A Hero's justice

Chapter 13

With a blast of horns, a wall of armed horsemen emerged from the screen of trees. They raised sabers, shouted a war cry, and attacked the slow-moving column.

This time, it was not buckskin-clad nomads sweeping down upon hapless farmers and traders, but Ergothians falling like a thunderbolt upon an assemblage of ox-drawn carts and nomad riders dozing in their saddles. This time, it was the nomads who were caught completely by surprise.

Nomad women and children dropped their scanty baggage and scattered. What few warriors there were turned to face the Ergothians, lashing their ponies forward.

The fight was over in moments. The plainsmen were overwhelmed, and their terrified families were rounded up. Horses and weapons were stripped away. Children cried and babies howled. Ringed by stern-faced riders, the nomads huddled together, expecting no mercy.

In the days following the relief of Juramona, the fortunes of the nomads had taken a severe reverse. With the rapidly growing camp at Juramona as their base, the Firebrand Horde, arriving just behind Lord Pagas’s Panthers, set out to strike the nomads wherever they could be found. Faced with such relentless pursuit, the tribes dispersed like drops of water on a hot griddle.

Pagas, Egrin, and Tol rode forward, watching as the latest crowd of frightened survivors was searched. Traditionally, prisoners taken by the Great Horde were sold as slaves in the nearest city, after the most infamous among them faced summary execution. By Tol’s order, notorious killers were arrested, stolen booty reclaimed, and the chastised nomads were then driven out of the empire. Not only did he consider slavery evil, but if word got out they were enslaving captives, Tol knew the remaining raiders would fight all the harder. He wanted the nomads to flee, not fight.

Tol spied a familiar face in the clumps of women and old people. He ordered the man brought forward. Riders wove through the crowd, converging on the man, and driving him out to face Lord Tolandruth.

“Chief Mattohoc?”

The dark-skinned chief of the Sand Treader tribe glared up at his captor. Shame and fury stiffened his hulking frame as he acknowledged his name. He had obviously fought hard: shoulders and arms were striped by sword cuts, a deep gash laid open his forehead, and his left thigh was tightly wrapped with bloodstained bandages.

Tol asked him where the rest of his tribe was. Mattohoc’s reply was an impossibly obscene suggestion. An irate Ergothian kicked him between the shoulders, and the chief fell forward to his hands and knees.

“Enough!” Tol barked. “We do not abuse prisoners!”

Tol had a waterskin brought to the badly wounded chief. As Mattohoc drank noisily, Tol called for a healer to tend him.

“Heal him?” Pagas was so astonished, he broke his usual reticence. “By rights we should separate him from his head!”

“That may happen. But for now, Mattohoc is a captured chief, and he will be treated with respect.” Mattohoc’s expression showed no gratitude, only impotent fury.

Later, as the Ergothian commanders dined under a canvas fly pitched on the summit of a nearby knoll, Mattohoc was brought before Tol.

Landed hordes, eager to take back their country from the invaders and to serve the famous Lord Tolandruth, were still arriving from the south and east. From their vantage point, the commanders could see a seemingly endless stream of newcomers riding to their camp. As Mattohoc approached, limping, Tol waved him to a stool. The chief’s wounds had been dressed, but his face was gray and he grunted as he sat. Cider, bread, and a joint of meat were placed before him. He regarded the repast with disdain.

“You won’t make me talk by showing me kindness,” he sneered.

“No one’s asked you to talk. Eat or not, as you please,” Tol replied, then bade Egrin continue his report.

The old warrior was marking tallies on a scrap of parchment. “With the arrival of the Silver Star Horde, our strength is now thirty thousand,” he said. “Plus two thousand, six hundred twelve foot soldiers.”

“We need more. I want fifty thousand men under arms by the time we reach Caergoth.” Tol poured himself another draught of cider and looked a question at Egrin. At his nod, Tol refilled his cup as well.

Across the folding table, Lord Argonnel said, “Why so many, my lord? Surely this campaign is winding down?”

A brown-bearded fellow of middle years, Argonnel commanded the Iron Scythe Horde, made up of gentry from the extreme northeast corner of the empire.

“This campaign has just started,” Tol replied. “Once the nomads are defeated, there will be other enemies to fight.”

The warlords made cheerfully belligerent noises. Lord Tolandruth planned to take on the lizard-men, too? So be it!

Lord Trudo, of the Oaken Shield Horde, raised another issue. “My lord, why did you leave command of the militia to that-to that elf?”

