A Hero's justice

Chapter 2

Tol sat silently by the fire in the sod house, listening to Egrin’s recital of the grim events engulfing Ergoth. This deep in the Great Green, news of the outside world was scarce. A refugee talked to a traveler, who exchanged news with a roving hunter, who brought information to the land of the Dom-shu. Not even this hearsay reached Tol’s ears. He had only superficial interactions with those outside his family circle. The Dom-shu respected him, but even after six years among them, he was still an outsider.

Miya passed around more food, a simple meal served in gourd bowls, as Egrin related the bakali’s defeat of the First Fifty Hordes at the bend of the Solvin River.

Swallowing a mouthful of smoked venison, Tol asked, “Was Relfas killed?”

“I’m certain he will be,” was Egrin’s grim reply. Relfas and a handful of his warlords had survived the battle and returned to Daltigoth to report on bakali strength and tactics. Egrin expected they would not long outlive their men. Two centuries before, Ackal Dermount had created a law stating that no warlord could live if his horde was defeated. Seldom applied back then, the harsh decree suited the current wearer of the Iron Crown. Ackal V had employed it before, and there was little hope he’d be inclined to leniency after such a stunning defeat.

“Your emperor had best take care, or he’ll run out of generals,” Miya said. Motherhood and village life had rounded her face and figure, but her brown eyes were as penetrating as ever.

Remnants of Relfas’s army, led by Lord Hojan, had retreated to Juramona. As Hojan recruited more soldiers and prepared for an attack, the bakali instead struck southwest, toward Caergoth, second largest city in the empire. Its governor, Wornoth, owed his position to the emperor’s patronage. Although an imperial lackey, he tried to do the right thing, summoning all the hordes in his domain. Seventeen thousand Riders mustered outside the walls of Caergoth, under the command of General Bessian.

Tol knew Bessian; his reputation as a fine soldier was well deserved. Unfortunately, Bessian’s horsemen faced over one hundred thousand bakali-nearly six times their own strength. The Ergothians caught the enemy host while it was divided by the East Caer River, and many lizard-men fell to their sabers, but the bakali eventually regrouped and surrounded Bessian’s army. Not a man had been left alive.

Silence descended as Egrin finished his account. For a time, the only sound was the hiss and pop of the fire as Tol and the Dom-shu sisters took in this second disaster. The First Fifty, the cream of Ergothian warriors, defeated at the Solvin, and Bessian’s seventeen thousand wiped out completely.

Egrin explained that the bakali, having no weapons with which to destroy Caergoth’s walls, had simply marched on, desolating the countryside in their path. What they could not carry off or consume, they put to the torch.

“With no warlords surviving the second battle, I suppose the emperor had to settle for taking the governor’s head,” Miya said with gallows humor.

Egrin replied, “Wornoth survived.”

Desperate to deflect his patron’s wrath, Egrin explained, Governor Wornoth had sent General Bessian’s entire family, in chains, to Ackal V. Shocked by the twin disasters, and placated by the arrival of the slaves, the emperor had thus far neglected to order Wornoth’s execution.

The last Egrin had heard, the bakali were ensconced in an enormous camp north of the Ackal Path, halfway between Caergoth and Daltigoth. Nearly every warrior in the western half of the empire had been called to battle, including garrison troops. As a result, one hundred and eighteen hordes had mustered on the west side of the Dalti River, and stood ready to defend the capital.

“To defend-he doesn’t plan to attack the invaders?” Tol inquired sharply. Egrin’s silence was reply enough. Tol shook his head. “He’s ceding the richest half of the empire to them!”

“He fears losing his remaining loyal warriors in another battle. You know how he mistrusts the landed hordes.”

Ackal V had summoned only the western hordes to defend the capital. Living in the east and north were the so-called landed hordes, comprising warriors, retired for the most part, who had been granted estates by Ackal V’s predecessors, Pakin II and III, and the short-lived Ackal IV. As they did not owe their positions to him, the current emperor did not trust the landed warriors. Steeped in the intrigues and plots that were a part of everyday life in the capital, Ackal V was certain these “provincial lords,” as he termed them, would like nothing better than to plan his downfall. He preferred that they and their armed retainers remain scattered on their holdings.

Kiya and Miya argued strategy, while Egrin finished eating. He listened with half an ear to the women, but most of his mind was on the man who sat quietly next to him, by the fire.

