A warrior's joyrney d-1

by Paul B. Thompson

“Why are you here, Felryn?” Egrin asked.

  The healer indicated a large pot he had balanced on the pommel of his saddle. “Lord Urakan wants the chiefs head sent to Daltigoth,” he said. “This pot contains salt and medicinal oils. I’m to insure the head survives the trip to the capital.”

  “We’ll do him in by the Wilder Green,” Tol said. In answer to Egrin’s inquiring look, he added, “The chief must die, but it doesn’t have to be here, a spectacle for all to see. The Green is a fitting place of execution for a forest chief.”

  Egrin, his thoughts impossible to read, nodded. The Wilder was a small woodland several leagues east which bordered the river of the same name.

  Tol and Felryn rode eastward, drenched all the way by rain. When the trees of the Wilder Green came into sight, Makaralonga broke his silence at last.

  Lifting his bound hands toward the dark sky and continuing rain, the chief exclaimed, “Chislev herself weeps for your treachery! I knew a grasslander would never keep his word! So be it! When my blood flows, it will be a curse on you, Tol of Juramona. My curse on your faithless head!”

  They ignored him, and he tried to plant his feet. However, Smoke continued to move ahead and Makaralonga was jerked forward. He had to content himself with raging at them as they rode stolidly onward through the rain. Once, he tripped, and Tol let go of the rope lest the chief be strangled. Immediately, Makaralonga jumped up, ready to run.

  Tol drew the new saber Egrin had given him in a private ceremony. “Can you outrun a horse?”

  Makaralonga’s broad chest heaved as he panted with the force of his anger. He abandoned his attempt to flee, but glared as Tol recovered the halter. Abruptly, his frustration and fury shifted to Felryn and the vessel he carried.

  “My head will not fit in that cabbage pot!” he snapped.

  “Probably not,” Felryn replied, “but after a few weeks in the salt, it’ll shrink down very nicely.”

  A dozen paces from the edge of the forest, Tol stopped. He dismounted, never letting go of the rope around Makaralonga’s neck. Felryn likewise got down, clutching the clay pot close to his chest.

  “Kneel,” Tol said to the chief.

  “I won’t! I am a free man! Kill me on my feet!”

  So saying, Makaralonga bolted. Tol put out a foot and tripped him. He sprawled in the dripping grass.

  Tol put the sharp edge of his sword under the chiefs chin. “Stay still, or this will hurt!” he said severely.

  Makaralonga closed his eyes. He felt a slight tug, then the blade came away from his throat. Stiffening, he awaited the return swing, the rending of his flesh, and the outpour of his life’s blood on the sodden ground.

  “Get up,” said Tol. “You’re free.”

  The chiefs eyes flew open. It was true. The halter had been cut from his neck, and Tol sliced through his bonds with a single stroke of the jeweled dagger.

  “What trickery is this?” Makaralonga demanded.

  “I never intended to kill you. I asked Prince Amaltar for the task so I might free you instead.”

  Makaralonga looked from Tol to Felryn and back again, too astonished to take in what he was hearing.

  Tol sheathed his dagger. Felryn put the clay pot down and removed its lid. The pungent smell of spices erupted, reaching their noses in spite of the continuing drizzle.

  Felryn pulled on a leather gauntlet, then stuck his hand into the pot. He lifted the heavy object inside. Golden oil streamed down the face of a dead man.

  “By the Blue Phoenix! It’s my head!” Makaralonga exclaimed, staggering back in shocked disbelief.

  From braided locks to yellow beard to broad nose, the severed head looked exactly like the chief. Felryn returned it carefully to the pot and replaced the lid.

  “How is it possible?” Makaralonga asked.

  “Our masters in Daltigoth expect a trophy. We could not disappoint them,” Tol said. “Felryn used his magical skills to alter the appearance of another man-a victim of war.”

  “His suffering was already over, and now, so is yours,” said Felryn.

  He clapped the chief on the shoulder and hauled himself onto the broad back of his horse. Makaralonga threw his arms around Tol and hugged him fiercely.

  “Forgive me, noble foe! I thought you would kill me to please your masters!”

  Tol struggled to breathe in the ardent embrace, his face crushed against the larger man’s chest. “All right, all right! I always meant to keep my word!”

