by Dragon Lance
Without further ado, the eastern gate opened and a double line of horsemen emerged. At the same time, a small band of people on foot, drably dressed in brown and gray, rose up from the tall summer grass near the city wall and started running toward Tol’s position.
“Stand ready!” Tol boomed. “Close ranks at my command – and not before!” To the elf: “Can you make out who they are?”
Tylocost stared across the distance, concentrating. Fine lines grooved his forehead and the corners of his close-set eyes.
“Twenty or so kender.”
The kender troop moved across the open field. The horsemen – several hundred Riders of the Great Horde – drew sabers and spurred forward. Their targets were the kender, not Tol and his troops.
The kender kept together until the horsemen were almost upon them. Then, as though in response to some silent signal, the little band scattered, each kender heading in a different direction. As the Riders swerved to chase the various foes, their disciplined line was reduced to confusion.
Tol laughed. Tylocost pushed back the brim of his gardener’s hat and muttered a phrase in his own language.
“I’m beginning to see why you recruited them,” he said. “They’re damned infuriating, aren’t they?”
“Best skirmishers in the world. Fighting a band of kender is like trying to count dandelion seeds in a gale!”
After several embarrassing collisions and much disorder, the Ergothians sorted themselves out. By that time the escaping kender were filtering through the open ranks of the Juramona Militia. Tol called out to one familiar face.
“Curly Windseed! Where’s your queen, and the humans she went to save?”
The brown-haired kender scrubbed his nose. “They lit out for the other side of the city. Nice of you to meet us, by the way.”
Tol saluted the brash little man. “My pleasure. How was the city?”
“Crowded.”
From one of his many pockets, Curly pulled out a bandanna to wipe his nose. Assorted trinkets – bracelets, rings, coins, and even a tiny silver cup – cascaded to the ground. Quite unabashed, he stuffed these back in his pockets and followed his fellows over the hill, angling north by northwest.
“The treasure’s that way, you know,” Tylocost said.
Tol sighed. “I know.”
The pursuing Riders, once more arranged in two neat lines, trotted through the high grass to within bowshot of the militia. One, bearing the emblem of a herald on his helm, detached from the rest and rode directly to the two mounted men. He hailed them, asking who they were.
Tol responded in ringing tones: “I am Tolandruth of Juramona! In command of the Army of the East!”
Although disconcerted by Tol’s name, the herald looked askance at the men ranged behind him. “Army of the East? This, uh, rabble?” he said.
“This is only the vanguard. We’ve come from the Isle of Elms, where we defeated the Firepath nomads and slew their chief, Tokasin.”
“Huh! What do you want here?”
Tol had been pondering that very question. He wanted his people back alive – Miya, Zala, Queen Casberry, and the rest of the Dom-shu. However, his men expected more. So did the landed hordes who had given their sabers to his service. The nomad menace was over. Although the bakali were still a threat, the true danger to the empire, he admitted to himself, was Ackal V.
“I have come to accept the surrender of Caergoth,” he said after a long pause.
Decades of experience allowed Tylocost to mask his astonishment. The herald had no such reserves to call upon. His jaw dropped open.
“You have taken up arms against the rightful emperor of Ergoth!” he sputtered. His horse pranced nervously, and he jerked on the reins. “You dare to threaten rebellion against His Majesty Ackal V?”
Slowly, Tol drew Number Six and rested the blade across his thighs. His voice once more boomed out, rolling across the quiet field.
“The rest of the army, thirty thousand Riders, is coming. I have no wish to shed the blood of loyal warriors, so all those who wish to may leave the city. The governor and his councilors will remain to face the justice of the people they have wronged. I give you two marks to comply, then I will take Caergoth by force.”
The herald could scarcely credit his ears. Was the man before him insane? He stared at Tol’s grim face, finding no answer there, nor in the annoyingly superior expression on the face of the ugly Silvanesti who rode at his side. The men at his back wore equally determined looks.
The messenger shut his mouth with a snap. “I regret your coming death, my lord. I served with Lord Urakan in Hylo, seventeen years ago.” Directing an angry look at Tylocost, he added, “Your choice of allies these days shows how grievously you have lost your way.”