Six years was a brief span to a long-lived half-elf like Egrin, and even for a human it was not so great a length of time. Yet, the six years that Tol had passed in the Great Green seemed to have wrought many changes on him, Egrin thought. Some were physical. Tol seemed bigger. Not taller, but broader in the chest and shoulders. He’d allowed his beard to grow and it now reached his chest. His hair, likewise untrimmed, hung loose past his shoulders and was threaded here and there with gray. New lines feathered out at the corners of his eyes, and bracketed his mouth. His eyes, however, were just the same. In them, Egrin saw the memory of the boy he’d watched grow into the finest soldier in the empire.

Other changes were less obvious. Tol seemed somehow quieter than Egrin remembered, less given to speech, more introspective. As the Dom-shu sisters enjoyed one of their all-too-frequent arguments, Tol sat and stared into the fire, giving no sign he even heard the sisters. It was as though he had withdrawn into himself.

Egrin ate the last of his meal and set aside his empty bowls. “There’s more,” he announced.

The Dom-shu ceased their wrangling and Tol looked up from the dancing flames.

“There’s been a second invasion.”

Miya swore. “More lizard-folk?”

“Nomads. The bakali invasion displaced tens of thousands of them. Having lost everything to the lizard-men, they formed an army and now they’re trying to seize as much Ergothian territory as they can. The Eastern and Mountain hundreds are crawling with their warbands, and Hylo is threatened. Some isolated garrisons sent out small detachments, demi-hordes, to stop them, but these were swept aside.”

Tol shrugged, saying, “Who can blame the nomads? For centuries Ergoth has taken their land and slaughtered them in battle.”

“They’re savages!” Egrin exclaimed. Miya snorted, and Kiya gave him a dry look. Embarrassed, Egrin cleared his throat. “Beg your pardon, but the plains nomads are far more barbarous than any forest tribe.”

“Grasslanders,” said Kiya, shaking her head. Egrin didn’t know whether she meant the plainsmen or himself.

Soft snores from Eli, who had fallen asleep with his head in Miya’s lap, recalled them to their surroundings.

Tol rose and carried Eli to bed, a pile of furs in the darkest corner of the hut. Rejoining his comrades, he said, “The chief will have supped by now. He should be told of these events. Let’s pay a visit to Uncle Corpse.”

Kiya and Egrin preceded Tol out, but Miya remained where she was. Only warriors could enter the chief’s great hut. However, Tol gestured for her to accompany them.

“You fought beside me for twenty years, Miya. That should make you warrior enough. If anyone protests, we’ll fight them. That’s tribal law, too.”

Miya stood, hitching a patterned shawl up around her shoulders. “That’s my old husband!” she said, grinning down at him. “I’ve missed him!”

Tol gave her a friendly shove through the door flap.

The Repetition of Births ceremony was the Dom-shu’s most important ritual, celebrated every three years once the chief’s hair turned white. The rites would continue for nine days, with exhausted dancers and drummers being replaced by fresh ones to keep the spirit level high. Voyarunta’s great hut, six times the size of any other structure in the village, was crammed with sweaty, noisy warriors. Most were seated on the hut’s blanket-covered floor. When Tol and his companions entered, the sight of Miya brought the revels to a sudden halt.

“Son of My Life, why have you come here?” said the chief, peering through the haze of hearth smoke at the newcomers arrayed inside the door.

“Father of My Life, a visitor has come from Ergoth. He seeks to deliver a message to us,” Tol answered.

Several of the warriors called for Miya to be sent out. She didn’t budge, but cast a wary sidelong glance at Tol. With his own gaze fixed on Voyarunta, Tol declared, “All here are warriors. Both of the daughters of Makaralonga have fought at my side. Does anyone care to dispute this with me?”

He shrugged off the bearskin. His shoulders, arms, chest and stomach were impressive, rippling with muscle.

Noting Egrin’s wide eyes, Kiya whispered, “He chops wood every day.”

“A great deal of wood, apparently,” Egrin muttered.

Voyarunta, looking very hale despite his mane of snowy hair, waved away his warriors’ objections. “Miya fights better than most of you. She may stand by the door.”

It was a great concession, and the Dom-shu woman swelled with pride. Tol introduced Egrin, and the old warrior moved further into the room and saluted the chief.

