A Hero's justice

Chapter 22

Once Governor Wornoth’s capture became known, resistance to the Army of the East ended quickly. Only a small body of troops, the governor’s private guard, was imprisoned in the citadel. The streets grew calm. People seemed dazed, like sleepers awakened from a deep but troubled slumber. Refugees streamed out of Caergoth, leaving by every gate to every point on the horizon.

Tol and Egrin, standing on a balcony of Caergoth’s Riders’ Hall, watched the lines of ordinary folk leaving the city. The view was of the Centaur Gate and, beyond, the road running southwest toward Daltigoth. It was late afternoon, and Tol could hardly credit all that had happened since sunrise, when Zanpolo had escorted them through the city gate.

“It’s not wise to let everyone go,” Egrin was saying. “Those leaving should be questioned. There could be deserters hidden among them-loyalists who’ll carry word to Daltigoth about what happened here.”

“Good. Saves me the trouble of sending word to Ackal V of our coming.”

Egrin started to say more, but loud laughter erupted from the open doorway behind them. Tol smiled. “Sounds like the party is well underway.”

“Something else we must keep an eye on,” the old marshal said gloomily.

They went inside, entering the feasting hall that took up the entire second floor of the Riders’ sanctuary. As he had no intention of ruling Caergoth, Tol had set up his headquarters not in the governor’s palace, but in the Riders’ Hall outside the citadel.

A hasty banquet had been laid out, provided from Wornoth’s impressive larder. The scene within was a merry one. Around the huge table were gathered Zanpolo, Pagas, Argonnel, Mittigorn, Trudo, and the other warlords who’d joined Tol; Casberry and her bearers; the Tarsans, Captain Anovenax and Syndic Hanira; Tylocost; Chief Voyarunta; and the Dom-shu sisters.

The reunion of Kiya and Miya had been memorable. Kiya, riding beside Egrin, had spotted her sister in the mob surrounding Tol at the citadel gate. She dismounted and shouldered her way through the happy throng of Juramonans and city folk, and came up on her younger sibling’s blind side. Gripping Miya’s shoulder, she whirled her around.

“Sister!” Miya exclaimed joyously.

Kiya slapped her hard across the cheek. The people immediately around them fell silent, stunned by the sudden violence.

“How dare you come here! Why did you abandon your child?” Kiya demanded.

Miya planted her fists on her hips. “Abandoned? Eli has more aunts than an anthill!”

So saying, Miya slapped her sister back, knocking the blonde warrior woman sideways.

A handful of militiamen stepped forward to stop what they were sure would be a fierce fight, but Tol waved them off. The sisters, each with the red imprint of a hand on her face, glared at each other, until Kiya finally spoke.

“Not bad-for a mother.”

“Ha! You know our mother had a harder hand than the chief ever did!”

Voyarunta, standing only a few steps away, protested. The sisters simultaneously turned on him and said, “Quiet!” The Chief of the Dom-shu wisely obeyed.

The sisters embraced abruptly, each vigorously pounding the other on the back.

“By Corij, you stink!” Miya chortled happily.

“And you feel fat as a pig!” Kiya countered, laughing.

Now, when Tol and Egrin re-entered the feasting hall, shouts of greeting rose to meet them. The Dom-shu sisters, seated together, saluted them with a wave, and Pagas pressed a cup of foaming beer into Tol’s hand.

Hanira, looking cool and elegant in a gown of pale green silk, called for quiet. From her place at the end of the long table she lifted her goblet and pronounced, “To the conqueror of Caergoth!”

Casberry and the Dom-shu raised their cups and drank, but the Ergothians present looked embarrassed.

Egrin spoke up quickly. “Begging your pardon, Syndic, but we’re not conquerors. Liberators, yes, but Caergoth was and still is an imperial city.”

“And anyone who uses the word ‘rebel’ had better be prepared to draw iron,” growled Zanpolo.

Casberry snorted loudly. She now sported a multitude of gold bracelets and necklaces. These flashed brightly against her tunic of midnight black shot through with strands of crimson and gold.

“For victorious warriors you certainly know how to mince words,” she piped.

Tol shook his head. “No, Your Majesty. Lords Egrin and Zanpolo speak the truth. We have freed Caergoth, not conquered it.” He raised his own cup and amended Hanira’s toast: “To success, and good friends!”

