A Hero's justice

Chapter 17

All that remained of the Isle of Elms was a few score tree trunks, upright but limbless and charred black. They stood, stark and lonely, across a great scar of burned land. Upwind from the smoldering remains, the Army of the East was arrayed on the plain in parade formation. The time had come to deal with the captive nomads.

As with the nomads captured after the battle of Juramona, infamous malefactors, those who had committed specific outrages against the people of Juramona and other towns, were identified and culled from the prisoners. These thirty or so nomads received summary justice. The rest of the defeated were stripped of horses, weapons, and armor and turned loose.

From horseback, Tol regarded the sullen crowd of captives before him. His expression was grim.

“I give you mercy this once,” he said. “If any of you enters the empire under arms again, you will receive no quarter. Now go home!”

Riding away at Tol’s side, Egrin asked, “How do you know they’ll leave?”

“The land for leagues around has been stripped bare. They must go home to hunt and fish, or starve.”

Egrin cast a glance back over his shoulder. As predicted, the mass of defeated plainsmen was moving off to the east, a gray-brown body hugging the scorched plain.

Zala returned to Tylocost in a fever of excitement. She had found her father, alive but ill, in the same cage that held the Dom-shu. Once she told them who he was, the Dom-shu prisoners agreed to look out for him, and she swore on her life to return with help. They told her to hurry. The governor was fond of staging random executions, to intimidate the restless refugees sheltering in his city. There was no telling how much time the Dom-shu or Zala’s father had.

There were eleven Dom-shu in the cage: Miya, her father, and the small retinue of warriors who had accompanied them. Miya introduced her father as Voyarunta, a name she seemed to find amusing. As Zala did not speak their language, she missed the joke. The Dom-shu had been captured by a company of imperial horsemen, riding south from a losing encounter with Tokasin’s nomads. To Ergothian eyes, a barbarian was a barbarian; they made no distinction between forest-dwelling Dom-shu and plains-dwelling Firepath. When Miya pointed out she was Lord Tolandruth’s wife and the Dom-shu were at peace with the empire, all she got for her temerity was a boot between her shoulders. She and her people had been languishing in Caergoth’s cages for eight days.

“This is what I get for chasing that fool husband of mine,” Miya grumbled to Zala.

“You insisted on going,” said her father. “All was calm in the village until you decided to leave the Great Green and search for your sister and husband.”

“You did not have to come along!”

The forester chief folded his brawny arms. “Am I to let my last daughter go wandering across the grassland without a strong blade at her side? What kind of father would do such a thing?”

“I didn’t need you following me! You only slowed me down!”

“You’d be in a nameless grave by now if I hadn’t come.”

Father and daughter were still arguing when Zala stole away. Despite the threat of random beheadings and the days they’d spent in the fetid, uncomfortable cage, the foresters were in good spirits. Their faith in Lord Tolandruth was unshakable.

Zala’s father, on the other hand, was in very poor health. A cough had settled in his chest, and he’d grown pale and haggard. He could not remain much longer in the open, at the mercy of the sun’s heat and the night’s damp, living in filthy conditions with meager food and water.

Tylocost received her fervent outpouring of news with his usual aplomb. He evinced more interest in the conditions inside Caergoth than the condition of the prisoners. Zala paced up and down before the Silvanesti and Queen Casberry as she described what she’d seen: the crush of refugees, the nearly impassable streets, the patrolling soldiers.

“How many soldiers?” he asked.

She shrugged, and he made an offhanded remark about ignorant girls who couldn’t count beyond their own fingers and toes.

Zala backhanded him. She lashed out so quickly Tylocost was caught completely by surprise. Her hand connected solidly with his cheek, rocking his head back and leaving a livid impression of her long, tapering fingers. Militiamen around them snickered and Casberry applauded.

“My father’s life is in peril, elf! Save your insults for later!” Zala spat.

Tylocost made no move, just stood, hands at his side, staring at the shaking huntress. His face was bright red. Finally, he cleared his throat.

“What would you have us do?” he said, his voice low. “We don’t have sufficient strength to attack the open gate, much less storm the city. And the treasure must be guarded. Lord Tolandruth will be here soon-”

“I’ll free them,” Casberry said matter-of-factly.