The question was not unexpected. After Tokasin’s defeat, Tol had gone with Egrin and Pagas in pursuit of the shattered nomads, leaving Tylocost in command of the Juramona Militia. The Juramonans, impressed by the Silvanesti’s skill and cool demeanor during the battle, accepted him without qualm. Veteran members of the landed hordes were not so open-minded. To lessen the conflict with the hordes (who regarded elves and infantry as equally suspicious), Tol had ordered Tylocost to bring the militia cross-country to a planned rendezvous. Tol’s hordes and Tylocost’s infantry would meet by the bluff where the eastern and western sources of the Caer came together to form the mighty river. It was at this spot, known as the Great Confluence, that Tol had found the Irda millstone decades earlier.

Tol plucked a grape from a bowl. “Tylocost is a great general,” he said. He popped the grape in his mouth. “I trust him.”

“But he’s Silvanesti!” Argonnel protested.

“So he is.” Tol turned to their captive. “Chief Mattohoc, would you let a former enemy ride in your warband?”

Mattohoc, eating awkwardly with his uninjured left hand, grunted an affirmative.

“Why?” Tol asked.

The chief swallowed and said, “Men fight for many reasons. Loot, glory, or a lust for battle. If I find an enemy who fights for other reasons, that man can stand beside me as easily as face me.”

“What other reasons?” asked Egrin.

“Honor, foremost.”

This drew a laugh from the warlords. All save Egrin and Tol scoffed at the notion of honor among such savages as the nomad tribes.

Tol asked, “Would you fight for me, Chief?”

Astonishment robbed the warlords of speech, and even Egrin was taken aback. The edges of the canvas roof flapped in the hot summer breeze, and a mockingbird’s complicated song sounded loud in the silence.

“No,” Mattohoc finally said. He wiped sweat from his shaven head. “My father was Krato, chief before me. When I was a stripling, he took the pay of the Tarsans and led our warriors in their service. They entered the land of the kender, on the way to join the army of Tylocost. By night they were ambushed and slaughtered. The commander of the grasslanders that so treacherously slew my father and kinsmen was Prince Nazramin, who you now call emperor!”

“The Battle of the Boulder Field!” Egrin exclaimed, remembering. “Nazramin’s warriors killed everyone, even those who surrendered!”

Mattohoc nodded. His father’s headless corpse had been found on the field of battle and brought home to his native range. Since then, Mattohoc had dreamed of the day he would avenge himself on the Ergothians.

“Every man in my tribe can tell a like story. You grasslanders take our land, kill our people, or make them slaves. I would rather cut off my own hands than lift a sword for you!”

Mattohoc did not accept Tol’s explanation that Ackal V, formerly Prince Nazramin, was his enemy, too.

“You fight to save him!” the nomad spat.

“We fight to save our country,” Egrin countered.

Mattohoc would not be persuaded. He clung obstinately to his hatred of all Ergothians. Reluctantly, Tol had him taken away. Even without his weapons and chiefly garb, he was still a redoubtable figure. He and Tol stared at each other for a long moment before he limped away, head held high.

Argonnel said, “He’s a forceful leader and a danger to the empire, my lord. If you set him free, he’ll organize his people again and attack!”

It was no more than the truth. Tol had hoped to make Mattohoc his ally, as he had Makaralonga and Tylocost. When he’d first met the doughty chief at the parley with Tokasin, he’d sensed in the Sand Treader a strong sense of honor. Unfortunately, Mattohoc had an even greater thirst for vengeance.

“He must be dealt with,” Egrin said. “In the name of peace and safety.”

Tol did not want to give the order. But as Egrin made to rise from the table, he knew he could not allow his old mentor to shoulder the responsibility that was, by rights, his.

“Mattohoc cannot be allowed to trouble the empire again,” he said quietly. “The order for his execution is given.”

Egrin saluted silently and took his leave. One by one the other warlords departed, until Tol sat alone. He got up from the table and left the shade of the tent. Closing his eyes, he lifted his face to the harsh sun.

A winding column of foot soldiers trailed back through the trees. They were an odd mixture: one-time farmers and town merchants, former guards and volunteers who’d never held a spear before the last time Solin’s face was new. Each man had his own reason for joining Lord Tolandruth’s cause. Some loved their homeland. Others wanted revenge against the hated invaders. More than a few, having lost their livelihoods to the war, saw a chance for loot. With Lord Tolandruth in charge, each had confidence in achieving his goal.