He sat at the head of the table, facing Hanira. Egrin took the chair on his left, and the Dom-shu sisters were arrayed on his right, as befit his wives. By precedence, Queen Casberry should have had Hanira’s place of honor, but the diminutive monarch had chosen her location herself, the seat nearest the keg of lager.

They ate and drank heartily, and conversation remained jocular and light until mention was made of Wornoth, a subject Tol had been hoping to avoid. It was Hanira who broached the delicate subject.

“My lord, what do you intend to do with Governor Wornoth?”

Wornoth deserved swift justice for his many crimes against the people of his city and for his gross negligence in defending the empire. But the man was such a weakling Tol found it somehow shameful to order his death. Others obviously did not share his ambivalence.

“Hang ’im,” said Pagas. The other warlords agreed.

“A dog like him doesn’t deserve honorable death by blade,” Trudo said.

“Wornoth will meet justice,” Tol promised, hoping that would be the end of the discussion.

He should have known better. Like a ropesnake, Hanira preferred to surround and strangle her victim slowly, rather than grant a swift death from venom.

She tilted her head. Sunlight streaming through the windows lent a sapphire sheen to her black hair, piled high on her head for this occasion.

“What does that mean, my lord?” she asked, smiling sweetly.

“Gotta execute him,” Casberry said, before he could respond. “He’s a murderous toad, and everybody wants his blood. If you spare him, you’ll look weak, my lord.”

The warlords began enumerating the evils of leniency. Angered, Tol smote the tabletop with his fist.

“Have I said I would spare Wornoth?”

The diners fell silent, and Voyarunta said, “You are chief here, Son of My Life. Do as you think right.”

Hanira sipped wine, preferring this to the beer the others drank. Her honey-colored eyes regarded Tol with amusement over the rim of her goblet. She said no more.

Tol firmly turned the discussion to other matters. “The time has come for some of us to part company,” he said. To Casberry: “Your Majesty, I thank you for your help. Without you and your people, we wouldn’t be in Caergoth right now.”

“If your neighbor’s house is on fire, better to grab a bucket than close the shutters.” She cocked a knowing eye at him, adding, “But Daltigoth is a different proposition, eh? No place for kender in the capital?”

The shrewd little queen had put her bony finger on the heart of the matter. The march on Daltigoth would be extremely dangerous. They had reached the gates of Caergoth unhindered by imperial forces because of Wornoth’s timidity, and his unshakable belief that his garrison, in truth quite powerful, was not sufficient both to defend the city and defeat Tol. Ackal V would have no such worries. Once he realized Tol’s army was coming, he would send the Great Horde to stop them.

Casberry asked how many warriors Tol expected to face. Argonnel answered her.

“The emperor has lost many men to the bakali, I’ve heard,” said the commander of the Iron Scythe Horde. “But I reckon he can draw upon eighty to a hundred hordes.”

Casberry reached for a grape. “Sounds like you’ll need every friend you’ve got.”

“No. None but Ergothians can ride with us to Daltigoth.”

Tol’s quiet, blunt declaration put an end to all merriment. Hanira dabbed her lips with a silken scarf-Ergothians knowing nothing of napkins-and said, “Are you certain, my lord? You’re giving up much good help.”

“It must be so. Your pardon, Syndic, but the presence of foreign troops would change the way our approach is perceived. Instead of patriots and liberators, we’d be seen as invaders.”

“Rebels,” rumbled Zanpolo. “Which we are not!”

“Victors can style themselves any way they choose,” Hanira said. “Losers only die.” She toyed with the goblet before her, turning it slowly in her fingers. “You know the Pakin Pretender is in Caergoth, don’t you?”

Her words struck like well-timed slaps.

“What Pakin Pretender?” Egrin demanded. “The last claimant was slain twenty years ago, in the reign of Pakin III!”

“He had children, did he not?”

Trudo, eldest of the warlords, said, “Three that I know of. All daughters.”

“The youngest, Mellamy Zan, is twenty-five. For the past dozen years she’s lived in Tarsis. She’s come to Caergoth.”

Argonnel leaped to his feet, hand on his sword hilt. “You did this, trickster! You brought the Pakin infection with you from Tarsis!”

