by Dragon Lance
The blond officer addressed Tol in an awed voice.
“We know your errand, my lord.”
“And you mean to stop me?” His fingers tightened on the sharkskin grip of Number Six.
“No, my lord.”
Tol’s eyes narrowed. He suspected a jest, but Gonzakan quickly explained. After the emperor’s execution of nine blameless commanders for failing to stop Tol earlier, the warlords of the Great Horde had come to a momentous decision:
They would no longer defend Ackal V. They were not acting to save the empire, but out of a sense of collective dishonor. For years Ackal V had tormented his people, from the highest priest to the poorest peasant, but Ergoth had known tyrannical rulers before. He had ordered his hordes to fight hopeless battles, but that was a Rider’s lot in life, willingly accepted. To fall in battle was expected, hoped for. However, a pointless, dishonorable death at the emperor’s own hands could not be tolerated. By unanimous assent, the Riders had abandoned the emperor to whatever fate Corij decreed for him – fate in the form of Tolandruth of Juramona.
Tol was stunned. What of the Household Guard? The Horse Guards? The imperial courtiers?
“Some have resisted,” said Gonzakan. “They are being dealt with. Since you’ve disposed of the Wolves, no one now stands between you and the emperor.”
Valaran is mine!
The thought made Tol shiver, in spite of the night’s heat.
Kiya leaned close. “Let’s go, before the dream ends and they change their minds!” she whispered.
Tol dropped the reins. Jumping down from the wagon, he told Kiya to wait there. Like a sleepwalker, he passed between the lines of mounted men, crossing the broad square under the eyes of two thousand warriors.
Iron scraped. A warrior in the front ranks drew his saber and raised it high.
“Tolandruth!” he shouted.
Two thousand sabers thrust up toward the starry sky. “Tolandruth! Tolandruth!”
The Inner City gate was open and unguarded, but the imperial plaza wasn’t empty. Dark stains covered the mosaic. Farther on were several bodies, shapeless mounds illuminated by the glow of the Tower of High Sorcery.
He found more broken weapons and blood on the palace steps. There’d been a brisk fight here, but the Householders had been swept aside.
Once Tol had seen Emperor Pakin III stand on these steps, bathed in the adoration of his loyal subjects, Tol included. Now there was only the sound of the night breeze and Tol’s own harsh breathing. Only one of the iron sconces by the palace doors held a lit torch, and the double doors themselves were ajar. A brass lamp, stamped flat by a heavy boot, lay in the doorway.
The imperial palace felt like a cemetery – potent with the feeling that people had once been here, but now were gone. Tol finally encountered living occupants, small knots of courtiers or servants hiding in alcoves and whispering. More than once he heard his name spoken with the sort of frightened reverence usually reserved for forces of nature. Fire. Flood. Plague. Tolandruth.
The audience hall was barred to him. Its floor-to-ceiling double doors did not yield when he leaned against them. Tol smote the panels with the pommel of his sword and shouted. Ruddy light bloomed in the thin gap between doors and floor. A heavy bolt clanked. The left door swung inward.
Tol lifted Number Six, prepared to face a reserve contingent of Wolves or even Ackal V himself. The face that greeted him was pale, hollow-eyed, and indescribably lovely.
“By all the gods,” Valaran breathed, lifting her oil lamp higher. “It is you!”
Tol’s breath caught and held. She was thinner than he remembered, her chin sharper, and her cheekbones more prominent, but her eyes were still the clear, bottomless green of fine emeralds and her hair a warm, deep chestnut. She was clothed in white, with a delicate tracery of crimson thread decorating her gown’s close-fitting bodice.
“Valaran.” How sweet it was to speak her name aloud! “Valaran,” he said again. “I have come for you.”
She moved back a step so he could enter. She swung the ponderous door shut and threw the bolt. Without warning, Tol suddenly found her in his arms, her face buried in his shoulder. She held him tightly, her body shaking.
“I have worked so long for this moment,” she said, lips close by his ear. “So long and so hard, and I thought many times I’d failed. Yet here you are!”
The catch in her voice touched him deeply. Her scent filled his head, making him dizzy with desire. He lifted his hand and carefully rested it on her shimmering hair.