Leading the ragtag column were Zala and Tylocost. The half-elf still worried that Tol, without her to personally watch out for him, would get himself killed, in which case there would be nothing to protect Zala or her aged father from the empress’s wrath. Her fears had been temporarily forgotten, as she was forced to listen to Tylocost’s endless chatter.

By the gods, the elf could talk! History, politics, warfare, food, and gardening were his favorite subjects. After five days’ marching, Zala felt she knew enough to go into business as a gardener herself. At least he’d stopped calling her “half-breed,” although “girl” wasn’t much better.

They’d encountered armed nomads several times since leaving Juramona for the southward trek to the Caer River. At first, the warbands had attacked, seeing only a motley band of Ergothians on foot. However, finding themselves faced with Tol’s tactics and Tylocost’s generalship, the plainsmen quickly gave up the attacks as bad business. Horsemen now rode away as the marching men approached, and the sight of fleeing riders never failed to raise a, cheer from the foot-sore soldiery.

Their only serious contest came five days into the journey. Tylocost had kept them tramping forward after sunset that day, though they usually made camp at dusk. Stars began to dot the indigo sky and still they marched. Tylocost was certain the enemy was near, and that a fight was brewing.

Zala was startled by his calm certainty, but did not doubt him. Word was passed back through the ranks, and the marching men quieted. Helmets were donned, spears gripped a little tighter.

They were northeast of the Caer confluence, an area known locally as Riverine. It was hilly country, devoid of settlements and dotted with small, ancient woods. Several of these woodlands contained crumbling ruins, so worn by time as to be completely unidentifiable. Trees far older than even the long-lived Tylocost rose among the stones, endlessly, patiently, prying apart sandstone blocks the size of small huts. Although ruins of one kind or another dotted the land between Hylo and the Gulf of Ergoth, Riverine was particularly rich in obscure relics.

As whippoorwills began calling from the shadowed trees, Tylocost stopped, one hand upraised. The column clattered to a halt. The Silvanesti climbed a pinnacle of ancient masonry, looked around briefly, then descended. He ordered six companies to circle right, around the hill before them. The men moved out, advancing carefully through the trees.

Zala hadn’t liked fighting in the dark at Juramona, and she liked it even less here, stumbling through an unknown wood. “This is crazy,” she muttered. “Fighting a battle in the dark-it’s crazy.”

Tylocost drew his sword and leaned against the ancient stones. “Happens all the time,” he assured her. “In the First Dragon War my ancestor, Amberace Tylocostathan, won a signal victory by attacking a dragon host on a moonless night.”

Zala knew little, and cared less, about ancient history. “You mean, an army of dragons?”

“No, ignorant girl. The great dragons of that age sometimes had followers, men, and even elves, who fought their own kind in return for treasure.”

A messenger came crashing through the trees. “My lord!” he gasped. “A large camp! Nomads! On the other side of the hill!”

“I thought so.” Tylocost snapped upright. “Form a column of half-companies. Swordsmen to the front. We’ll have to get in close to see who we’re fighting.”

The foot soldiers sorted themselves as commanded. No sooner had they done so than a pack of mounted nomads came galloping over the hill. They were few, and probably wouldn’t have attacked if they’d realized how numerous were the Ergothians.

Shouting, they charged. The leading Ergothians, fifty men in each half-company, moved sideways out of the path of the horsemen while the rear companies lowered pikes and made ready to take the shock of the charge. Tylocost climbed atop the ruins for a better vantage. The position also exposed him to the enemy.

Appalled by his careless courage, Zala climbed up beside him.

“Guarding me now?” he said mildly.

“Somebody should,” she grumbled.

There followed a short, sharp clash in the night-veiled woods. Small-scale skirmishes were common as soldiers and nomads fought among the trees. The contest swayed back and forth until the din of fighting behind them spooked the nomads. In threes and fours, they quit and rode back over the hill.

The six companies Tylocost had sent to circle the hill had taken the enemy in the flank.

“Forward, forward! We’ve got them now!” the elf cried.

The balance of his column stormed over the hill. A very large camp filled the dark ravine below. To the right, the flanking companies were briskly engaged with nomads, also on foot. A large herd of horses milled about, neighing nervously.

The Ergothians reached a low stockade that impeded their progress. They tried to force their way through the rough-hewn rail fence, hacking at the barrier with swords, or tearing at it with bare hands. Nomad archers stood their ground, felling man after man.