Hanira looked up at the red-faced man. “Upon my word as a syndic of the city, I did not,” she said.

Tol curtly told Argonnel to sit down. Once he had, Hanira explained that she’d placed spies among Mellamy Zan’s followers soon after the Pakin princess arrived in Tarsis more than twelve years ago. The troubles in Ergoth had encouraged the new Pretender to leave Tarsis with a small entourage. She had entered Caergoth only yesterday, before Tol arrived.

“Where is she?” Argonnel growled. “Tell us where to find her, and we’ll settle the Pakins for once and all!”

Hanira looked down the long table at Tol. “Well, my lord?”

All eyes turned to Tol. His gaze was locked with the syndic’s. She knew his fragile alliance of disgruntled warlords could not hold against the threat of a new Pakin rebellion. She knew, too, he would loathe having to kill someone who had committed no crime, but who could cause untold trouble in the future. Hanira was positioning herself cleverly. If Tol asked, she could have Mellamy Zan assassinated. The gratitude of the warlords would be enormous. So would her influence in Ergoth.

But there was one fact about the Pakin Pretender that Tol knew he could use to his advantage. “A woman?” he said, forcing a patronizing smile. “One princess is not that important. Still, I’m sure there’s room aplenty in the citadel for another prisoner. So yes, Syndic, I would like to know where Mellamy Zan is.”

Her maneuver had failed. Hanira dissembled politely, promising to put the Pretender in Tol’s hands.

Chief Voyarunta announced himself ready to return home. He’d seen quite enough of the grasslands and its cities of stone. He didn’t say it in so many words, but it was plain he regarded Ergoth as immoral and decadent. The fighting was good, but there was too much plotting and treachery.

“And too many noisy women,” he said.

“You fathered two of the noisiest!” Queen Casberry snorted. There was laughter while Miya flushed and Kiya scowled.

It was agreed, after more wrangling, that all Tol’s foreign friends would depart before the final ride to Daltigoth. Hanira and her Tarsans would leave immediately. Voyarunta and the Dom-shu would remain until Tol left Caergoth, then they would depart. This would allow the chief’s wound to heal before beginning the long trek back to the Great Green.

Around midnight, as the party was breaking up, Tol announced that the Army of the East would depart for Daltigoth in five days. The warlords were startled. It seemed a very short time to organize and equip so momentous an expedition.

In reply, Tol quoted one of Ackal Ergot’s favorite maxims: “ ‘Suffer or strike, strike or be struck.’ Until we know where the imperial hordes are, and what’s happened to the bakali, we can’t risk being trapped here. For all we know, the emperor could be at our gates tomorrow.”

On that cheerful note, the guests departed. As servants moved in to clear the table and snuff the torches, Tol took Tylocost aside for a private word.

The elf had said little during the meal. His head seemed oddly bereft without his gardener’s hat.

“You’re not going to Daltigoth either,” Tol told him. “I have another task for you. Find out from Syndic Hanira where the Pakin Pretender is. Get the princess-alive-out of Caergoth. Go wherever you like, but send me word of your location once you alight.”

Tylocost’s pale eyes showed a glimmer of interest. “What is your plan, my lord?”

“Only to avoid another civil war. Killing one princess won’t solve anything. But-” He drew a deep breath. “But having a Pakin in reserve may add weight to my dealings with Ackal V.”

Given the marriage habits of high Ergothian nobility, there were scores of Pakins scattered throughout the empire and border regions. Valaran herself was of Pakin blood. Killing Mellamy Zan was no answer; any of her kin could incite a revolt by claiming the throne, if they could gather enough followers. However, having the chief claimant as hostage might have a chilling effect on any warlords who backed her on Ackal V. With the Pretender in his clutches, Tol could use fear of a Pakin uprising to keep the emperor in check.

“You’re putting a great responsibility in my hand,” Tylocost said. “Do you trust me that much?” “You’re the man for the deed.”

Tylocost bowed his head. “I will do as you bid, my lord.” All the nearby torches had been extinguished. A candle on the table reached its last mark and went out. The Silvanesti, silhouetted by the remaining light, said, “I must retire, my lord. I have a task at dawn.”

