled warlords muttered among themselves. Tol leaned forward on the pommel of his saddle. “Does your master have a name?”

  The herald swallowed, glancing at the bored warlords at Tol’s back. “Xanderel, my lord. My master is Xanderel.”

  “What word does the august Xanderel bring to us?”

  “He seeks an audience, my lord, to discuss the grievances that have brought you here.”

  Mittigorn and the other commanders of the landed hordes were delighted by the news; they believed the emperor was making overtures toward peace. The Caergoth lords, however, did not trust that interpretation.

  “This is not Ackal V’s way,” Zanpolo said firmly. “Negotiate? This emperor only negotiates at the point of a saber!”

  “This time he’s not dealing with foreigners, nomads, or lizard-men,” Trudo countered. “We’re warlords of the empire. Why not treat with us?”

  Zanpolo shook his head. He was certain this was a trick.

  Tol agreed. Ackal V was capable of the worst double-dealing. The whole situation smelled worse than a thief on a gibbet.

  According to the herald, the parley would be attended by priests from the temples of Mishas and Draco Paladine, as well as a guard escort of one hundred Riders.

  “A large retinue for a few priests,” Zanpolo remarked, as all eyes went to Tol.

  He replied after only a brief hesitation. “We will meet your master Xanderel, at sunset, at our camp on the plain, a half-league north of the Dragon Gate.”

  The delay plainly puzzled the herald, but he nodded assent and cantered away. As he was going, Miya arrived. She’d been helping nurse Egrin. The old marshal was conscious and improving, but had no use of his right arm.

  Told of the proposed meeting, Miya sided with the landed warlords and saw the parley as a good sign. Her sister, predictably, sided with Zanpolo and the skeptics.

  “It’s a trap,” Kiya said darkly. “Priests mean magic. Don’t trust them, Husband!”

  Lord Quevalen, who knew Daltigoth well, disagreed. “The priesthoods are not happy with the emperor,” he said. “He taxes their holdings heavily, and it is well known that he slights the gods.”

  Argument ended as work on the camp took precedence. Tol had delayed the parley for that reason. If Ackal V intended a surprise attack while Tol was talking with the delegation of priests, he’d find a fortified defense waiting.

  As work progressed, Miya entered the tent she shared with her sister to find Kiya already there. She was sorting through her scant belongings and had divided everything into four small piles.

  “What are you doing?” Miya asked.

  Kiya pointed to the first pile, which contained two good knives, a helmet, and a ring mail shirt. “This is for Eli, when he’s old enough,” she said. “That”-a pile of doeskin shifts, leggings, belts, and such-“is for you, Sister.”

  Ignoring Miya’s demand for an explanation, Kiya pointed to the third pile, comprising personal items such as her tribal fetish, a carved ivory comb, and a nicely beaded vest.

  “For our father,” she said.

  She pivoted to point at the final pile, which contained her sword, scale shirt, and greaves. Miya let out a horrified yell.

  Kiya’s long horsetail
of blonde hair was gone. Her hair now ended raggedly at the nape of her neck.

  The elder Dom-shu sister laid the thick hank of hair, tied with a leather thong, atop the last pile. “This,” she said evenly, “goes to our husband.”

  Dom-shu warriors only cut their hair before a battle they did not expect to survive. The hair was offered as a sacrifice to Bran, god of the forest.

  Miya grabbed her sister’s hands. “What are you thinking? You’ve been gloomy ever since I found you at Caergoth!”

  “You found me? Since when does a rabbit track a fox?”

  Miya bit off a reply, refusing to be baited. “Why are you in such a hurry to die?”

  Brown eyes finally met brown eyes, and Kiya said, “Because the final battle is near. I feel it.”

  Miya felt it, too, but not for herself or Kiya. Her chief worry was Tol. “Will Husband survive, do you think?” she asked in a low voice.

  Kiya frowned and said, not unkindly, “If a mountain fell from the sky, that man would survive it.”

  A skirl of horns interrupted them, announcing the arrival of the delegation from Daltigoth. Kiya rose and buckled on her sword. “You watch the guards, Sister,” she said. “I’ll keep an eye on the priests. Agreed?”

