A Hero's justice

Chapter 6

From a league away, Juramona was a heap of ashes. Ribbons of smoke rose from debris that had once been houses, halls, and places of commerce. As Tol’s party of five approached, still on foot (no horses having been found to speed their journey), frightened survivors fled. Kiya tried calling out reassurances, but no one listened.

Closer, the town’s charred ruins revealed worse sights. The smoldering piles contained not only burnt wood, shattered crockery, and twisted metal, but broken skulls and blackened bones. Not a dwelling was left standing.

Atop the motte, the highest point in town, stood the remains of the High House, the marshal’s home. Tol led his group up this hill. The going was slow and treacherous, as the way was impeded by heaps of charred timbers and broken masonry. The air shimmered with heat still rising from the ruins. They were forced to tear apart some obstacles and clamber over others. A slab of bricks gave way under Egrin, and only Kiya’s quick hands saved him from a nasty fall.

As they ascended, Tylocost held back from the labor. However, sharp words from Tol caused the elf to fall in beside Zala and help pull down a soot-stained length of Wall that barred their way.

The marshal’s dwelling had been reduced by fire to a great pile of blackened wreckage. Several chimneys still stood, silent sentinels above rubble too chaotic to cross. Backs aching, all of them stained head to toe with ash, Tol and his companions turned to look out over the gutted town.

Egrin’s face was pale beneath its smears of soot, and he fought to control his feelings. At his side, Kiya laid an unusually gentle hand on his shoulder. The forester woman did not share the same deep connection to Juramona, but it had been the site of her first home with Tol and Miya.

Zala dropped wearily onto a cracked slab of slate, once part of the hall floor in the High House, Tylocost tried to clean his hands in a small puddle of muddy water. Giving up, he sat down to rest near the half-elf.

Tol rooted in the debris until he found a long wooden pole, reasonably intact. From his bedroll he withdrew a large piece of scarlet cloth, the mantle he’d once worn as an imperial general.

None of the others could fathom his purpose, so they watched in exhausted silence as Tol tied the corners of his mantle to the pole and furled it tight. He shouldered it and entered the precarious jumble that had been the High House. Burned timbers snapped under his feet, and gouts of ash flew up every time something gave way. As he broke through the outer crust of cinders, fresh plumes of smoke poured out. When one pile shifted, throwing him dangerously off-balance, Egrin shouted a warning, but Tol kept going.

“For a lord and general, this Tolandruth seems careless,” Zala remarked. She’d tied a length of cloth around her head to hold her sweaty hair out of her eyes.

Tylocost shaded his close-set eyes from the morning sun. “Spoken like a hireling,” he said. “I believe he means to send a message.”

That was indeed Tol’s plan. He planted the pole on the highest point in the ruins. The breeze caught his mantle, setting its red folds to flapping. With a cape from the empire that had dishonored him, Tol had created a flag of Ergothian crimson. Anyone passing within sight of Juramona would know the empire still held sway.

When Tol was back with his comrades again, Kiya warned, “Your flag may draw a swarm of nomads.”

He shrugged, “If so, all they’ll find are a few humble peasants, who know nothing about warriors or flags.”

The trip back down to level ground was accomplished more quickly since they’d already cleared a path. When they arrived, they found a small group gathered to greet them. Eight Juramonans-three men, four women, and a small child-covered in soot and ashes, hailed them. All but one sported crude bandages on their heads or limbs.

The sight of Tol drew a shriek from one of the women. “It’s him!” she shouted. “It’s Lord Tolandruth! Praise Mishas, it’s Lord Tolandruth!”

One of the men, a middle-aged fellow with saber cuts on his shoulders, flung himself at Tol’s feet.

“My lord!” he gasped. “We prayed, and you have come!”

Tol raised the injured man to his feet. “Far too late, my friend.”

The woman who’d recognized him pushed forward. “It matters little, my lord! You’re here. Now the savages will learn what retribution truly means!” Her lust for revenge was reflected on the faces of the other survivors.

Tol and his comrades shared what food and water they had with the destitute townsfolk. The lone uninjured man, a young fellow with sharp features and darting eyes, sidled up to Zala.

“Water’s for horses. Care for wine?” he whispered.

“Where are you going to get wine in these ruins?” she demanded, keeping her voice low, too.

He laid a finger aside his nose and assumed a knowing expression. “Things below ground survived. May I show you?”

She accepted his offer. Leering, he took her hand and led her away. Kiya saw them going and would have spoken, but Zala warned her off with a brief shake of her head and a lift of her dark brows. The Dom-shu woman shrugged and said nothing.

The sharp fellow’s name was Artan. With many blandishments about her beauty and wit, and hints at the concealed riches of Juramona, he led Zala through the ruins. After several twists and turns (designed mainly to confuse her, she decided), they passed a makeshift corral containing three horses. Zala planted her feet, yanking him to a halt, and asked about the animals.