The kender queen stood up in her chair. She straightened her orange shirt and buckskin trousers, tugged at the bottom of her leather vest-this one dyed sky blue-and stepped out onto the ground.

“I’ll free the prisoners.”

Tylocost, his acid tongue temporarily muted, merely asked her how.

Her eyes vanished into pools of wrinkles as she smiled. He thought she looked very like a cheerful prune. “Not by storming gates and attacking cities,” she said sagely. “We’ll do it the kender way. All I need is the Royal Loyal Militia.”

“What Royal Loyal Militia?” Tylocost protested. “Most of your people deserted long ago.”

Casberry looked askance at him, saying to Zala, “Slap him again, honey.”

In spite of herself, Zala laughed. Tylocost kept a wary eye on her.

“Not one of my Royal Loyals has deserted!” Casberry proclaimed. “They’re about, even if your dull senses can’t see them. They’re looking around, listening. All I have to do is call, and…” She waved a hand. “Come nightfall, we’ll free your father and Lord Tolandruth’s big wife.”

“We?” said Tylocost.

“Certainly. What kind of queen would I be if I sent my brave troops into peril alone?”

The Silvanesti imagined the gnarled old queen, decked out in one of her astonishing outfits, entering Caergoth in her sedan chair and proclaiming, “Make way for the Queen of Hylo!” He shook his head to dislodge the ludicrous picture.

To his amazement, the queen appeared to have been telling the truth. Although she made no proclamation, nor sent out any heralds, kender began returning to the hidden camp. Over the course of the day, they arrived-alone or in small groups-bearing whatever odds and ends they had ‘found’ while wandering. They filed past their monarch, and Casberry greeted each by name. She asked particular ones to volunteer for the mission to Caergoth. All agreed cheerfully, without hesitation or questions.

“They’re quite fearless, aren’t they?” Zala said admiringly.

Tylocost, perched on a nearby log and studying a sketch map of the vicinity, muttered, “Fools are never afraid.”

Casberry explained the job to her hand-picked group of forty and told them to gather at sunset on the hill where Tylocost had first surveyed the city’s defenses. The kender troop asked no questions, so the meeting was brief. Then they drifted away to do whatever it was that kender did.

Excited by the prospect of freeing her father, Zala knew she must try to rest. The upcoming night likely would be long and strenuous. She spread a blanket under a willow tree, lay down, and covered her eyes with one arm. Not ten breaths later, she felt someone approach.

“I must speak with you, lady.”

Helbin. Not moving, she said, “So speak, and be quick about it.”

He said nothing, but she could hear him fidgeting and shifting his weight. With a sigh, she opened her eyes and sat up. Immediately, he sat down on the end of her blanket.

“Take me with you to Caergoth,” he whispered.

“Why?”

“My spells are gone, and I must contact the empress!”

His desperation was so great, she grew curious. “What do you mean, gone? What happened to your magic?”

“It’s been negated. I don’t know how. I must consult my colleagues in the Order in Caergoth. They can send a message to the empress, apprising her of my position. I must go with you.”

He saw the denial in her face even before she spoke. Leaning closer, he said, “Please, you must help me! You must understand that more is at stake than the life of your father, however dear he is to you! The fate of millions depends on my communicating with the empress!”

“You’re a learned man. Can’t you just”-she waved a hand-“restore your ruined talismans and trinkets?”

“That would take too long!” he exclaimed, then grimaced, trying to contain his impatience. “The magic mirror alone must be consecrated during a conjunction of Solin and Luin, which won’t occur again for forty days. I am reduced to purely mortal means. You must help me! Name your price, I will pay it!”

Beyond the wizard’s shoulder, Zala saw Tylocost approaching. He carried a cloth-wrapped bundle in the crook of his arm. When he saw Helbin was with her, he stopped.

“Fine. Be on the hilltop with the kender at the appointed time,” she muttered to the wizard. “Now go!”

“May the gods bless you!”

“Save your blessings till after you hear my price.”

Looking slightly alarmed, Helbin withdrew. Tylocost came forward.