  Zivilyn’s Carpet, and the edge of the Great Green, lay another six or seven leagues east. Makaralonga would have to tread carefully to evade capture and reach his forest kingdom safely. Capture would mean death not only for him but for Tol as well, if his failure to behead the chief became known.

  Makaralonga looked down at Tol, the rain running down his face.

  “Henceforth, you are my son!” he declared. “I will make peace with your people, for your sake!”

  Tol hadn’t expected this. “Very well,” he said. “Send some of your people to Juramona, and we’ll make a pact of peace. Don’t come yourself! Remember, you’re supposed to be dead.”

  Makaralonga’s face split wide in a grin. “I shall be the best of corpses, brave son Tol! You shall know me as Voyarunta-‘Uncle Corpse’!”

  He sprinted to the trees. Before plunging in, he turned and waved at his deliverers. Tol raised a hand in farewell, and Makaralonga vanished into the woods.

  “Do you think he’ll keep his promise?” asked Felryn as they rode away.

  “A man like him lives by his word,” Tol said.

  Chief Makaralonga was indeed as good as his word. Before summer was out, a party of eleven tribesmen made the long trek from the Great Green to Juramona. They evaded Ergothian patrols up to the very gates of the town, and there asked to see “the mighty lord Tol.”

  Egrin and a guard of twenty horsemen, including Tol, came out to meet the delegation. The Dom-shu were impressive folk, each strongly built and at least a head taller than the “grasslanders” who greeted them. They wore close-fitting tunics of pale buckskin and boarskin trews, embellished with beads and shells. They carried knives and bows, but on drawing near to Juramona had unstrung their weapons to show their peaceful intent.

  Most striking of all were the leaders of the party, two women. One was a strapping blonde with waist-length hair. The other was an equally towering creature with bobbed brown locks.

  “We are Dom-shu. We come in peace from our chief, Voyarunta,” said the blonde woman.

  From his place in the ranks, Tol grinned. Makaralonga had remembered to use his new name, the one with the double meaning.

  She continued. “I am Kiya, eldest born of the chief, and this is my sister, Miya. We have come to make peace between the Dom-shu and the grasslanders of Juramona.”

  Egrin rubbed his bearded jaw in puzzlement. He was quite in the dark.

  “I will take you to Lord Enkian, marshal of the Eastern Hundred,” Egrin said. “He commands here.”

  “What of the great lord Tol?” said the brunette giantess, Miya.

  All eyes in the mounted guard turned toward Tol, and Egrin pointed him out.

  “Greetings, husband!” Kiya exclaimed. “We are your new wives!”

  There was perfect silence for the length of four heartbeats, then all the Ergothians (save the red-faced Tol) burst out laughing. The Dom-shu did not understand what amused the grasslanders so, but they were good-natured enough to join in the merriment.

  Tol urged Smoke forward, halting him in front of the two female foresters. He decided not to dismount. The sight of them towering over him would only provoke more laughter.

  “I asked for no wives,” he said sternly, when the hilarity subsided.

  “It is the wish of our father, Chief Voyarunta,” said Miya. Her dark hair was cut shorter than Tol’s own, but her brown eyes were softer and her face more round than her sister’s.

  “We were told the great lords of the grasslanders keep more than one wife,” K
iya added. “Is this not so?”

  “Yes, but-”

  “It would be a grave insult to the Dom-shu to refuse us,” warned Miya.

  Egrin came to the flustered youth’s rescue. “The great lord Tol is overwhelmed by your chiefs offer,” he said. “Give him time to adjust to the magnitude of his good fortune. In the meantime, please be our honored guests in Juramona.”

  The Dom-shu strode into town between two lines of riders. Their appearance drew crowds along the route to the High House. Solitary wanderers and traders were common in Juramona, but fierce tribesmen from the Great Green had never been seen here before.

  Bringing up the rear of the little column, Egrin and Tol went over the situation in hushed tones.

  “Don’t be hasty,” Egrin said. “If it brings peace to the frontier, accepting the Dom-shu’s offer seems a small price to pay.” He smiled. “Besides, what’s wrong with having a wife?”