“They belonged to nomads who lost their way in the ruins.” He drew a finger across his throat. “They won’t be claiming them.”

Next thing he knew, Zala’s sword point was at his chin. He sputtered and demanded an explanation.

Zala’s smile was deceptively sweet. “We’re going back to the others. I’m sure Lord Tolandruth will want to thank you for your patriotic donation of horses to his cause.”

Artan found himself marched back to the others. He went sprawling when Zala kicked his feet out from under him. Sheathing her sword, she explained what she’d found.

While Artan was forced to lead Tylocost, Kiya, and Zala to his cache of food, Tol and Egrin went to fetch the horses.

Typical plains ponies, the three animals had short legs, thick bodies, and could run all day without tiring. Egrin pronounced them sound.

“We were due for a piece of luck,” Tol said, stroking one horse’s shaggy brown flank.

Soon they heard Kiya’s shrill whistle. Their comrades were returning, laden with casks of wine. Artan bore a pair of smoked hams. The others carried packets of dried beef, small kegs of flour, and baskets of dried fruit. As much as the discovery of the horses, the sight of the food lifted Tol’s heart. Food was a vital ingredient in his plan. Townsmen and farm folk would be wandering the countryside, searching for victuals. He meant to draw them to the ruined town by feeding them, then enlist them to defend the empire.

Now they were all together again, Tol revealed the plan he’d been formulating.

“It’s plain that we cannot rely on the emperor to save the eastern provinces. We must save ourselves, but we need fighting men, warriors.”

Kiya noted they were a little short on such just now, and Tol said, “That’s why you and Egrin are going to go and find some.”

Egrin knew the rural warlords of the Eastern Hundred well. He had served with them on many campaigns under emperors Pakin II, Pakin III, and Ackal IV. All had sworn fealty to him when he was installed as marshal of the province. He would take one horse and ride east, visiting the large estates and smaller holdings, rallying the gentry. These landed hordes so mistrusted by Emperor Ackal V would form the backbone of Tol’s new army.

Another of the ponies was to be Kiya’s. Despite her protestations, she was heading to Hylo.

Egrin was still not convinced the kender would be of any use. Tol reminded him and Kiya of how few choices they had.

“You might be surprised what kender can do.”

Unpleasant thoughts of the havoc kender could wreak continued to bedevil Egrin, but he didn’t argue the point further. Instead, he asked, “Will you be all right here, alone?”

Tol smiled a little. “Not so alone. Tylocost’s loyalty is guaranteed by his oath.”

“And the huntress?”

“I’ve nothing to fear from her. She’s charged with delivering me alive to Daltigoth.”

During the journey to Juramona, Zala had tried to convince Tol to go directly to Daltigoth. He assured her it was his ultimate destination, but he had no intention of walking alone into Ackal’s capital city. He would explain no further, and she’d finally stopped hounding him, but neither man believed she’d given up.

“I don’t trust either one of them,” Egrin said quietly. “The elf lives and breathes stratagems, and the huntress is young and desperate.”

“We’re all desperate,” Tol countered. “Be of stout heart, son of Raemel! I’ll harness these two hounds, and they’ll do good service.”

They established a simple camp just outside the burned walls, but didn’t bother setting up defenses. They were too few to defend the camp if nomads attacked, so Tol felt the best defense was helplessness. He doubted the nomad host would bother a few survivors trying to eke out a spare existence in the ruins of Juramona.

The crimson flag Tol had planted did its work. People began to gather in the camp. Scores of Juramonans emerged from the ruins, certain the great Lord Tolandruth could protect them from any menace. Lean-tos and shanties sprang up, constructed from whatever could be salvaged. Despite the seemingly total devastation, much useful material was collected by the careful gleaners. Many cellars had survived intact, as Artan proved, and yielded up a bounty of food and drink.

Tol wanted Egrin and Kiya to depart the next day, at sunrise. The former marshal had readily accepted his mission, to rally the landed hordes, but Kiya was still not happy with hers.

“Kender troops?” she exclaimed. “Husband, you can’t be serious!”

“It does seem a contradiction in terms,” Tylocost put in dryly.

“Any arm that can wield a sword is welcome,” Tol said, looking at each of them. “If Hylo hasn’t yet felt the wrath of the nomads or bakali, it will. Remind King Lucklyn or Queen Casberry of that.”

Lucklyn and Casberry, married co-rulers, were never in Hylo City at the same time. While one remained at home, ruling, the other went off wandering, in the way of kender. Tol hoped Kiya would find Casberry in residence. He’d dealt with the queen before, when he and three hundred hand-picked warriors had sought out and slain the monster XimXim. Casberry was a cunning old pirate, but the kender queen knew where her best interests lay-just the sort of ally Tol needed now.

For the first time, Kiya openly regretted Miya’s absence. The younger Dom-shu sister, a haggler of fearsome reputation, would have been fully equal to bargaining with the doughty Queen Casberry.