“Everyone’s paying court to you today,” he said. “Was Master Helbin pleading his suit?”

The suggestion was so absurd Zala laughed. The sound drew a quick smile from Tylocost. Kneeling, he held out the bundle he carried. “This is for you,” he said quietly.

She unwrapped the oblong object warily and was taken aback when it was revealed to be a sword-a truly fine short sword, with damascened blade and a hilt handsomely chased with silver filigree. It must have come from the treasure trove.

“Why?” she asked, looking up at him.

The elf had difficulty answering. Finally, he said, “In a crowded city street, a short blade will be more useful than that saber you carry.” Standing quickly, he added, “The kender have similar weapons. Good luck tonight!”

He strode away. Zala studied the weapon. The blade was leaf-shaped, designed for close-quarter stabbing. A small pale amethyst was set in the pommel. Under the circumstances, it was a thoughtful gift, not to mention an exquisitely beautiful one. Was Tylocost trying to apologize for his past behavior? Or did his gift mean something more?

She forced herself to put the weapon aside and lay down again. Sunset would be here all too soon, and she needed to sleep.

In spite of her best efforts, Zala’s mind would not be stilled. Her thoughts went round and round as she tried to make sense of the elf’s motives-and her feelings about him. She got no rest at all.

The sun shone through gaps in the low-hanging clouds, sending scorching beams down onto the Ergothian army. The Riders of the Great Horde moved forward slowly, armor clanking, horses breathing hard in the heat. The enormous earthen mound of the bakali fortress reared up ahead of them. There was as yet no sign of the lizard-men themselves.

Ackal V, atop Sirrion’s ruby-red back, rode in the center of his army, surrounded by scores of warlords, aides, and his personal escort of one hundred archers. Heralds bearing the standards of sixty-six hordes were arrayed around the emperor. Most of the hordes were from the northern and western provinces.

Prince Dalar rode on a war-horse beside his father. The boy’s legs were barely long enough to allow him to sit astride the great charger. He swayed in the saddle, from the pre-cariousness of his position as well as the heat. Sweat trickled from beneath his miniature helm.

A horn bleated. Dust swirled as a courier galloped up. A member of the emperor’s entourage met the rider and relayed his message to Ackal V.

“Your Majesty! Marshal Tumult has the enemy in sight!”

Havoc Tumult, Marshal of the Seascapes Hundred, was leading the advance guard. He had some of the best remaining hordes under his command, including the Wind Riders, who were peerless scouts; the Red Thunders; and the Bulls of Ergoth, no man of which could be shorter than two paces tall. Riding straight toward the enemy’s stronghold, Marshal Tumult had come upon a sizable body of bakali, arrayed in circles to resist cavalry attack. He now awaited his liege’s orders on how to proceed.

Ackal V considered how to respond. It was typical of the bakali to offer a sizable force as bait, to lure the Ergothians into a trap. They’d played this trick over and over.

“My compliments to Marshal Tumult,” he finally said. “Tell him to keep the enemy in sight, but do not engage.” To another warlord he said, “Who has the forward elements of the right wing?”

“Lord Janar, with the Deathriders.”

“Bring him to me.”

While he waited for Lord Janar to ride back to him, Ackal V ordered the army to halt. Sixty thousand warriors reined up their steeds and waited, restive in the face of the enemy.

Janar and his retinue arrived in the inevitable cloud of dust. They saluted with drawn daggers.

Ackal V raised his voice for all to hear. “My lord, there is your goal.” He pointed to the mud-colored mound rising above the trees. “No matter what happens, to me or the rest of the army, you are to breach that stronghold, and destroy anyone and anything in your path! Do not look back, Janar-fix your eyes forward and smite the invader!”

The emperor’s loud commands agitated his horse, but he controlled Sirrion’s prancing with ease. “That is your task. Succeed, or never come before me again!”

Lord Janar’s round, sunburned face tightened. He saluted again and galloped away with his retinue.

Once they were gone, Ackal V turned to his nearest aide. The emperor was smiling. “Inform Lord Tumult he may attack,” he said. “Remind him of the tactics we set forth in our last council of war.” The messenger departed.