  Tol’s voice rose. “Two wives? I don’t want to get married!”

  “Nonsense. It’s time you settled down with a wife… or two,” said Egrin, chuckling. More seriously, he added, “I was married when I was your age.”

  Tol was so surprised he reined up. The warden never spoke about his past, and Tol had never dared question the older man.

  “Really?” the boy said. “Where is she now?”

  Egrin’s face was solemn. “Her soul went to the gods many years ago. That is past. What will you say to Marshal Enkian?”

  Tol watched the last of the Dom-shu disappear around the curve of the street leading up to the marshal’s residence. He gave a helpless shrug. “What can I say?”

  Enkian Tumult, Lord Mordirin, was descended from Mordirin Ackal, fifth emperor of Ergoth. That unfortunate autocrat had been dethroned by his wife, Empress Kanira, and imprisoned in the Imperial Palace for the rest of his days. The children of Mordirin Ackal were proscribed for a century. When civil war broke out between the Ackals and Pakins, the ruling clan needed all the allies of royal lineage they could muster, and so readmitted the Mordirins to the imperial fold. The Mordirin line no longer had any claim to the throne, but constituted a powerful and wealthy clan in their own right.

  Enkian was the physical and temperamental opposite of the late marshal. Where Odovar had been hearty, impetuous, and harsh, Enkian was cool, calculating, and ascetic. Burly Odovar would have made two of Enkian, who was tall but lean, and, like Prince Amaltar, pale skinned and dark of hair and eye.

  Enkian had the high forehead and sharp features of the Ackals, and an equally sharp and calculating mind. According to the wags in Juramona, Odovar had been twice the warrior Enkian was, but only half the ruler.

  Enkian did not laugh when Tol’s so-called wives were presented. He thanked them sincerely and promised to hold a lengthy parlay on the subject of peace. Reassured, the Dom-shu allowed themselves to be ushered into another room, where their presence was celebrated with beer and many haunches of venison.

  Alone with their liege, Egrin and Tol stiffly awaited the verdict on the Dom-shu. The marshal sat in a characteristic pose, fingers folded together under his chin as he considered the matter.

  “The women will stay,” he said at last. When Tol looked distressed, he added, “Not as your wives, Master Tol. We’ll keep them as hostages to the Dom-shu’s future good behavior.”

  Egrin bowed. “Wisely chosen, my lord.”

  “You won’t imprison them, will you, my lord?” asked Tol.

  “That wouldn’t be friendly, would it? No, they shall be guests of the Eastern Hundred, and provided suitable quarters. You shall live with them, Master Tol, and keep a close eye on them.”

  Again the youth looked alarmed. “What if they expect me to be a husband to them?”

  “Carry a sword at all times,” replied Enkian dryly. He did not smile at his own joke, but asked, “Can either of you fathom why the Dom-shu would choose this time to make peace? We invaded their land and executed their chief not two months past.”

  Egrin said, “Perhaps that’s why, my lord. The foresters respect strength. Considering what’s happened, maybe they understand the empire must be dealt with, not opposed.”

  He was referring to the severance of relations between Ergoth and Silvanost, which had come about once the elves’ scheme to arm the forest tribes became known. Trade between the two nations had been cut off, and Silvanesti prestige had suffered a grave reverse among all the nations of the west.

  Enkian sat back in his chair thoughtfully. “You may be right, warden,” he said. “It seems the empire has much to thank you for, Master Tol. We must find a proper place for you in the ranks of the Great Horde. Have you considered what you would like to do?”

  This very question had occupied Tol’s thoughts fully in the weeks since his return to Juramona. He had discussed his future with everyone close to him-Egrin, Felryn, Crake, Narren, even Pagas and old Lord Wanthred. He could ask for assignment to any spot in Ergoth, to any horde in the emperor’s service. Ambition required that he choose a position close to the seat of power in the capital, Daltigoth, or at least on a frontier where danger paved the road to fame. A picked band of warriors was hunting Morthur Dermount in the Great Green-joining them would put him squarely on the path to advancement in the empire.

  He took a deep breath. “I wish to remain in Juramona, my lord. And”-he glanced sideways at Egrin-”I would like Durazen’s old command.”

  Enkian was startled. “Why would you want command of the foot guards?”