  For the first time in many years, Miya felt like weeping. Under her sister’s stern gaze, she struggled to swallow the lump in her throat.

  Kiya spun her around to face the door flap and gave her a rude shove. “Hurry up. Ever since you became a mother, you’ve gotten so fat and slow!”

  Miya forced a smile and replied, “I’m not fat. I’m only rounded. You’re sharp angles all over. No one would want to hug you!”

  It was a lie. She pulled Kiya to her, and they embraced.

  The delegation from Daltigoth arrived as the sun was disappearing behind the city. The priests filled four horse-drawn wagons. They were accompanied by a dual line of horsemen. Torchlight showed the escort to be a rather nondescript group, wearing indifferent armor. They looked like provincial levies. Tol’s warlords had expected to see imperial Riders, men they knew, but these horsemen were strangers.

  Seven priests descended from the first wagon. All were clad in long white robes, topped by brown, hooded surcoats. All but one were quite tall. That one, the eldest judging by his yellow-gray beard, wore a golden circlet on his head. He was supported by a priest with a clipped brown beard who wore a white turban.

  The remainder of the clerics, twenty-three in all, wore robes of sky blue for Mishas, or silver and white for Draco Paladine. They arranged themselves respectfully behind the seven priests of Corij.

  There was a tense moment as five hundred spearmen of the Juramona Militia moved in, interposing themselves between the priests and their escort. The priests talked amongst themselves, ending their whispered conclave when Tol and his warlords approached.

  Tol greeted the elderly man with the circlet, and asked, “Do I have the honor of addressing Xanderel, high priest of Corij in Daltigoth?”

  The old fellow bowed. “I am he.”

  “I am Tolandruth of Juramona. Welcome.”

  “Thank you, my lord. Shall we retire to your tent to speak?”

  “No. Anything to be said will be said out here in the open, for all to hear.”

  Xanderel looked distinctly uncomfortable. He insisted they remove to a more private location, but Zanpolo interrupted.

  “Speak, priest, or depart!” the forked-bearded warlord snapped.

  Xanderel flinched and glared at Zanpolo. Recovering his equanimity, Xanderel produced a slim scroll from his sleeve. “Hear the words of His Imperial Majesty, Ackal V,” he intoned.

  Once again, he was interrupted. A lone figure limped out of the shadows. Head bandaged and right arm in a sling, Egrin looked pale as a specter.

  “You should not be up and walking!” Miya exclaimed, hurrying him.

  “I have a right to be here,” the old marshal rasped, looking to Tol.

  Hiding a smile of pleasure, which he feared his old mentor might misconstrue as amusement, Tol said, “You’re welcome, my lord. Always.”

  Egrin shuffled through the crowd and stood at Tol’s right hand. Tol told the priest to continue.

  Xanderel began to read the parchment he held.

  “ ‘To those warriors gathered outside the gate of my city, I, Ackal the Fifth, sovereign lord of the Empire my forefathers made, send you this greeting.’ ”

  Weak though he was, Egrin shot a penetrating look at Tol, who nodded. The emperor did not call them an army-an army suggested a legitimate body.

  “ ‘Since returning to Daltigoth in triumph, after leading my imperial army in battle to destroy the bakali invaders, I have learned that certain eastern warlords banded together to fight the nomad tribesmen who entered my realm to plunder and pillage. Though not under imperial command, these eastern warlords did manage to drive the savages out of the empire, and for this I commend them.’ ”

  A murmur went through Tol’s followers. A promising beginning.

  “ ‘Yet this was not enough for some malcontents. Guided by malice and greed, these warlords forcibly entered the imperial city of Caergoth, damaged my property, and wrought violence on the person of my governor, Lord Wornoth. These and other crimes are fully known to me.

  “ ‘Now these malcontent lords have come to Daltigoth, not as humble petitioners to my imperial majesty, but in arms, as rebels.’ ”

  Loud denials came from Mittigorn, Argonnel, and the rest, and Xanderel paused in his reading until the protestations subsided.

  “ ‘Despite this treason, I, Ackal V, forgive you.’ ”

  More shouting. Xanderel plunged on, reading faster. “ ‘I forgive all your transgressions against my majesty, including bearing arms against my loyal hordes. Further, I will meet with all those warlords from the east who so desire it, to further mitigate the grievances they imagine they have against the throne of Ergoth. All this, I, Ackal V, do grant, if-’ ”

  Here it comes, Tol thought.