“Cornets!” the emperor shouted. “Sound the call to battle!”

Five hundred trumpeters raised brass horns to their lips and blew the age-old sequence of notes. A concerted shout went up from the Great Horde.

Ahead, in the advance guard, a corps of archers rode out from Havoc Tumult’s ranks. Once within bowshot of the bakali circles, they dismounted, braced their bows, and commenced bombarding the lizard-men. A concerted hiss rose from the bakali, and as one they raised their shields skyward to ward off the lethal rain of arrows.

Tumult sent forward two hordes, the Bulls of Ergoth on the right and the Silver Skulls on the left. They formed into narrow columns just four riders wide and trotted into the gaps between the bakali defensive circles. As expected, the lizard-men on either side of the advancing Ergothians lowered their shields to close in. When they did, more dense flights of arrows rained on them, felling many. Up went the shields again, and the bakali awkwardly tried to attack the horsemen while still protecting themselves from the arrows.

“Spearmen!” Tumult shouted.

The Red Thunder Horde had been armed with long spears in place of their traditional sabers. At the marshal’s command, they charged forward, spears leveled at the bakali trying to crush the Bulls of Ergoth. A terrible chorus of screams arose when the two forces collided. Bakali shields and axes were no match for iron-tipped spears, and the first two ranks went down like wheat before the scythe.

At that moment, something happened that had never happened: the bakali formation broke. The southern side of the circle, inundated by spearmen, disintegrated.

Shouting their emperor’s name, the Red Thunders galloped into the open field and fell upon the bakali circle from behind. The Silver Skulls and Bulls attacked from either side. In short order the enemy was annihilated.

Word of this success reached the emperor’s entourage and cheers erupted. Ackal V seemed unimpressed.

“One company destroyed,” he said coldly. “Now kill the rest!”

On the right, Lord Janar’s Riders crossed a shallow stream and climbed the opposite bank. A hidden ditch tripped the leading horses. Their riders were thrown onto a hedge of sharpened stakes. Janar held up his own horse by sheer strength and pushed through the obstacle, advancing more warily now. The bakali fortress was no more than half a league ahead of him.

Company after company of armed lizard-men poured down the ramps leading to the earthwork structure. Sunlight and humidity gave their green hides an iridescent sheen. Even at this distance their pungent smell seared the nostrils of men and horses alike. The animals rolled their eyes and champed their teeth. Warriors cursed, hawked, and spat.

Once the remainder of Janar’s force was through the ditch and stakes, he cried, “No quarter!” In companies of two hundred, his men charged.

Men and lizards met halfway between the ditch and the fortress. Ordinarily, twenty thousand Riders at full gallop could trample any number of enemy foot soldiers into the dirt, but the bakali set their clawed feet in the dry earth and took the full impact of the Ergothian charge like a cliff facing a crashing sea. Sabers rang off their helmets, their shields, and their thick, scaly skin. In turn their axes and spears wrought much damage among Havoc Tumult’s men. As the front ranks were reduced to bloody wreckage, the following companies charged home.

In time, a raging sea can wear down a stone cliff. So it was with Tumult’s companies. Little by little, they pushed the bakali back. The price was high; blood, both crimson and purplish red, ran thick over the parched soil.

Ackal V, watching from a knoll in the center of the battlefield, had not yet committed his left wing to battle. He was holding them in reserve, ten thousand warriors led by a young Daltigoth warlord named Vanz Hellman. They sat on their horses, motionless as statues, waiting for their emperor to summon them to battle.

Ackal V fed more and more warriors into the battle’s center, shifting his hordes sideways and forward like pieces on a game board. When the bakali formed a tough defensive position, archers and spearmen scourged them until saber-wielding Riders could break them.

Against fierce resistance, the Ergothian center slowly advanced. The casualties were appalling, especially among the sword-armed hordes. They had to close in to fight, and the lizard-men exacted a terrible toll.

The center pulled abreast of Janar’s Riders, then ground ahead. The bakali stronghold was closer now. Built of logs and mud, it resembled a great hornet’s nest fallen to the ground. The fetid, telltale reptilian odor wafted strongly from open holes in its sides. The smell was strong enough to reach the emperor, overcoming the odor of horses, sweating men, and spilled blood.