“I swore I would return.”
A small laugh, faintly edged with hysteria. “I know.”
They kissed, tentatively at first, then with increasing fervor. He had nearly forgotten his rage and his mission, until Valaran drew back and said, “Come, my love.”
She took his hand and led him down the carpeted path that ran the length of the long, high-ceilinged audience hall. Only a few candles in the room’s numerous candelabra were lit. Most of the enormous iron racks were overthrown, candle wax spattered over the floor. Elegant chairs were overturned, tables smashed.
Valaran led him to the rotund body of a man, clad in fine burgundy velvet, lying facedown on the marble floor. A wide bloodstain spread out from the man’s head.
“One of his most loyal chamberlains – Lord Fedro,” she said. “He killed him himself.”
Tol wondered what had happened here, but was given no time to ask. Valaran drew him onward.
The far end of the hall was brighter than the rest of the cavernous room. The throne of Ergoth was flanked by flaming braziers. The seat was vacant.
“Dal! Dal!” Valaran called with quiet urgency.
A small boy emerged from behind the throne and ran to her, clutching her gowned legs.
She smiled^laying a hand on the child’s thick mop of black hair. “This is my son, Crown Prince Dalar of Ergoth.”
The child had his father’s high forehead and sharp features. His eyes were Val’s, emerald green and enormous in his pale face.
Tol nodded awkwardly at the boy, then looked beyond him. Protruding from behind the throne was a foot clad in a crimson slipper. It twitched. Tol strode around the imperial seat to find the emperor lying on the floor. His robe of gold and imperial scarlet was twisted around his legs and torso, as if he’d been thrashing about on the floor. His eyes were half closed, his fingers twitched convulsively, and he was mumbling into the carpet.
Taken aback, Tol said, “What happened to him?”
“Drugged.” Valaran shrugged at his shocked expression, adding, “I put a sleeping draught in his wine. With the Wolves gone, and him so preoccupied, he didn’t notice until it was too late.”
Tol rolled the semiconscious man onto his side. Ackal V reeked of sweat and sour wine. A bloody dagger lay on the rug beneath him – the same blade, Valaran said, that he’d used to slay his unfortunate chamberlain.
He felt Valaran’s hand on his shoulder. “Everything is ready,” she murmured. “The Great Horde has forsaken him. The Household Guards are beaten and scattered. His Wolves are gone. I knew they couldn’t kill you! No one remains to defend him.”
Tol stood. Valaran put her arms around his waist from behind. She pressed the trembling length of her body against his.
“This is the reason I lived, for this moment! I tried to kill myself, but he stopped me. Then there was Dalar – another reason to live until you came back to me. I dreamt of this, Tol, awake and asleep, for nearly seven years! Only one deed remains. Just one act, and I am yours forever.”
He felt the feather-touch of her lips against his neck. “Kill him, Tol.”
Tol looked down at his enemy. There was no one in the world he hated more than this man. Haughty, cruel, vicious Prince Nazramin, who had murdered his own brother to steal his throne. No one deserved death more than the man who had worked such evil against Tol, from the moment they’d first met up to this night.
Yet Tol did not move.
To hear the woman
he adored say, “Kill him, Tol,” as easily he had said, “I love you,” was more than Tol could bear. The touch of her lips had sent a wave of desire through him, but those words brought a nauseating rush of revulsion. His sword arm seemed turned to stone.
“Tol, my love, what are you waiting for? Kill him!” Valaran said, more loudly.
Prince Dalar was watching them, peering around the golden throne of Ergoth. What did the boy make of this? Tol wondered. What did he think of his mother, kissing this strange, savage-looking man and demanding that he kill Dalar’s father? The child’s wide-eyed gaze only deepened Tol’s revulsion. He shook off Valaran’s embrace, stalking away. She followed.
“Where are you going, Tol? This is the culmination of our dreams! We’ve waited so long for this night! Finish him! No one will weep for such a monster!”
The gods alone knew how much Tol wanted to kill Nazramin! When he’d been driven out of Daltigoth, broken inside and out, it was the hope of Valaran’s love and the dream of Nazramin’s death that had kept him alive. He had always imagined killing his enemy, but in some honorable fashion. Never once had he considered slitting the throat of a helpless, drooling drunkard.
