The History of Krynn: Vol III

by Dragon Lance

  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 ha
nd, 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.

  Tol slashed at Tathman’s already wounded shoulder. The big man parried, parried again, then made a backhanded swipe at Tol’s eyes. Tol brought Number Six up to his cheek, edge outward, and the blade cut deep into Tathman’s wrist. The Wolf captain groaned loudly as the tainted blade fell from his nerveless fingers. Still he did not go down, but only staggered back. His right wrist, partially severed, was held tight against his body; his left hand gripped his bleeding neck.

  Tol struck again. Tathman received Tol’s saber through the knotted muscle of his upper right arm. Howling, Tathman fell.

  Incredibly, the villain was not yet finished. After a brief struggle, Tathman made it to his knees.

  Up went Number Six. Tathman raised his face and peered at his foe through sweaty, bloody strands of hair. There was no pleading in his eyes, only burning, unquenchable hatred.

  The steel blade flashed down, and Tathman died.

  Tol hurried to Miya. She held Egrin tightly, both of them shaking from the force of her grief. Egrin’s eyes were closed.

  “He’s not breathing!” Miya sobbed.

  Tol seized Egrin’s hand, saying harshly, “Don’t go, old man! Our j ob isn’t done!”

  His plea was in vain. Egrin Raemel’s son was dead.

  Tol rose, stumbling slightly on shaky legs. Kiya, standing behind him, gripped his shoulder. Her face was wet with tears.

  Looking to Lord Quevalen, who stood nearby, Tol asked, “Are any of the assassins alive?” Hearing that half the delegation and its escort still lived, he added coldly, “I want their heads. Now.”

  The Wolves were stripped of their clerical vestments and marched away. The genuine priests pleaded for mercy. Xanderel explained that he was not the chief priest of Corij. That distinction belonged to his master, Hycontas.

  “Our part was forced, great lord!” the elderly priest babbled. “Our brothers in Daltigoth are being held hostage! They will be slaughtered because we have failed!”

  Tol was not impressed. Xanderel or his fellows could have warned him. If they had, Lord Egrin would not now be lying dead. He ordered the priests stripped. None bore the distinctive chest tattoo of a Wolf – a crimson Ackal sun above a wolf’s head – so he spared their lives.

  A wagon was brought forward, and the severed heads of the Emperor’s Wolves were piled inside. Clad only in their linen loincloths, the terrified priests were forced to sit atop this gruesome cargo.

  Xanderel’s terror set his teeth to chattering. “My lord, you can’t mean to send us back this way!” he stuttered. “The emperor will surely put us all to death!”

  Even through the hatred and anguish boiling in his heart, Tol knew the priest spoke the truth. He stared at the terrified men for a long moment, panting slightly from the force of his emotions.

  “No. No one else will die in my stead. I will face Ackal V,” he said at last. “Alone.”

  Quevalen and the other warlords protested vehemently, vowing Tol would be killed long before he reached the Inner City. A few threatened to stop him bodily, but the sight of Number Six, still reeking with Tathman’s blood, dissuaded them.

  He turned to take leave of the Dom-shu sisters. Respecting their privacy, the warlords drew off a few paces.

  Miya still held Egrin’s body, with Kiya kneeling beside her. Joining them, Tol took Miya’s hand and pressed the Irda millstone into her palm. “Keep this for me, in case I don’t come back.”

  “No, take it. It will keep you safe!”

  “I won’t need it to do what must be done,” he said firmly. “And I won’t risk it falling into the emperor’s hands.”

  Her fingers closed around the braided metal circlet. Face distorted by unaccustomed malice, she whispered, “See justice done, Husband! If it takes every piece of luck the gods owe you, see it through!”

  He squeezed her hand tightly. “I will, Wife.”

  When he stood, Kiya rose as well. “I must come with you,” she said, hand on her sword hilt. He looked her in the eye, and nodded. Miya bowed her head, weeping all the more.

  Tol left Mittigorn, eldest surviving commander, in charge. The warlords, shocked by the emperor’s treachery, were equally dazed by Tol’s decision, yet as one they saluted their peasant general.

  Kiya and Tol climbed onto the wagon’s plank seat. To supplement her sword, Kiya brought along a bow and a full quiver of arrows.

  Of their own accord, the men of the Juramona Militia gathered on either side of the palisade gate and raised their spears, as Tol drove the wagon and its grisly cargo past. He looked left, then right, acknowledging their salute, then fixed his gaze on the distant Dragon Gate ahead.

  The night air was warm and stiflingly still. Sweat was trickling into Tol’s eyes. Every small jolt of the wagon felt like a blow. His hands were clenched around the reins of the two-horse team. The priests behind him were quiet except for an occasional whimper or moan. The only other break in the silence occurred when, after a particularly hard jolt, the large head of the Wolf called Argon rolled over and thudded against the side of the wagon. The sight was too much for a younger priest, and he was sick over the side of the slowly moving wagon.

  The torches flanking the Dragon Gate came into view. Their light played over the reliefs that surrounded the monumental portal: the hero Volmunaard’s battle against the black dragon Vilesoot. The images seemed alive, moving and shifting in the orange glow.

  The gate was open.

  Tol pulled the horses to a stop. Both the
entry gate – an opening large enough for two riders abreast – and the great ceremonial portal stood wide. The latter yawned like a primeval cavern, black and endless. Twenty horsemen riding boot to boot could fit through it. No guards were in sight.

  “This isn’t right,” Kiya muttered.

  “It’s perfect.” Tol snapped the reins, setting the horses in motion again.

  They passed through the broad tunnel of the gatehouse and into the city proper. The streets were devoid of people. The windows of every house and business were shuttered. No light showed. Wind stirred along the stone canyons, pushing rubbish before it. Somewhere a dog barked.

  Against the cloud-streaked night sky, the Tower of High Sorcery glowed like a pearlescent lamp. Its light gave the Inner City wall and palace towers a gray, insubstantial look, as though they were edifices of fog. Kiya recalled the cloud faces that had watched her from the summer sky. She lifted a hand and touched her burial beads, tied around her neck. If Tol noticed, he did not say anything.

  Following the route he well remembered, Tol guided the creaking wagon through the empty streets.

  At a square just outside the Inner City gate, they found two thousand Riders, bearing the standards of the Scarlet Dragon and Whirlwind hordes, waiting for them. The Riders sat in close ranks, their horses snorting and bobbing their heads in the humid night air.

  Tol halted the wagon. Four men in officer’s garb left the front ranks and rode forward.

  “My lord Tolandruth!” The one who hailed him was about Tol’s own age, with a close-cropped blond mustache and pale blue eyes. Tol didn’t know him. “I am Gonzakan, warlord of the Whirlwind Horde.”

  “Ah. You have come to arrest me.”

  The officer frowned and leaned forward in the saddle, as though trying to see better. “I did not picture you arriving by wagon, my lord. What cargo do you carry?”

  “The Emperor’s Wolves.”

  Astonished, the four warlords rode closer. They swore eloquently.

  “The Wolves never looked better!”

  “By Corij, he got Tathman! And Argon!”

  “He got them all!”