by Dragon Lance
With a hiss of steel, Number Six came free of its scabbard. Tol raised the saber high.
Miya cried out, but Kiya said calmly, “Will you kill me, Husband?”
Crimson shame washed over his face as he lowered the sword. The three of them stood frozen in place as the hordes of Mittigorn and Argonnel swept past in a swirl of dust and pounding hoofbeats.
It was Tol who finally broke the terrible moment. He bowed his head and covered his burning eyes with one hand.
He’d lost comrades on every campaign he’d fought. It was never easy, but the sorrow was lessened by knowing they died well, fighting as honorable warriors. Yet he felt no such comfort in this case. If Egrin died …
Tol shuddered. Egrin was more than his second father. Tol had known his real father for eleven years. He’d known Egrin nearly three decades. Not only had Egrin opened up an entirely different world to Tol and taught him how to be a warrior, the former marshal had showed when it was best not to fight. Egrin had taught him what it meant to be an honorable man.
A strong hand clutched his arm. It was Miya’s. She said his name, and the awed tone of her voice penetrated his grief. He looked up and beheld an amazing scene.
To the west, where the imperial hordes were retreating, clouds were descending onto the battlefield. Tol saw no faces in them, just billowing masses of white vapor sinking to the ground. They filled the open space between the withdrawing imperials and Tol’s pursuing hordes. The green pastures and leafy orchards were slowly swallowed up by a wall of dense mist.
“The emperor’s covering his tracks!” said Kiya.
Wearily, Tol sheathed Number Six. “The battle is over today,” he said. “When the clouds disperse, we’ll resume the march. This was just a skirmish to delay us.”
Miya was incredulous. How could he call today’s bloody encounter a skirmish?
“We faced no more than ten hordes today. Ackal has ninety more. Imagine today’s battle increased ninefold.”
Miya shook her head. She followed as Tol rode back to check on Egrin.
Kiya never noticed them leave. The low-lying cloudbank was staring at her – its contours holding the same implacable faces she had seen before. After a moment the faces dissolved, leaving only featureless fog.
*
Within the Tower of High Sorcery, the assemblage of wizards formed a great circle, hands clasped. As they ended their joint incantation, sighs and groans of exhaustion filled the vast hall. Older mages tottered to benches along the wall and collapsed. Young and old alike flexed fingers grown stiff from a half-day’s concentrated effort.
By projecting their collective consciousness into the air above Lord Tolandruth’s army, the wizards could study its progress. The veil that had formerly cloaked the bakali and nomads was gone. None of them knew why, although there was much speculation. But they had been able to follow Tolandruth’s progress since his defeat of the nomads at the Isle of Elms.
Merkurin, chief scribe of the White Robe order, finished his description of the battle and signed his name to the scroll with his customary flourish. The document, covering Lord Tolandruth’s movements for a single day, was over ten paces long. While his colleagues conjured, an image of what they were seeing appeared in the air over their heads. Merkurin, outside the great circle, wrote down all he saw. The process was exhausting for everyone, and made more so by the distance from which they had to operate.
Merkurin rang a small bell. An acolyte of the Red Robes hurried to him. The chief scribe rolled his report and sealed it. Handing it to the young woman he reminded her, “For His Majesty. No one else is to see it.”
She bowed her head. “Yes, Master Merkurin.” The emperor would soon have his report. Merkurin hoped he knew what to do with it.
Chapter 25
A HERO’S JUSTICE
Drums rolled, echoing off the walls of the Inner City. The imperial Household Guard was drawn up in a hollow square, swords hared. Outside the ring of armed men stood the assembled warlords of the empire – those remaining who were still able to reach Daltigoth at the emperor’s command. They solemnly watched the spectacle unfolding before them. Every window in the palace and Riders’ Hall facing the plaza was filled with spectators.
Within the square of guardsmen nine men stood in a line. Warlords all, the nine were bereft of arms and armor, clad in ordinary trews and linen shirts, the garb of condemned men. Their hair and beards had been shorn away.
Also within the square was Ackal V, seated on his golden throne. Prince Dalar stood by his right hand. The heir to the throne wore his own suit of armor, cuirass and helmet wrought in thin, brightly polished brass.
The condemned men were the commanders of the hordes who had been ordered to stop Tol’s advance on the capital. Their leader, General Meeka of the Golden Ram Horde, had protested that he had not had sufficient men to stop Lord Tolandruth, well known as an accomplished strategist. His use of Tol’s old title had cost Meeka his life, and insured the emperor’s rage against his subordinates. Meeka was beheaded forthwith, and his horde commanders likewise now faced the emperor’s wrath.