“Lordjanar falters,” said one of the emperor’s aides, pointing. “The enemy has him stopped!”

Janar had found himself facing a solid wall of green, scaly skin and bronze armor. Bakali continued to spill from the mound in great numbers, filling in the ranks ahead of him until his way was blocked completely. Many were only half-equipped, gripping a sword or axe and wearing the usual ring-mail coat, but lacking shield or helmet. Although strangely uniform in height, the lizard-men varied in appearance. Some had yellow horn ridges on brow and upper lip, and large, domed heads covered by small green scales. Others, lacking brow ridges, had smaller craniums sheathed in iridescent, pale green skin. They stood shoulder to shoulder, horned beaks gnashing, hacking away.

Janar was wounded but still fighting when a message arrived from Ackal V: Press the enemy harder. Voice cracking from the strain, the warlord urged his men to even greater efforts. He knew the consequences of failure.

A shrill screeching sound filled the air. It came from the summit of the bakali fortress and echoed eerily from the dark tunnel mouths. Hearing it, the lizard-men engaged with the Ergothian center ceased fighting and drew back. Before the surprised Ergothians could pursue, a new terror appeared.

Holes opened up in the ground amidst the ranks of Ackal’s hordes. Lids of packed earth, mud, and twigs exploded upward, revealing the entrances to several large tunnels. Armed bakali poured out of these holes. In the blink of an eye, hundreds of fresh enemy soldiers appeared in the midst of the Ergothian center.

Horses reared, throwing Riders to the ground. Ackal V, his son, and his personal retinue were inundated by furious bakali.

The emperor drew his saber and cleaved the skull of an axe-waving foe. As he fended off billhooks and poleaxes, his war-horse lashed out fore and aft with massive iron-shod hooves. Dalar could not hold on and shrieked in terror. Ackal V hacked off the clawed hands grabbing for his son, grasped the neck of the boy’s hacketon and lifted him onto Sirrion’s back.

A bakali thrust a long spear at Dalar, now seated in front of his father. Ackal V lopped off the spearhead, but the wooden shaft caught the emperor in the throat. Choking and furious, he put the point of his saber through the lizard-man’s eye. Blood sprayed over the ashen-faced prince. His father cursed and shoved the dead bakali off his blade with the toe of his boot. Warlords in his retinue finally cut their way through the throng of lizard-men, surrounded their liege, and fended off further attacks.

All organization was lost as more bakali poured out of the hidden tunnels. Ackal’s well-planned attack degenerated into a vicious melee.

“Your Majesty!” cried his cousin, Hyduran Dermount. “Summon the reserve! Send for Lord Hellman now!”

In answer Ackal V struck the gray-bearded warlord on the jaw with the hilt of his saber. Hyduran fell backward off his horse.

“No man gives me orders!” Ackal V roared. “We came here to kill bakali. So kill them!”

Several warlords suggested he and the crown prince should remove to safety, but Ackal V refused. “Better to die in battle than yield to these lizards!” he told them.

Six hundred paces away, Lord Janar likewise was battling for his life.

The blond warlord, who’d been a shilder with Tol at Juramona twenty-five years before, weighed sixteen stone and was known for his robust constitution. Four times wounded, including a deep stab in the thigh, he still sat tall in the saddle and bellowed encouragement to his men. When he noticed that the outpouring of bakali from the stronghold had thinned, Janar called for the rearmost horde in his formation, the Thorngoth Sabers, to ride wide around the bakali line. Under cover of the heavy dust clouds hanging in the air, the Sabers pulled out of line.

That order was Janar’s last. An thrown axe connected solidly with his forehead. He swayed in the saddle, and fell. Unconscious by the time he hit the blood-soaked ground, he was hacked to pieces by five bakali who muscled through the press of horsemen to reach him. They in turn were slain by vengeful Riders.

The Thorngoth Sabers found the edge of the bakali phalanx and rode wide around it. Hooting and screeching, the lizard-men turned to meet the new threat. The lead Riders steered around their slower, clumsier foe. Agitated, the creatures thinned their line further in an attempt to contain the Ergothians. Their line was four ranks deep, then three. When it thinned to only two bakali deep, the Sabers wheeled in unison and charged.