  “I learned in the forest a warrior’s worth lies not in how he arrives at a battle, but how he fights once there. I believe foot soldiers can fight and win as surely as any horsemen, my lord, given the right training and leadership.”

  The new marshal shook his head. “You’re a fool, boy. A lucky fool. What you did in the Great Green was a fluke, a chance favor granted by the capricious gods. It gave you an opportunity few men ever see-imperial notice, a crown prince’s gratitude. Yet here you stand, throwing the opportunity away.”

  Enkian stood, plainly disgusted. “Elevation or no, you’re still a peasant, not a true Rider of the Horde. Very well. Walk with your footmen, if you wish. I shan’t stop you.”

  Hardly a gracious start to Tol’s first command, but having gotten what he wanted, Tol was happy. He kept his pleasure hidden, not wishing to annoy the haughty marshal further.

  He accompanied Enkian and Egrin to the Dom-shu banquet. There, he sat between Kiya and Miya, who ate prodigiously but drank little. After sundown, they followed him to the Householders’ Hall. When he explained no women were allowed to pass the night inside, they squatted just outside the door, resting their heads on their knees. Tol hesitated, thinking he should try to locate better quarters for them. The blonde, Kiya, waved him away impatiently, so he left them there.

  The next morning, that’s where he found them, waiting for his return.

  Chapter 11

  A Dangerous Man

  Two horsemen, trailworn and dusty, cantered down the road. A group of men working on the south bank of the river saw the riders before they heard them. The noise from saws and the pile-driver drowned out all other sounds. The workers called a warning to their commander.

  It was spring, the seventh year of the reign of Emperor Pakin III. Tol and the men of the Juramona Foot Guard were building a new bridge across Three Kender Creek. The old bridge, indifferently constructed by local folk, had been swept away by a winter torrent. It connected Juramona to the heartland of the empire, and Lord Enkian had charged Tol and his corps of foot soldiers with the important task of replacing the bridge.

  Tol knew the job was not meant as an honor. True warriors-those who rode in an imperial horde-were above common labor. Still, Tol took the task cheerfully, so cheerfully in fact Lord Enkian wondered if there was some hidden advantage in the job his calculating mind had missed. Tol explained that two years of peace had left his men little to do but chase cutpurses and fight the occasional house fire in town. Rebuilding a bridge wo
uld strengthen their backs and toughen their hides.

  The answer was as honest and straightforward as Tol himself, and the calculating Enkian could not believe it. He sent a personal spy, Tol’s old shilder comrade Relfas, to keep an eye on things.

  Tol had hired a builder, a dwarf by the name of Tombuld, to lay out the new bridge and oversee construction. Tombuld had erected much larger structures across high valleys in the Khalkist Mountains, so a single span across Three Kender Creek didn’t present much of a challenge. His design called for a simple cantilever bridge, supported on each end by stout stone piers. Tol and his men had been at work for six days when the pair of unknown riders appeared.

  Tol climbed out of the creekbed. Shading his eyes against the morning sun, he watched the horsemen approach.

  In the two years since he’d rescued the Juramona hordes in the Great Green, Tol had grown stronger without gaining very much in height or girth. As a youth, his physique had been intimidating. As a man, it was deceptive. Of only modest height, all his power was in his shoulders and legs. He was agile rather than brutishly strong. Succumbing at last to masculine vanity, he’d grown a beard, though he kept it closely trimmed.

  “Turn out the watch,” he said, not raising his voice.

  Sixteen sturdy soldiers left their work and divided a stand of arms between them. They fell into a double line on Tol’s left. Drilled by Tol in his new ideas of fighting on foot, the men extended their spears in unison, presenting a formation both precise and dangerous. All they had to do was swing across the road and the way would be blocked by a hedge of spears.

  The riders slowed, then stopped. Through the dust, Tol could see they wore complete coats of ring mail beneath sleeveless linen gambesons.

  “You there,” called the rider on Tol’s right. “Is the way passable?”

  “Yes. If you go carefully, you can cross,” he answered. The new bridge rails were spanned by temporary planks. “Are you messengers from Caergoth?”

  The horsemen were startled. “Yes, we are. How did you know?”