He yanked his mount’s head around and cantered back to the waiting Riders. Even across the distance it was plain they were astonished to learn Tol’s identity and message. At length they formed up and returned to the city.
When they had gone, an odd ripple in the grass presaged the arrival of Queen Casberry. The green stems were taller than she.
“Your Majesty! Are you alone?” Tol said, looking anxiously behind her for signs of Miya and the rest.
“No kender is ever alone,” she said. Casting a glance over her shoulder, she added, “The rest of the party is coming along shortly, but they’re not alone either – if you know what I mean.”
Tylocost drew Tol’s attention to traces of dust rising in the air. It appeared Miya and company were being pursued.
“You enjoy this sword stuff so much, I leave the rest to you.” Casberry strode past, head held high.
At Tol’s order, a hundred men formed in close order before him. He dismounted and handed his reins to Tylocost.
“Stay here. If the garrison comes out, call up the Riders, and stand and fight.”
Although plainly unhappy with the decision, the elf nodded grimly.
Tol and the company of soldiers jogged away. They descended the slope of the knoll and veered northward, eyes fixed on the plumes of dust moving toward them. On their left, along the wall of Caergoth, the flapping of signal flags tracked their progress.
All of a sudden they found what they sought. Some forty people were struggling through the grass, hampered by the elderly and wounded comrades. Zala carried an aged, unkempt man on her back. Her father, Tol reckoned. The man whose life he’d guaranteed.
Taller than the rest was Voyarunta. On his thigh a hastily arranged bandage was soaked with blood. He was supported by his younger daughter.
Relief flooded through Tol and he shouted Miya’s name.
“Husband!” she cried, her strained, sweating face breaking into a smile. “Make yourself useful!”
When the pursuers came galloping over the rise, they were surprised to find, not unarmed, ragged prisoners, but armed infantry ready to meet them. Tol’s men had formed a hollow square with the escapees inside. The leading Riders hesitated, and the whole troop milled about for a moment. Re-forming, they charged, waving sabers and shouting. The Juramonans, hardened by screaming nomad attacks, stood firm, and the Riders pulled up when they saw the militia wasn’t going to break.
Taking advantage of their indecision, Tol ordered, “By section, close ranks and advance!”
The men on the far side of the ring moved in to fill the gaps between the men on the engaged side. Then, with spears ported under their arms, the whole troop advanced on the horsemen.
The startled Riders stood their ground, hacking at the spearpoints with their sabers, but the compact band of foot soldiers kept coming. Horses lost their footing in the confused press and toppled, throwing their noble riders. Alarmed, the captain of the Riders called for retreat.
Tol let them go. Eight Riders had fallen, either wounded or unconscious, but the Juramonans hadn’t lost a man. The militia backed away as the escaped prisoners scurried to safety.
Tol caught up with Miya, still supporting her injured father. He asked why she and the
other Dom-shu were so far from their forest home.
Frowning at his gruff tone, Miya looked up at her father. “See? He is an ungrateful wretch! How’s Sister?”
He said she was fine, and coming with Egrin and the main body of the army. Relief flooded Miya’s face.
“Praise Zivilyn! She left the village with her burial beads, you know.”
Tol stopped in his tracks. He hadn’t known. When a Dom-shu warrior came of age, he or she was required to weave a headband that would be worn only when the warrior expected to die in battle. When Kiya had left her people to become Tol’s hostage and wife, her beads had remained with Voyarunta, To have brought her death raiment with her on this journey was an ominous sign.
Drums clattered and horns blared from the distant city. The southwestern gate – called the Centaur Gate for its representation of a tribe of galloping centaurs wrought in fine bronze – swung open. Horsemen six abreast trotted forth. Soon two hordes had deployed across the paved road leading southwest to Daltigoth.
More horns proclaimed the emergence of a third horde, and a fourth could be seen mustering inside the barbican. The presence of four thousand Riders meant Wornoth was no longer concerned about a handful of fleeing prisoners. He intended to kill Tol. Militia and escapees alike quickened their pace.
Tol finally noted the absence of Helbin, and Zala said he’d been captured. This likely meant the wizard was dead.