Tol had an inkling what the task was. “Shall I come?” “Thank you, my lord, but the rite is for Silvanesti only.” Though Zala had been only half-elven, in death such distinctions no longer seemed to matter.

Four laborers, hired in Caergoth, dug a deep hole on a hilltop northwest of the city. It was the same hill on which Tylocost had observed Caergoth when he’d first arrived. The treasure caravan was long gone, safely stowed in the citadel.

Dawn was a pale promise on the eastern horizon as Tylocost paid off the diggers and sent them home. He assured them he did not need them to stay and fill in the hole “after.”

The laborers’ two-wheeled cart creaked away, and Tylocost was finally alone among the widely spaced oaks. The grave held two shrouded bodies. Zala would not sleep alone. Her father, Kaeph, had passed away not long after his daughter. His cough was pneumonia, and the Caergoth healers could not save him. He spoke only once, to ask for his child. Miya was sitting with him at the time. She assured him he would be with his daughter very soon. The Dom-shu woman spoke only the truth to the dying man.

Tylocost pressed his palms together and began to chant an ancient Silvanesti song. It was the Wath-Ranata, a hymn for those who perish far from the sacred homeland. He sang it for Zala. The gods would forgive him for performing the hymn in the presence of the human. Tylocost would not part father and daughter again.

The song was long. He sang it as the sun lifted itself above the horizon and washed the land with heat. Bluish gray clouds hovered in the west. The weather would be foul for the ride to Daltigoth.

The last words of the Wath-Ranata echoed over the green hills. Tylocost scattered green leaves and flower petals on the linen shapes nestled in the earth, then took up the spade the diggers had left for him. By the time the hole was filled, he was sweating and dirty.

His final act was to plant a seedling tree on the grave. Every Silvanesti wanted to rest beneath the boughs of a living tree. He’d chosen an apple tree because he liked the idea that Zala would one day bear fruit to all passersby.

The unsightly gardener tied his floppy hat on his head and shouldered his spade like a weapon. The urge to salute, although long-ingrained by decades of military service, did not intrude here.

Tylocost had not buried a comrade. He’d said good-bye to the woman he loved.

Ackal V stepped out of his bath. His arms, legs, and chest were mottled with bruises, some already yellowing as they healed. The blows he’d sustained from the bakali might not have brought him down, but they’d certainly made a bold impression. He hadn’t availed himself of the imperial healers, and rarely did. He had little faith in their spells and nostrums, and feared enemies might use the opportunity to hex him.

From her marble bench a few steps away, Empress Valaran kept her eyes averted, studying the mosaic pattern around her feet. She was all too familiar with the sight of her husband unclothed. It was not a view she cared for. Dalar played at her feet, humming to himself as he pushed wooden warriors on horseback across the floor. Some of the toy soldiers were painted red, others gray.

A lackey held up a gray silk robe. Ackal V slipped his arms in and tied the sash with a savage yank. Equal pique marked his movements as he took a golden cup of wine offered by another servant.

Valaran had brought him the unwelcome news of Caergoth’s fall to Tol and the landed hordes. Ackal V cursed Wornoth in between gulps of wine, damning the governor for his lack of backbone. For squeezing taxes from peasants and keeping the high-nosed residents of Caergoth in line Wornoth was adequate, but faced with real opposition, he wilted instantly.

“How was it done?” he asked.

Valaran replied, “Accounts differ, sire, but it seems some or all of the Caergoth garrison went willingly over to the other side.”

“I want their names, all of them! Their families will suffer for this treachery!”

Valaran nodded, but vowed to herself that none of the families would face the emperor’s vengeance.

The emperor asked about troop strength. “According to my spies, he has twenty to thirty hordes,” she replied. “If every man in the Caergoth garrison joins him, he will have fifty-four hordes.”

In fact, the information she had received by messenger pigeon that evening gave the total figure of forty-four hordes. Valaran exaggerated for Tol’s benefit.

Ackal flung the empty cup at the wine steward. The man wasn’t nimble enough and failed to catch the heavy golden vessel. It clanged loudly on the tiles. The steward cringed, knowing he’d just earned a flogging.

“Even if he had a hundred fifty hordes, he couldn’t break into Daltigoth!” Ackal V declared.