For one brief, gory moment the bakali line held. Then it shattered. Bakali, minus limbs or heads, flew aside as the Sabers burst through into the open. Leading the charge was young Estan Tremond, son of the governor of Thorngoth. Estan wore his golden hair long, like his father, and it flew behind him as rode hard for the ramp leading into the fortress.

The pressure on Janar’s hordes slackened. A shout went up. The Ergothians had flanked the bakali line. They were nearly to the mound. For the first time the lizard-men wavered.

Moments later, the same hesitation struck the bakali fighting among the Ergothian center. Their usual cold-blooded prowess faltered. Anxious looks were cast back at their threatened fortress.

The emperor thrust a clenched fist into the air. “Now is the time!” he declared. “Send word to Lord Vanz to bring his men forward. He will strike the enemy on our left, as we contain them here!”

Six couriers carried the message, to ensure it would reach its intended recipient. Only two made it through the confusion and carnage. The first courier found Lord Vanz sitting on horseback in the shade of an alder tree.

Only twenty, Vanz Hellman was already an imposing figure. A descendant of northern seafarers, he was dark-skinned and very tall. When his hair had begun to thin two years earlier, he shaved his head and kept it so. He wore no mail beneath his cuirass, so his bare arms, impressively muscled, showed clearly under his turned-back mantle.

The courier galloped up to him, gasping out his message: “My lord! His Majesty commands you to advance!”

“Thank you,” Hellman replied. His voice was low and very deep. He remained motionless on his white horse, giving no orders.

As the puzzled courier prepared to repeat his message, the second messenger arrived, face bloody, right arm hanging limply at his side. He relayed the emperor’s order and received the same calm acknowledgment.

Lord Vanz called for a draft of wine.

More than a league away, the Thorngoth Sabers gained the foot of the enemy’s ramp. The thick walls of the bakali mound were heavily plastered with mud and leaves. The ramp spiraled upward, growing narrower as it rose. Scores of round openings dotted the walls next to the ramp. None were defended.

The Sabers sensed a trap, but urged their horses onto the ramp anyway. When they tried to turn the animals toward the first of the yawning holes, the horses balked. Ergothian war mounts did not shy from the clash of iron or the smell of human blood, but none could be made to push through the vile, throat-clogging odor emanating from the entrance to the bakali stronghold. Their riders were forced to dismount and proceed on foot, sabers drawn.

Within was a winding gallery fitfully lit by the streams of sunlight coming through the entry holes in the walls. As more Riders arrived, they followed their comrades inside, leaving the lowest-ranking among them outside to guard the horses.

There were only two choices, head up or down. As the stronghold was broader at the base than the summit, it made sense to seek the enemy below. Armor jangling, Captain Tremond and his men descended the curved gallery. The interior ramp was wide enough for them to walk five abreast.

A single guard appeared, wielding an axe in each clawed fist. He held them off for some time, skillfully dodging saber thrusts and whirling his twin blades with such force that a single hit severed heads or limbs. They finally overwhelmed him by sheer weight of numbers. After severing his hissing, spitting head from his torso, they continued downward.

The evil stench grew stronger as they descended. So did the enervating heat and humidity. Some warriors, veterans of many battles, became so nauseated they collapsed. Comrades with stronger stomachs kept going.

The curving gallery ended in an open chamber. Pine and cedar knots burned fitfully in the gloom, casting just enough smoky light to reveal the room’s vastness. It was forty or fifty paces across, its domed ceiling supported by trees ripped from the ground and installed with their branches and bark still on. The chamber was lined from wall to wall with thousands of oblong yellow-gray objects, each about the size of a small wine cask.

Tremond poked the nearest of the objects with his sword. The leathery skin yielded. Instantly he realized what they had found.

“Corij preserve us!” he breathed. “It’s a hatchery!”

The bakali eggs were layered four or five deep. There were easily a hundred thousand of them in this single room. They accounted for the terrible smell, as well as the heat and drenching humidity.