The group was moving as fast as they could. A flight of arrows arced up from the battlements of Caergoth and descended. The missiles fell far short, but the Ergothian hordes started forward in pursuit formation. On foot, and burdened with weak and wounded people, Tol’s band couldn’t outpace horsemen. The first Riders caught up with them, then passed by on either side.
There was no choice but stand and fight. He pushed his group hard until they reached a spreading oak, the largest tree in sight. The militiamen deployed in a circle around the tree. The escapees clustered around its base. Zala, Miya, Chief Voyarunta, and the Dom-shu warriors borrowed swords from the spear-armed militiamen and formed a tight group around Tol.
Without preamble or any call to surrender, the Ergothians attacked. They came straight in, and ran onto a wall of spears. Recoiling, they left a dozen dead and dying. Again they surged forward, on two fronts, trying to pinch the small band in two.
One Ergothian pushed his horse through the melee, thinking to come up on Tol’s blind side. Miya shouted a warning. Tol whirled, and his attacker’s blade met Number Six with a clang of iron on steel. Disengaging quickly, Tol sliced the saddle girth. Rider and saddle crashed to the ground. Tol thrust home through the armpit gap in the Rider’s breastplate.
After more furious fighting, the Riders withdrew. The reason quickly became clear – Tylocost was coming. The remainder of the militia was marching in two compact blocks, bristling with spearpoints. Behind them, cantering quickly, was the demi-horde of Riders Tol had left in reserve. The Caergoth hordes circled the slow-moving militia, looking for a weak spot to exploit. Doggedly, the two phalanxes came on. As Tol’s mounted men drew near, the Caergoth hordes pulled back.
“Their hearts aren’t in it,” Miya observed. Sweat plastered her short hair to her face, and she was breathing hard. There were no soft Dom-shu, but six years as a village mother had ill-prepared her for fierce combat.
As he watched the Caergoth Riders withdraw a short distance, Tol suddenly frowned. Riders of the Great Horde retreating after only a brief engagement with foot soldiers? And withdrawing in the face of a force of Riders only a quarter their strength? Understanding struck him.
“You’re right!” he declared. “Their hearts aren’t in it!”
Tol called for his cornet. A young fellow, once a journeyman brewer from Juramona, arrived and was told to blow “Parley.” The brewer didn’t know how, so Tol sang the four notes for him. The cornet repeated the notes properly and Tol slapped him on the back. “Get up that tree and blow until I tell you to stop!”
The lad clambered up the oak, assisted by the strong arms of several Dom-shu. After lodging himself in the high branches, he put the brass horn to his lips.
He had sounded “Parley” several times before the imperial horsemen took note. Silence fell as the hordes re-formed their lines. A delegation of eight horsemen advanced from the Caergoth contingent: four horde commanders, each with his standard bearer. Tol recognized those standards. The Lightning Riders, the Bronzehearts, the Caer Blades, and the Iron Falcons had served under him in the war with Tarsis.
The leader of this delegation also was known to Tol. A barrel-chested warrior with a forked black beard, Geddrig Zanpolo, commander of the Iron Falcons, was a formidable fighter and widely hailed as a brave warrior. His famous beard had been grown, it was said, to hide the deep notch cut in his chin by a wild centaur. Disarmed, grievously wounded, Zanpolo had slain the centaur bandit with his bare hands.
Tol decided to go out alone to meet the delegation. Such veteran warriors of the Great Horde would not talk to him were he accompanied by women, foot soldiers, or foreigners. He reckoned he could trust the honor of the warlord of the Iron Falcons.
He left the shade of the oak tree and walked out into the midday sun. He headed uphill through the trampled grass to a small ledge of weathered sandstone. This put him at the same height as the approaching mounted men, so there he waited.
Eight riders drew up in a line before him.
“My lord,” Zanpolo greeted him. “I was told you led this motley army. I am sorry to see it!”
“Save your sorrow. You see before you the advance guard of the Army of the East.”
“I know of no such army. Who created it? Not the emperor.”
“We created it ourselves. Nomads had burned and looted half the eastern provinces. Were we to sit idle simply because the emperor could not be bothered to defend his own people?”