“I know you!” Voyarunta said. “You were in the battle where the chief of the grasslanders perished.” He meant Lord Odovar. “You were the one whose sword struck twice for each blow!”

It was an apt description of Egrin’s fighting prowess. Egrin inclined his head in gratitude. The chief bade him speak his message.

Egrin shared the tale of the bakali invasion. He held nothing back, recounting the twin defeats of the imperial hordes in grim detail. A few Dom-shu expressed dry pleasure at their old enemy’s plight, but when Egrin mentioned the second menace-from the plains tribes-the foresters erupted.

“The men of the plains are our brothers!” declared one. “We should stand with them!”

“Death to the iron soldiers!” shouted another.

One particularly tall fellow with bronze skin and yellow hair stood and addressed his chief.

“The gods are punishing the grasslanders for their pride,” he intoned. “Great Chief, will we leave our forest and fight alongside our plains brothers?”

Voyarunta leaned back in his blanket-draped chair. His penetrating blue eyes were fixed on Egrin. “I do not think Twice-Strike came here to rouse the Dom-shu against his own people, Turanaki.”

“No indeed, Great Chief!” Egrin said quickly. “I came to warn the Dom-shu of this peril. No one knows where the host of lizard-men will strike next. It could be the Great Green!”

The blond warrior, Turanaki, made a sound of disgust. “They will not come here! The forest would swallow them. There are richer takings in the west!”

As the foresters debated the merits of aiding the plainsmen in ravaging the Eastern Hundred, Egrin finally realized just how much hostility they felt for Ergoth. Anger held for generations now blazed forth.

Voyarunta silenced them after a time. The chief looked beyond Egrin to where Tol leaned against the doorpost with Miya and Kiya.

“Son of My Life, what say you?”

Tol paused, allowing an interval of silence to pass to dampen the echoes of the heated argument, then he said slowly, “For twenty years, the Dom-shu and Ergoth have had peace. In that time, have the Ergothians ever broken their word to the Dom-shu?”

His gaze traveled around the room. No one spoke because all knew the answer.

“Has trade with the empire enriched the Dom-shu?”

Another question with an obvious answer.

Tol came forward, standing shoulder to shoulder with his old friend. Egrin was still the taller one, but age had begun to whittle down his frame.

“The emperor now reigning is a cruel man, and he never forgets an insult, however slight. If you go to war against the empire, Ackal V will not rest until he has laid waste to the forest. He will kill not only you who fight, but your children, the old ones-all who bear the name Dom-shu.”

Turanaki opened his mouth to speak, but Tol went on, raising his voice. “It may cost the emperor the life of every Rider in his hordes, it may swallow all the gold in the imperial coffers, but he will not stop. He will drown you in the blood of his own warriors if no other means of vengeance remains to him.” Tol shrugged his broad shoulders. “This you should know.”

“We would not be warriors if we lived in fear of what others might do to us!” Turanaki exclaimed.

Egrin ignored the hotheaded forester and addressed Voyarunta.

“Great Chief, I did not come here to incite you against the empire, but to warn you, as a friend and neighbor. I also came to ask Lord Tolandruth to return home.”

Miya drew in a breath sharply, but Kiya nodded with satisfaction. She had guessed as much.

Voyarunta pondered what he’d heard. No one, not even the fiery Turanaki, interrupted the chief’s cogitations.

“The Dom-shu will keep to their forest,” Voyarunta said at last. “As for the Son of My Life, he will do as the gods guide him.”

“I will listen for their counsel,” Tol said, giving the expected answer. Under his breath, he added, “Though I doubt they will speak to me.”

He picked up the bearskin and took his leave of the chief. Miya and Kiya followed. Egrin departed more slowly, as dignity demanded. It would not do to appear to be fleeing the unfriendly climate.

Outside, the cool air was balm to the old warrior’s sweat-drenched brow. Fog was rising in the clearing, and the glimmer of firelight from the surrounding huts looked like amber stars in the mist. Arriving at the sod hut, Egrin found Kiya sitting on the split log that served as a stoop. She barred his entry.

“Husband’s gone to bed. Don’t wake him.” She cut off his protests, saying, “He sleeps so little and so poorly, rest is a treasure to him.”

Giving in, Egrin seated himself next to her. He asked how she had fared over the past six years of Tol’s exile.