Their conversation was interrupted by Prince Dalar. He suddenly began hammering away at the ranks of toy soldiers with a brass rod. Red and gray riders alike went down under his blows, some of the figures splintering.

He’d never been violent with his toys before, and his mother spoke sharply to him. Ackal V laughed.

. “That’s the way, boy,” he said. “In ten years you can do that to real enemies!”

Valaran stood abruptly. “Is that all you require, Majesty?”

“Yes, go. And send Tathman to me.”

She wanted Dalar to come with her, but Ackal V told her to leave the boy where he was.

“I’ll not have the crown prince subjected to the company of that vile mercenary!” Valaran said.

“That vile mercenary is utterly loyal-unlike you, lady.”

She protested, but he stepped closer and took her chin a painful grip. “I know you would like nothing better than to see me dead, and the pig farmer standing here in my place,” he murmured. “You can consign that dream to the vale of night. It’s the farmer who’ll be dead, and that handy trinket he carries will be mine. As you are, lady. Forever.”

She pulled free of him, eyes flashing in anger, then the import of his words sank in. He knew about the Irda millstone? How could that be? How long had he known? Awful thoughts formed in her mind. Was it possible he had known of her plot to bring Tol to Daltigoth, but had done nothing to interfere, just so he could get his hands on the nullstone?

He laughed and kicked Dalar lightly on the rump. “Go with your mother, boy,” he said. “Tathman may not have eaten yet and I’d hate to see him dine on you!”

The five-year-old scampered after his mother, sending toy soldiers skittering over the tiles.

In the corridor outside, several lackeys awaited the emperor’s pleasure. Valaran gestured to one, a lower chamberlain named Fudosh. She relayed the emperor’s summons of the Wolf captain. Fudosh paled, but bowed and hurried to find Tathman.

When Tathman arrived, the emperor was seated at a stone table in his bath chamber, his head resting on his folded arms. His youngest wife, Lady Halie, was anointing his many bruises with a soothing unguent. She could apply the balm as well as a healer, and was far prettier than any acolyte of Mishas.

Ackal V did not look up until Tathman cleared his throat. Coming from a man his size, the sound was like a panther growling.

“Captain,” the emperor said without moving. “Farmer Tol is in Caergoth.”

“Shall I go there and kill him?”

Ackal’s shoulders shook with mirth. “That’s the spirit! No, that won’t he necessary. He’s coming here-with forty thousand warriors.”

The leader of the Wolves regarded his master stolidly. “Better to kill him far away,” he rumbled.

Ackal V glanced at his young wife. Halie knew Tolandruth only as a name. She wouldn’t betray her husband.

He said, “I want this army of traitors to come as close to Daltigoth as they dare. I want them to think success is in their grasp. Then, and only then, I want the farmer captured and brought before me. I will make such a lesson of him that all those country lords will take up priest’s robes!”

Tathman bowed his head, the long braid of his hair falling forward. “Your Majesty is most wise.”

“When the time comes, I may ask you to do things you won’t like,” Ackal V warned.

“If Your Majesty commands, I will pluck out an eye and eat it.”

This declaration, spoken with such conviction, made young Halie pause in her labors. The emperor shrugged his shoulders, signaling her to continue.

“Patience, Tathman. Your time approaches. The prospect of facing the legendary Lord Tol worries you?”

The question was a half-joking one, but Tathman’s reply was deadly serious. “No, Majesty. He bleeds like any man.”

The emperor smiled. Yes, he did bleed. Ackal V had seen Tol bleed. It was a memory he relished.

He ordered the Wolves back to the Inner City to receive instructions, training, and new equipment. When he explained his idea, Captain Tathman finally showed surprise.

“Objections?” asked the emperor.

“No, Majesty.”

Once Tathman had withdrawn, Halie paused her ministrations to renew the balm on her hands.

“Is Your Majesty in danger?” she asked diffidently.

“No.” Ackal put his head down again on his folded arms.

“But if you speak of what you’ve heard here, I’d have to cut off your head.”

His young consort smoothed the white unguent across his hare shoulders.

“I would never speak of it, sire. Better my tongue should be cut out!”

Now there was a possibility, Ackal mused. And Valaran liked to believe she was the smartest of his wives.