Dead and wounded were piling up when a section of stockade finally collapsed. With a roar the Ergothians flooded through the gap, overwhelming the horseless nomads. Beset on two sides, the plainsmen abandoned the fight. Many leaped onto horses, cut their tethers, and galloped away bareback.

The remaining nomads threw down their arms. Tylocost had to restrain his fevered troops from killing their surrendered foes in revenge for the outrages they’d perpetrated. Tylocost felt the professional’s distaste for partisan warfare. Battles were much easier to control when the forces involved were true-born warriors, not armed peasants who lost control of their emotions.

Fortunately, cooler heads-old guardsmen from Juramona-prevailed, and helped him herd the captives into a corner of the stockade. Order was restored, and torches lit.

The nomad camp was unusual. Plainsmen didn’t usually bother erecting a stockade. The reason for it soon became clear. Not only were there several hundred horses in the gully, but also heaps of valuables liberated from Ergothian strongholds. The horses weren’t plains ponies either, but long-legged Ergothian breeds. Judging by their brands, most had been captured from Lord Bessian’s shattered army.

Tylocost pulled off a weathered tarp covering a head-high pile of goods. A hodgepodge of kegs, crates, and baskets was revealed, each filled with plunder. They held gold coins, silver plate, loose gems, jewelry, bolts of brocade and silk, fine swords, and ritual objects stolen from Juramona’s razed temples. Other piles contained armor, weapons, and the war standards of the defeated hordes. There were enough sabers to equip eight or nine hordes.

Zala asked the elf why he looked so grim. She found the treasure an exhilarating sight.

“What do you suppose will happen when the men find out what they’ve captured?” he said. “What’s to stop them from seizing this loot for themselves?”

“You will. Remind them who they are and what they’re fighting for. Their pride will stop them.”

He appraised her anew. “For an unschooled woods-runner, you have insight.”

The double-edged compliment drew a snort from the half-elf.

Omitting only the troops that were needed to guard the nomad prisoners, Tylocost assembled his army. All eyes widened as the men beheld the piles of looted treasure the elf had left uncovered.

“Here are the stolen treasures of your country!” Tylocost shouted, his voice ringing through the nomad camp. “The gods have seen fit to reverse the tide of war and return it to you. Now we have a grave duty. We must secure this hoard for Lord Tolandruth until the rightful owners can he found.”

A rumble of talk sounded from the assembled men. One called out, “Can’t we make use of just a little of it, General? I got a homemade spear and brass pot for my head. There’s real blades and armor there!”

Tylocost looked thoughtful, as though the notion had not occurred to him. “That does sound fair,” he allowed. “I’ll appoint a quartermaster to distribute the arms appropriately.”

There were nods and grins all around.

Tylocost added, “The rest of this booty shall be sacred. No one is to touch it, on pain of death.”

The men nodded. Theft by a soldier in the field was punishable by hanging, and every man present remembered the fate of the deserters at Juramona.

Guards were posted to watch over the valuables. Tylocost called for volunteers with riding experience. These men were mounted on captured Ergothian horses and ordered to find Lord Tolandruth’s army and report what they’d captured. Heavy wagons would be required to move the weighty treasure, and until they arrived Tylocost and his troop would remain to safeguard it.

Daybreak arrived, cloudy and warm. The ravine seemed airless, cut off by the hills from the usual summer breezes. Face red with heat, Tylocost soaked a kerchief in water and knotted it around his neck.

“Hey, gorgeous, whatcha doin’?”

The unfamiliar, high-pitched voice brought Tylocost whirling around in surprise. He saw a kender perched atop a pile of treasure. The little fellow was idly twirling the elf’s floppy hat. No one had seen him arrive, much less climb up the mound of booty, so his appearance prompted much consternation and drawing of swords.

“Who in Chaos are you?” Tylocost demanded. “And give me my hat!”

“Curly Windseed. Fine. It’s too big for me anyway!” the kender replied rather confusingly. His brown hair was clipped short and a fringe of straight bangs fell into his light blue eyes.

He sent the hat spinning through the air to its rightful owner. Tylocost caught it deftly and ordered him off the treasure pile.

“This is the property of the Ergoth Empire,” the Silvanesti added.

“So this is Ergoth? Good!” the kender pronounced, leaping nimbly to the ground. “You know, gorgeous, you could use a new hat. For a fee, I could find you a really good one.”