  “ ‘-the living body of the criminal Tol of Juramona is delivered to me this night.’ ”

  Xanderel lowered the scroll, his hands visibly shaking. The silence was so complete, the faint crackling of the numerous torches seemed loud.

  None of the warlords wanted to turn Tol over to the emperor, but the offer of a full amnesty, backed by a personal hearing of the complaints that had brought them here, was extremely tempting.

  For his part, Tol was impressed. The emperor’s strategy was cunning. Smiling wryly, he turned and said to his followers, “Well, must I leave now, or may I pack my bags first?”

  He never heard the dagger being drawn. The tall, turbaned priest standing beside Xanderel drew the blade from inside his robe. Without sheath or scabbard to scrape against, it came out as quietly as death. The Dom-shu sisters, standing just behind Tol, saw the blade glint in the torchlight.

  “Assassin!” Miya shouted, as Kiya reached for her saber.

  Xanderel and four of the clerics threw themselves to the ground. The rest of the delegation produced daggers or short swords from beneath their robes and flung themselves at the nearest astonished warlords. Their mounted escort drew sabers and attacked the Juramona Militia.

  When the turbaned priest, drove his long dagger straight at Tol’s throat, Miya yanked Tol backward and Egrin interposed himself. He seized the assassin’s wrist with his good left hand. As they struggled for the dagger, the priest’s turban fell away.

  Tathman!

  Tol instantly recognized the captain of the Emperor’s Wolves, despite his trimmed beard. Number Six in hand, Tol shouted for Egrin to get clear, but the old warrior would not let go Tathman’s dagger hand. Lacking a weapon and hampered by his injury, Egrin kicked hard at the other man’s shins. His hobnailed boots cut through the priestly robes and drew blood.

  Tathman punched Egrin in the face. The old warrior’s head rocked back, once, twice, three times. Still, his iron grip did not falter. With a roar of fury, Tathman chopped
at Egrin’s arm with his fist and finally broke free. Immediately, he slashed downward at Egrin’s face.

  Tol caught Egrin and spun his friend into Miya’s arms, then turned to deal with the emperor’s favorite killer.

  Tathman fended off Tol’s cuts and thrusts, retreating back toward the wagon that had brought him. His fighting style was peculiar: He seemed more intent on cutting Tol than impaling him.

  On one pass the iron blade hissed close by Tol’s face, and he suddenly understood Tathman’s intent. The edge of the blade was coated with a yellow substance.

  Poison.

  Tol risked a fleeting glance over his shoulder. Egrin lay on the ground, his head and shoulders in Miya’s lap. His eyes were closed, and the cut on his face was bright red and inflamed.

  Something deep inside Tol exploded with anger. With repeated thrusts of Number Six, he forced Tathman back until the big man fetched up against the wagon box. Around them, warriors and false priests fought, cursed, and shouted, but neither Tol nor Tathman said a word as they lunged and feinted. Tol’s steel saber finally got through, slicing the captain’s robe and revealing a gleam of metal beneath.

  The poisoned dagger whisked by Tol’s eyes. He recovered and slashed hard at the vile weapon, scoring a bloody cut on Tathman’s chin. Down came the dagger toward Tol’s scale shirt. Backing a step, Tol turned sharply and drove Number Six into his foe’s unprotected thigh.

  Tathman grunted, and backhanded Tol with his free hand. The blow rocked Tol, and he staggered. A red haze clouded his vision, but instinctively he raised his saber to protect his face. Tathman’s dagger’s struck his handguard. Tol swept Number Six down and felt his blade strike flesh. His vision cleared. Tathman was clutching the base of his neck with one hand, blood welling between his fingers.

  The rest of the assassins had been subdued in the meantime. Several warlords, including the redoubtable Zanpolo and white-bearded Trudo, had fallen to poisoned daggers wielded by Tathman’s confederates.

  A company of militia ran up with spears leveled at Tathman. Panting, Tol waved them off. He and the Wolf captain stood, gazes locked.