An Ergothian slashed the nearest egg. Its pliant shell split and thick green fluid gushed out, as did an amorphous-looking dark mass-an immature bakali. Several soldiers gagged at the sight, but most, following their comrade’s example, began slashing at the eggs. Soon the soldiers were ankle-deep in yellow-green slime.

Tremond halted his men’s frenzied retribution. At this rate they would drown before a thousand eggs were destroyed. Something stronger was needed.

Torches burned in the curving gallery behind them, but the eggs were soft and moist, and the air heavy with damp. It would be impossible to get a blaze going without copious amounts of oil or some other fuel.

“The trees!”

The cry had come from a warrior who carried one of the axes taken from the bakali guard. He stepped out onto the uneven surface of the egg trove and picked his way toward the center of the chamber. There, he drew back the iron axe and began to hack at a tree trunk. Wood chips flew.

Chest working to take in the humid, harsh air, Captain Tremond thought briefly of home, of the fresh breezes that blew off the bay in the mornings. Then he shouted, “Everyone! Cut down those posts! All of them! Right now!”

A soldier with gray in his beard caught his young captain’s arm. “You know what will happen when we cut through those supports, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Tremond said evenly, “we’ll save the empire.”

The imperial reserve shifted restlessly, ten thousand warriors on ten thousand horses waiting for their commander to obey the emperor’s order to advance. So far Vanz Hellman had drunk a cup of wine, watched the injured courier carried away, talked idly with his officers, and removed his mantle in the heat of the day.

After his mantle was carefully stowed in a saddle bag, Hellman sat up straight and wrapped the reins around his hands.

“The hordes will advance by columns, to the left,” he said quietly.

Heralds relayed the order as trumpets blared. At a trot, the left wing of the imperial army moved up on the west side of the bakali position. The leading elements of Hellman’s hordes found numerous concealed traps-pits, ditches, deadfalls of huge logs. Each was marked and circumvented. Had the hordes galloped straight ahead, they would have suffered grievously from the traps.

“My lord, how did you know the obstacles were there?” asked Hellman’s second-in-command.

“Because I would have put them there, if I were a cunning lizard.”

Their approach was so deliberate and calm they surprised a phalanx of bakali formed behind a screen of trees. The lizard-men were standing in neatly ordered rows, axes and billhooks resting on their shoulders. Hellman’s Riders appeared beside them as if by magic. Reptilian faces were not expressive by human standards, but the bakali’s astonishment was plain.

Vanz Hellman’s powerful voice burst forth. “Give them iron!”

The Ergothians sabered hundreds of the enemy before they could shift formation and raise their shields. Lord Hellman, in the front rank, put down a bakali with every stroke. Because of his unusual height, he wielded a specially-made saber, its blade a span longer than any other sword on the battlefield.

Although surprised, the bakali did not break. They fought, isolated into bands of six, eight, or ten, until all were slain.

None attempted to surrender. The Ergothians were not taking prisoners anyway.

Hellman’s hordes cut their way to within sight of Ackal V’s position in the center of the battle. One of the emperor’s aides pointed out the towering ebon warrior to the emperor.

Ackal V, still clutching his son to his chest, wheeled his horse about. “About bloody time! Did he come by way of Ropunt Forest?”

The emperor’s ire could not dilute Hellman’s accomplishment. His warriors, fresh and eager for battle, were cleaving the enemy in twain. Ackal V, breathing hard, allowed his bloody sword to hang idle from his hand for the first time in ages.

A tremendous crack split the air. Heads whipped around, wondering if the sound heralded some new bakali trick. Shouts went up from the warriors fighting around the emperor, and thousands of blades, formerly engaged in killing, rose skyward, pointing at the bakali stronghold.

The great earthen mound was collapsing. Its roughly conical peak dropped several paces. Black dust spurted from the open tunnel mouths along its sides. From the embattled lizard-men came a hair-raising, ululating cry, a sound not of anger or bloodlust, but of wrenching despair.

The walls of the mound split apart and fell inward. The pinnacle, which had once reared so high, plummeted into the center of the stronghold. With a prolonged roar, the entire structure gave way, hurling broken logs and dried mud for hundreds of paces all around.