Before Tylocost could deliver a scathing reply, he heard himself hailed. A soldier was running toward him through the piles of stolen goods.

“Strangers are in camp!” the soldier cried. “Kender!”

Tylocost muttered, “Of course. There’s never just one aphid on the roses.”

“Friends of yours?” Zala asked Curly Windseed.

“Sure. Well, some of them. I don’t much like Duck; he cheats at games. And Rambletoe snores like a donkey. Downy’s okay-Downy Redfoot, that is. She-”

Tylocost gave a frustrated snarl and stalked away to order his troops to assemble. Zala was fascinated. A few minutes with a kender had shattered the Silvanesti’s impeccably cool demeanor.

Soon, ten kender had gathered around Curly Windseed. Tylocost pegged them as wanderers, poking their noses where they weren’t wanted, and ordered them sent on their way.

Zala wondered at their attire. All the kender were armed with short swords and dressed in scale shirts and matching green leggings.

“Why are you dressed alike?” she asked Curly.

Idly poking through a crate of stolen goods, he said, “Because we’re scouts.”

“For the Queen’s Own Royal Loyal Militia,” another kender put in.

Zala whirled on Tylocost, exclaiming, “These are the allies Lord Tolandruth sent for!”

The elf sneered in disbelief, but Curly confirmed that they had indeed been led here by their queen, Casberry of Hylo, and a towering, blonde human woman whose name he couldn’t remember.

“Kiya!”

Curly shook his head at Zala. “No, that’s not it.” He and his comrades began arguing amongst themselves over the giant’s proper name.

Tylocost put a hand to his forehead. “Lord Tolandruth must be mad, sending for these pests.”

Zala reminded him how easily the kender had penetrated the stockaded camp, with the Ergothians awake and vigilant. If Lord Tolandruth could harness the natural abilities of the kender, it could only help their cause, she said.

Another runner arrived, bringing additional news: more kender were coming, following a strange wooden fetish borne on the shoulders of two brawny humans. The fetish was attended by a Red Robe wizard.

This was incredible, even for kender. Tylocost and Zala hurried through the nomad camp. At the north end, by a broken-down section of the stockade, they found the kender-and Kiya.

The Dom-shu looked sunburned and weary. Beside her was a man of middle years, wearing a dusty, faded crimson robe. His hands were bound in front of him, with Kiya holding a rope attached to his bonds. Behind them stretched a long, straggling column comprising a couple hundred armed humans and a substantial sprinkling of kender. The procession was indeed headed by two brawny, sweat-slicked men bearing on their shoulders an elaborate sedan chair of cedar and gold. A tiny figure sat in the chair. As the runner had said, the figure appeared to be carved from dark hardwood, weathered by long exposure to sun, wind, and rain. It was draped in shiny purple cloth.

Kiya hailed Tylocost. “By the gods, I never thought I’d be glad to see your face again!” she said.

“And you smell as delightfully as I remember,” the elf retorted. “What is this menagerie, woman?”

“What Husband requested. This is the army of Hylo-and may Corij have mercy on us all!”

She jerked the rope and brought her prisoner forward.

“This fellow claims to be Helbin, chief of the Red Robe wizards in Daltigoth, but will say no more about his business. He’s certainly a wizard all right, so watch him.”

“I demand to be taken to Lord Tolandruth,” Helbin said irritably.

Ignoring the wizard for now, Tylocost asked Kiya, “What is that peculiar fetish at the head of your army? It’s hideous!”

Kiya looked blank. “Fetish?” The truth dawned on her, and she threw back her head and laughed. “Come. I’ll introduce you!”

When they drew nearer, they could hear a faint rasping coming from the figure.

“It’s alive!” Zala exclaimed.

“Very.” Kiya rapped a fist against the chair rail. “Your Majesty! You have visitors!”

The wizened doll opened one eye. “Hmm? Is it noon already?”

“May I present Queen Casberry of Hylo,” Kiya said. “Your Majesty, this is the famous general from Silvanost, Janissiron Tylocostathan, known as Tylocost.”

Casberry leaned forward, staring hard at the elf. “Whew!” she exclaimed. “How did you survive such a beating? What a face they left you with!”

Her bluntness made Zala blink. The elf replied genially, “Bold words indeed from a carved totem.” He bowed in the best courtly Silvanesti fashion. “Your Majesty is a tribute to her embalmer.” It was clear these two were not going to get along.

Kiya explained they had gone first to Juramona, but learned Tol had moved on. They had been following the track of Tylocost’s column, knowing it would lead them to Tol eventually.