“You have been found guilty of cowardice,” Ackal V declared. “By law and custom set down by my glorious ancestors, you should all be executed, and your property forfeited to the empire!” He paused for effect. “But I am disposed to be lenient. Only two of you shall die. I leave it to you to choose who shall lose their heads.”
The nine neither spoke nor moved. Their eyes remained fixed forward, staring beyond their angry liege.
Ackal V flushed. “Choose two, or all will die!” he shouted.
The warrior at the right end of the line, a cousin of the Tumult and Dermount clans, stepped forward. “I will die to spare my comrades, Majesty,” he announced.
Immediately, the man next to him stepped forward, saying, “So shall I!”
In turn, each of the others took the fatal step toward the emperor.
Ackal V leaned to the right, murmuring, “You see, Dalar, what I must work with? They fight poorly, disobey me, then offer their necks out of pride. What can I do?” He sighed loudly and sat back. “Very well. Your emperor grants your final wish. Kill them all.”
The warlords outside the ring of guards stirred, shouting, “No!” and “Spare them!”
Ackal V glared at the assembly. “The Inner City wall has room for many heads!” he said loudly.
Dalar flinched at his father’s injustice, but for once the warlords did not. New cries went up: “Shame!” and “Where is honor?” The plaza reverberated with the noise.
Nonetheless, the emperor jerked his head, and his executioner strode toward the waiting prisoners. The swordsman’s bare chest rippled with muscle as he lifted his weapon high.
Without hesitation, the Dermount cousin went down on his knees. The two-handed blade severed his neck in one stroke. In spite of the outraged shouts from the assembled warlords, the next prisoner knelt immediately, and was dispatched with equal swiftness. The executioner traveled efficiently down the line, until all nine men were dead. Their blood flowed together in a great spreading pool, staining the mosaic of the constellation of Corij that decorated the plaza’s center.
A prolonged groan went up from the warlords of Ergoth. They pressed forward, jostling the Household Guards holding them back.
“Justice is done,” Ackal V declared.
He rose and commanded Dalar to accompany him. Outwardly nonchalant, he crossed the square to the palace. A double line of guards formed a path for emperor and heir, and more soldiers jogged down from the palace to reinforce their comrades.
A loud metallic clang behind him made the emperor pause on the first of the palace steps. He looked back. A warlord’s personal dagger had landed on the pavement several paces away. Not a direct threat to Ackal V, the symbol of the warlord’s rank had been hurled over the heads of the massed guards in a show of contempt and defiance.
As though a dam had burst, the single blade was joined by others. They spun through the
air, jeweled pommels glittering, a veritable deluge of flashing iron clattering and skidding over the ancient mosaic.
Ackal V’s studied nonchalance vanished. Face contorted with fury, he snatched Dalar’s hand and stamped up the stairs. All present knew that retribution would be swift. No one insulted Nazramin Bethen Ergothas Ackal V with impunity. No one.
The emperor was almost blind with rage. He shoved aside any servant unlucky enough to cross his path. In the antechamber of the throne room, his chamberlains huddled out of reach and uttered soothing phrases.
“Stop that chattering, you imbeciles, or I’ll have your tongues out!” Ackal V roared. The men instantly fell silent. He paced back and forth, unconsciously dragging the little prince along with him. “The arrogance! The conceit! I’ll have them exterminated! Every one of them!”
“Who then will fight for you?”
Valaran, dressed in a gown of imperial scarlet, stood in the open doorway to the throne room. Her chestnut hair, free for once of the tall headdress required by fashion, hung loose down her back. Surrounded by ladies dressed in muted hues, the empress seemed a great summer bloom fallen into a bed of pale spring blossoms.
Her appearance elicited squawks of dismay from the chamberlains. The men immediately cast down their eyes, looking away from the empress’s bare face.
“Why are you out of your quarters, lady?” her husband said icily. “And without a proper covering for your face?”
“Apologies, sire. I feared a riot and came with all haste to extricate Your Majesty from danger,” she replied.
His laughter was short and harsh. “With what troops, lady?”
Valaran gestured to the women around her. “Troops enough, Majesty. Few warlords – even arrogant, conceited ones – would raise a sword against unarmed women.”
This was certainly true, but when she held out her arms and Prince Dalar ran to her, Valaran’s true reason for defying law and custom became apparent. The empress had left her sacred enclave to save her son.
Ackal V’s attention returned to the original source of his fury. “This would not have happened if my Wolves had been here!”
Accompanied by a large entourage of priests, courtiers, and the emperor’s elderly cousin, Lord Gothalan, the Emperor’s Wolves had departed the night before. Their mission was known only to their patron.
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 w
ith 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.”