Kiya was a formidable woman. She had grown up in a tribe that trained her to fight and suffer without complaint. So when she did not reply right away, Egrin did not press her. He adjusted his position slightly so he could rest his back against the hut, and waited. She would answer in her own time.

The story was a painful one. Miya, Tol, and Kiya had departed Daltigoth in the depth of winter and in the teeth of a snowstorm. Miya was ill with milk fever, and the newborn Eli was no more than a mewling newt wrapped in furs. Tol had sustained terrible injuries at the hands of Nazramin’s personal gang of thugs, the Wolves. Kiya managed to bring them all across the snowy land to the Great Green. Once they reached the Dom-shu village, she’d slept for two days and nights.

Tol was shamed by the beating, and grieved the loss of Valaran, now consort to the new emperor. He remained indoors for many days, but as winter grudgingly relinquished its hold on the forest, so too did Tol emerge slowly from the white silence of his despair. He hobbled around the village, loosening muscles stiff from disuse. His terrible bruises turned yellow and faded. Unwilling to live on the charity of the chief, Tol sought a home of his own. The repair of an empty hut gave him purpose, and once it was done, the sisters and Eli joined him there.

His injuries healed, Tol took up a stone axe and cut firewood. Every swing of the axe made his arms and back sing with pain, but he would not stop. Each blow was a strike against Nazramin. Every cord split were Wolves’ heads cleaved by his sword. After he had killed his enemies many times over, the silent rage in him began to pall. It was too bitter a flavor to nourish Tol. He had purged the fury in his heart by this regimen, while he built his body up even stronger than before, and for a noble reason: bettering the lives of the forest folk.

The Dom-shu had always fed their fires on windfall limbs or punk wood, neither of which burned very hot or long. Tol introduced them to hardwood, cut green, dried, then split. Heat was no longer a rare luxury for the Dom-shu. Cold retreated from the village. Disease, fostered by poorly cooked food and damp living conditions, was greatly lessened by the simple introduction of good firewood.

Tol also planted wild onions, strawberries, and rabbit-cabbage in a small but neat garden plot beside his hut. The tribesmen, who normally hunted game or combed the forest for berries, roots, and nuts, were puzzled by the grasslander scratching the raw earth, but before long, Tol was gathering food not ten paces from his hut. The Dom-shu had thought farming something that could be done only on broad, open spaces. Tol showed them they could grow food in the forest.

Younger Dom-shu men sought his knowledge of war, but this Tol would not share. They already knew how to defend their homes. To know more would only tempt them to fight beyond the forest, and that was the path to destruction.

One warrior tried to goad Tol into fighting, hoping to make his own reputation by besting the grasslander champion. Tol endured his many insults in silence rather than kill the fool. Unhappily, the warrior would not give up. In the village square, he made the mistake of tormenting young Eli, injuring the boy in the process, and the foresters finally glimpsed the warrior Tol had been. He slew the foolish challenger with a single blow of his axe. No one ever challenged Tol again.

When Kiya finished her tale, Egrin weighed what he’d heard against the memory of the man he’d known.

“Is he happy here?” he asked.

“He is calm. He is not happy.”

Tol did not sleep well, Kiya explained, but often roamed the woods alone at night. No Dom-shu would ever do such a thing; they feared the spirits who walked abroad by night. And Tol sometimes stayed away two or three days. He would never say where he went during these extended absences.

“It isn’t the honors or wealth he misses,” Kiya noted. “It’s her. She belongs to his enemy, the man who had him beaten and humiliated, and it eats at him like a festering wound.”

“He must return with me. There’s no one else who can lead the hordes to victory against the nomad and bakali. No one else commands the respect he does. No one has his vision, or his…”

Egrin groped for the proper word. Kiya supplied it: “Luck. He’s lucky.”

“No longer.”

They turned. Tol stood in the dark doorway behind them.

“My luck is gone,” he said flatly. “I used it up when I left to pursue my private vengeance against Mandes. I was the Emperor’s Champion, but I abandoned Ackal IV to the evil plots of his brother. Nazramin staged everything like a playwright, and I handed him the throne of Ergoth as if I’d been magicked to do so.”

Egrin rose and gripped Tol’s shoulder. “Luck isn’t wine, drunk up then regretted! Come back with me, Tol! Only you can save Ergoth. Do so, and the emperor will have to make amends!”

Tol removed his old friend’s hand. “It’s not my fight any more. Let the empire fall.”