Queen Casberry wanted breakfast. The little group made their way to the center of the former nomad camp, where Tylocost’s men had kindled a cookfire. Kiya, still leading the sullen Helbin, asked Zala about Tol. The half-elf reported she hadn’t seen him for some days now.

“That must have been quite a fight at Juramona,” Kiya said.

Zala’s memory echoed with screams, and the remembered scent of blood caused her to shudder. To her surprise, the stoical Dom-shu woman gave her back a consoling pat.

“Things happen around Husband. They always have.” Rubbing her hands together, Kiya added, “I’m starving! How about you, wizard?”

The three of them joined the others at the cookfire, where the Ergothians were dishing up boiled bacon and bean porridge left behind by the defeated nomads.

After breakfast, the balance of the day was spent repairing the stockade and sorting through the arms they’d discovered. Once the presence of treasure was discovered by Gasberry and her troops, the number of kender in camp began to decline rapidly. The treasure piles also underwent a reduction. Despite Tylocost’s alert guards, the gemstones and trinkets weren’t safe, and entire kegs vanished. By sundown, the Royal Loyal Militia was down to half its original strength.

Gathered again at the cookfire for supper, Kiya demanded that Casberry stop her people from stealing.

“Kender don’t steal,” Casberry said quite seriously. “That’s a great lie spread about my people wherever they go.”

“Can’t imagine why,” Tylocost said dryly.

In addition to a purple silk gown and a short leather vest dyed brilliant scarlet, the queen now wore a golden circlet. It was the first badge of office Kiya had seen her wear, and she wondered which pile of Ergothian loot had yielded the delicate crown.

While the others debated the reputation of kender, Zala slipped away. She wandered through the covered piles of booty, with no particular goal in mind, and came upon Helbin. Kiya had picketed him, very like a horse, away from the campfire, so the mysterious wizard couldn’t overhear their plans for the coming days. Two spearmen had been left to guard him, but they stood at a wary distance. The wizard sat on an overturned keg, his hands bound, seemingly lost in gloomy thoughts.

Noticing her, Helbin rose. Zala mumbled an apology for disturbing him and backed away.

“Please, don’t go. You’re not unknown to me. You’re called Zala, yes?” She kept going, and he called desperately, “We have something in common. Release me and I’ll tell you what it is.”

She laughed. “That ruse is older than both of us!”

Zala was about to vanish around a pile of loot when Helbin blurted, “You and I owe allegiance to the same master! Or, I should say, the same mistress? The Lady of the Books.”

She hesitated. Pressing his advantage, the wizard said, “I know you are Zala Half-Elven. It was I who searched the hunting fraternity for a skilled female tracker and found your name. I recommended you to her in the first place.”

“What was my charge?”

“To find Lord Tolandruth and bring him back to Daltigoth.”

That was not good enough, and Zala told him so. That information was common knowledge now, among the Juramona Militia.

“I also know your human father is held hostage to your success. He’s a prisoner in Caergoth.”

The mention of her father sent anger flooding through Zala. She drew her sword. The wizard recoiled as she put the sword tip under his chin and demanded to know what he was up to.

“We’re on the same side!” Helbin insisted. “Set me free! I cannot work bound up like this. Dire things may happen if I am not free!”

“If you’re such a high sorcerer, why don’t you hex the cords from your hands?”

Helbin grimaced. “I am not a sorcerer. I am a wizard of the Red Robes.” Such distinctions obviously mattered little to her, so he added, “I need to move my hands in order to perform conjurations-”

She dropped the point of her sword to his chest. “Is my father safe?” she asked, voice husky with fear.

“He lives. He’s held by the governor of Caergoth, Lord Wornoth.”

“What is your purpose here? Speak true, or I’ll cut your throat!”

“Our lady has sworn me to silence. I may speak only to Lord Tolandruth!”

He seemed genuinely distressed, but that meant nothing. City folk were like that, Zala knew. They lied as easily as they breathed.

“If you kill me, all we have fought for will be lost!” Helbin announced.

“And what exactly are ‘we’ fighting for?”

Zala flinched hard at the unexpected voice behind her. Her sword point pierced Helbin’s silk robe, and he yelped.

Tol had just emerged from behind a pile of treasure. Arrayed behind him were Kiya, Tylocost, Queen Casberry, and a sextet of warriors.

“So, Master Helbin,” Tol said. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”