Valaran circled the throne to stand by Dalar, who clung to her hand. The great chair stood between her and Tol. “Don’t be misled by pity!” she insisted. “Great men are not moved by such feelings. You are the finest warrior of the age! Look at what you’ve done: slain monsters, bested wizards, conquered nations! Your deeds will live forever! Only one challenge remains. You must complete the saga of Tolandruth of Juramona! Kill the emperor, and both my love and the throne of Ergoth will be yours!”
Valaran’s face was no longer pale, but suffused with blood and contorted by hate. The woman he loved was suddenly a stranger to him. Was this the woman of his dreams?
He had to clear his throat twice before words would come. “I never wanted that,” he told her. “The empire would be destroyed. Riders and nobles would never tolerate a peasant on the throne.”
She made an impatient sound and waved his objections aside. “Any who objected could be put down! You have an army, don’t you?”
Taking up her husband’s dagger, she offered it to Tol.
“Don’t worry, my love.” Her voice was soft, caressing. “You can rule as regent until my son is old enough to reign for himself. Teach him to be as honorable and forthright, as you are.” She extended the blade closer. “How else can we be together? I’ve lived half my life as wife to men I did not love, and lover to a man I could not have. Do you know what that’s done tome?”
Sadness welled inside Tol. Pity and regret were so strong that speech was difficult. “Yes, I can see,” he whispered.
The emperor’s mumbling grew louder and Valaran’s voice rose as well. “Take the dagger, Tol! Kill him! You must! Kill him, Toll!”
He took the heavy golden blade from her hands. It would be easily done. A simple thrust would end Ackal V’s life, as it had ended Egrin’s. A cold shock of pain hit Tol as he remembered: Egrin was dead, killed by Ackal as surely as if the emperor’s hand had held the poisoned blade.
“Egrin —” Tol’s voice broke, but he forced the words out. “Egrin died tonight, killed by Tathman with a poisoned dagger. And Zala, the half-elf huntress, she died in the fight for Caergoth.”
She blinked at him, not understanding, and he added, “Helbin was your ally, too. He has vanished, you know, and is probably dead.”
Valaran turned to stare at her husband. He was stirring more, his mumbled words becoming clearer. Raking her fingers through her long, loose hair, she said, “You’re a warrior, Tol. Haven’t you lost comrades before?”
The polished blade in Tol’s hand was stained with the blood of the slain chamberlain. Tol hadn’t known the man. He might’ve been a cowardly toady, like Wornoth, but he hadn’t deserved to die like that, his throat slit by the very master he served. No one deserved that. No one.
Enough! He threw the dagger to the floor. It skidded across the marble, coming to rest by Dalar’s foot. The prince picked it up.
“It’s done, Valaran. I’m done. And I’m going away. Far away from here.” He held out a hand. “Forget the emperor and come with me.”
Emerald eyes huge, she recoiled. “What are you saying? Go away? I am Empress of Ergoth!”
“All I care about now is you. Come with me, Val. You and your son.”
He could see her breast rise and fall with her rapid breathing. She stared at him, brows knotted in thought. “This is a test. The gods are testing me. That, or else you’re mad.” She gripped her throat with one hand and uttered a short, sharp laugh. “Worse, you’re a coward! Your enemy lies at your feet, and you won’t finish the job! What did all your friends die for? Why did you come here?”
“I’ve done everything I could to save the empire. I won’t stain my soul by killing a helpless man, Val. Not even for you.”
He walked around the prostrate emperor. He was halfway to the doors when Valaran acted. She snatched the dagger from her son’s hands and raced after Tol, white gown flying.
“You can’t leave!” she cried. “The emperor must die, don’t you see? Our lives are forfeit if he survives. He’ll hunt you down, torture you to death! And me! He’ll kill me, Tol! He’ll kill me with his own hands!”
He turned in time to catch her in his arms. Her heart was beating wildly, and ribbons of chestnut hair fell wildly about her face. She radiated fear and fury in equal measure. What he did not sense in her was love.