“I wouldn’t,” Zanpolo admitted.
“This parley is illegal! We cannot treat with a proscribed man!”
This outburst came from a younger warrior at Zanpolo’s left, the commander of the Caer Blades. He added, “By rights, we should take his head and present it to the governor!”
The young warlord’s hand moved to rest on his sword hilt, but Zanpolo growled, “This is a parley, Hallack. I’ll cut down the first man who dares draw a blade!”
Tol relaxed. With this proof of Zanpolo’s honor, he decided to make the appeal he’d been rehearsing in his mind.
“Warriors of Ergoth,” he said loudly, for all to hear, “you know me. Some of you fought with me against the Tarsans. Ten years we fought together, hoot to boot, shoulder to shoulder. We were not city soldiers then, living in warm barracks and eating in taverns. For a decade we rode together, sleeping on the ground, eating from the same pot.
“After the war was won,^our late emperor, Pakin III, died and I was recalled to Daltigoth. So were many of you. There, while serving the new emperor, Ackal IV, I became involved in the machinations of the rogue wizard Mandes, who had done me much wrong. He was driven into exile and began a campaign of evil against the empire. I convinced His Majesty Ackal IV to let me bring Mandes to justice. This I did.”
The Riders, except for Zanpolo, showed signs of impatience. They knew this story. Tol’s next words erased their boredom.
“It was the worst mistake of my life. While I was away from Daltigoth, Prince Nazramin usurped the throne.” Anger bloomed on Lord Hallack’s face. Tol pinned him with a glare. “Yes, usurped,” he repeated. “Through the use of evil magic, Nazramin drove his brother mad, then had him deposed and murdered.
“When I returned from dealing with Mandes, the new emperor stripped me of my titles and authority, and had me beaten nearly to death. He could hardly allow the champion of his late, unhappy brother to go free, so he had me proscribed.
“For six years I have dwelt among the foresters, my friends the Dom-shu. There I learned again how decent and honest people behaved. We’ve long despised the tribes of the
east as savages, but they treated me with fairness and generosity.”
Tol’s expression grew hard again. “Then the bakali and the nomads invaded the empire. Ackal V made only half-hearted attempts to defend the east, preferring to hold back the Great Horde to defend Daltigoth. With what result? Murder, pillage, fire, and waste! Juramona and a score of lesser towns are in ruins. Farms have been burned, herds scattered or slaughtered. Orchards have been left to rot, mines and markets are empty. Tens of thousands are without food or shelter. In the east there was no law, no order!
“Egrin, Raemel’s son, came to me in the Great Green and convinced me to return. I hammered together the Juramona Militia, which you see accompanying me today. We fought off armies of nomads while Egrin summoned the landed hordes from all the eastern provinces. Together, the militia and landed Riders drove the nomads out of the empire, slaying two of their great chiefs in the process.”
Zanpolo nodded, breaking his stern silence. “We heard as much, from prisoners,” he said. “We did not know you led the landed hordes.” A trace of a smile crossed his lips. “Though I should have guessed.”
“This is irrelevant!” snapped Hallack, unable to contain himself any longer. “This man has been condemned by the emperor himself! It is our duty to arrest him and deliver him to the governor!”
“Our duty,” Zanpolo said quietly, “is to the empire.”
Tol looked his old comrade in the eyes. This was exactly what he’d been hoping to hear!
“I have thirty-two hordes in the Army of the East,” he said. “With the garrison of Caergoth added, we’ll be strong enough to defeat the bakali and save our country!”
“And what about the emperor?” asked Zanpolo, after a pause, black brows lifting.
Choosing his words with utmost care, Tol said, “An emperor who does not defend his country should not be emperor.”
“Treason!”
Lord Hallack erupted out of line, drawing his saber. Tol stepped back, reaching for Number Six, but before he had done more than grasp the hilt, Zanpolo spurred his horse forward. He caught Hallack’s sword arm in one hand, and with the other, backhanded him across the face. The harsh blow sent the Ackal loyalist flying from his horse. Out cold, he rolled over and over in the grass, down to the foot of Tol’s perch.