Once she’d spoken Miya’s name, Kiya fell silent. The sisters had never before been separated for so long. Although the stoic Kiya would never admit it, Tol knew she missed Miya terribly.

After Kiya finally agreed to go to Hylo, Tol went to make a tour of the growing camp, alone. He wanted to gauge the mood of the survivors. An entourage would only draw unwanted attention. As a concession to Kiya’s concern, he promised not to go beyond the outermost ring of shelters.

Duty and love had called Tol out of the Great Green, inspired by the strange visions he’d had in the forest, but as he walked among the exhausted, frightened people squatting by campfires, he felt a surge of anger. Witnessing the brutal hand of war laid upon the land and people he knew filled him with righteous outrage. He knew who was to blame-not the nomads, nor even the mysterious bakali. The true author of this misery was the Emperor of Ergoth.

In Tol’s view, Ackal V had betrayed his people by appointing incompetent warlords to command the empire’s hordes. The emperor demanded personal obedience from his hirelings; martial skill was secondary. This valuing of loyalty over skill could bring about the downfall of the empire.

As he passed among wounded women and children, Tol recalled that he had been favored by the gods never to fight in a losing battle. He’d seen warriors maimed and killed, but had never known the harsh hand of war on his own people. This destruction was a strange new experience. Seeing the people’s suffering brought home to him that it was not only defeated soldiers who paid the price for losing, but the soldiers’ families, and the village, farm, or town each warrior claimed as home.

Shame burned through him. To have lived forty years and only realize this now!

In spite of his own fury at the emperor’s failures, Tol found no corresponding resentment among the encamped Juramonans. Stunned resignation seemed to be the prevailing mood, followed by a thirst for revenge. Most disturbing were the scavengers, like Artan, who saw in the empire’s troubles an opportunity to enrich themselves. Artan himself had managed to slip away after his cache was confiscated. Stern measures might be needed to keep his kind in line.

As Tol passed by two families huddled around a blazing fire, an old man reached out and gripped his hand. Aged eyes looked up at Tol with desperate hope. Touched, Tol patted the oldster’s gnarled hand and bade him and the others good night.

Everyone was bedded down when he returned-everyone save the huntress. She sat, fawn-colored cape draped around her shoulders, facing the dying fire. Tol knew that the age of a half-elf was notoriously hard to judge, but in this light, Zala looked almost like a child.

“Trouble sleeping?” he asked.

Zala kept her eyes on the flickering flames. “I’m wondering when we’ll get to Daltigoth.”

“So am I.” He sat down next to her. Half-joking, he said, “Worried about collecting your fee?”

She lifted the leather pouch from around her neck and poured its contents into one hand. In addition to Valaran’s ring, Tol saw that a small gold locket lay in her palm.

“Here are the reasons I worry,” she said. “Your empress and my father.”

The locket was a plain golden disk, about the size and thickness of an imperial crown coin. Tol pried it open with a fingernail. Within was a small circle of parchment, carefully cut to fit the depression in the locket. Painted on the parchment in skillful detail was a portrait of a gray-haired human with pale eyes and a pointed chin.

Tol could see the resemblance between father and daughter, around chin and nose. He closed the locket, and Zala took it back, clenching her hand around it.

“If I don’t produce you in a timely fashion, the empress will have my father killed.” Tol scoffed at this notion, but Zala hissed, “She told me so to my face!”

“Zala, we are all taking risks. And if we fail, it’s not only our own lives that are lost”-he gestured at the people sleeping around them-“but the lives of those who love us, those who depend upon us.”

“It’s a terrible land that lives by such ways!”

Tol waited until she had returned the locket and Valaran’s ring to the leather pouch around her neck, then he said, “Gods willing, I will get to Daltigoth, but the route may be long and the way dire, and I need your blade, Zala. If I guarantee your father’s life, will you stand with me?”

“How can you make such an offer? Caergoth is far away, and ruled by a cruel governor!”

“I’m Lord Tolandruth. I have ways.” He smiled disarmingly. “Give me your sword, and I will do everything in my power to preserve your father’s life.”

She rested her chin on her updrawn knees, considering. Could this human be trusted? No one she’d met seemed to be neutral about Lord Tolandruth. Love him, hate him, fear him-everyone had definite ideas. She knew a bit of his history, knew he was the son of a farmer, the sort that Riders of the Great Horde usually trampled on their way to battle. Yet he had become their master, a general of armies and warlord of the Great Horde. Even Tylocost-haughty, infuriating Tylocost-had vowed to follow this peasant warrior.

Kaoth. That’s what the elves called it. Fate. One was either its victim or its master. Although she’d known him only a short time, Zala had no doubt which of those applied to Tolandruth.

She made up her mind. Rising gracefully to her feet, she looked down at him.

“Safeguard my father, and I’ll stand by you until this business is done.” Dark eyes bored into his. “You have my word.”

He gave his solemn promise. She would not take his hand, but nodded once and turned away to find her bedroll.