For more than six years he had survived for one purpose – to be reunited with Valaran. That dream had taken on a poignant reality as he witnessed the suffering Ackal V had inflicted on his people. Now, at the very moment of his triumph, Tol realized his dream was nothing more than that, without substance, without reality.
He was so very weary, in body and in spirit. “Kill him yourself then,” he said.
Fury blazed from Valaran’s eyes. “Do you think I can’t? I’ve killed, Tol, for us! Winath —” She bit off the name, choking back a sob, then insisted, “But the gods would curse me for killing my son’s father!”
He let her go and walked away, out of the palace and out of the Inner City. In the square beyond, the Riders, whispering among themselves, watched him depart, alone and unhurried. Kiya still waited for him. She’d secured two saddle horses and was mounted on one of them. Without a word, he took the reins of the other and swung into the saddle.
Ignoring the questioning hails of Lord Gonzakan, Tol and Kiya cantered away.
Outside the Dragon Gate, Tol paused. Directly ahead, the eastern sky was brightening. Sunrise was not far off. Tol dismounted beneath the imposing reliefs of Volmunaard and Vilesoot and drew Number Six. He jammed the steel blade into a chink between two massive stones, putting all his weight and strength behind it. The saber bored into the mortar to half its length. With both hands Tol pushed down on the hilt. Number Six bent and bent, farther than any iron blade ever could. Just as he began to think the dwarf-forged metal would never yield, it snapped off a span above the hilt.
He returned the stump of the famed saber to his scabbard and swung up into the saddle again.
“Are we done?” asked Kiya.
“We’re done.”
They rode out into the new day.
Monuments
They laid Egrin to rest in Zivilyn’s Carpet. It was Tol’s idea to bury him in a peaceful place, amidst a monument of flowers for a man whose life was war. Tol and the Dom-shu sisters made the journey alone. Tol dug the grave, while Miya sewed a deerskin shroud for her friend and Kiya stood watch with her bow.
No one followed them.
By the time preparations were complete, sunset had come.
Whippoorwills made their mournful calls from the forest.
The meadow itself was quiet, and above it, the clouds crimson
And gold.
As a last gesture, Tol tucked the Irda nullstone into Egrin’s hands, crossed on his chest. “His valiant
spirit will guard it now,” he said quietly.
With the grave closed and the earth replaced, night was upon them. The sky had cleared. Red Luin and white Solin sailed the starry sky, casting their light upon the scene. The time had come for the sisters and Tol to part company. Tol had made a difficult choice: solitude.
Miya’s eyes kept turning to the Great Green, the dark forest beckoning her home. Eli awaited her in her father’s village.
“Where will you go?” she asked Tol. Coloring, she added, “I’d like to know, in case I ever need to find you. Is it to be Tarsis?” Despite their recent troubles, she knew Hanira would always find a place for Tol.
He shook his head emphatically. His presence in Tarsis would be a provocation. If Ackal V’s successor didn’t demand his head, Hanira would certainly try to involve him in one of her complicated plots. He’d had enough of war and politics for the time being.
“Some place quiet,” he said.
Miya embraced him with fervor, and whispered, “There’s always a place for you by my fire.”
He smiled. “I am grateful for that,” he said, and held her tightly for moment.
Kiya, her stoicism firmly in place during Egrin’s burial, began to cry. She asked Tol no questions about his future plans. After kissing him on both cheeks, and cuffing the back of his neck, she headed for the forest.
The Dom-shu had no need for horses, so Tol and Miya unsaddled the sisters’ animals and set them free. Tol had not ridden the gray war-horse here. Like the sisters’ horses, his mount this day was a plains pony. After a moment’s reflection, he set his animal free as well. He would seek peace as an ordinary peasant. That’s where he had come from, and that’s where he belonged. No one would search for the vaunted Lord Tolandruth among the humble folk.
A last word to Miya and he set out, striding through the waist-high summer growth.
Miya remained by Egrin’s grave. She watched Tol diminish with distance, until he was lost among the wind-tossed flowers.
*
The empire endured. The tumultuous events set in motion by the twin invasions of Ergoth did not end when Tol left the capital, but plunged inexorably onward, like a growing avalanche.
