A warrior's joyrney

Chapter 3

When Tol entered the gate at Juramona, he felt he was leaving one world behind and entering an entirely new one. Never afterward would he experience such a head-turning, heart-pounding initiation. He forgot the bloodshed he’d just witnessed and the throbbing cut on his cheek, and all but forgot the gilt-edged weapon lying hard and heavy on his shoulder.

Juramona had begun life as a log fort, growing into a sizable town only after the lords holding it were named high marshals of the province. Some three thousand inhabitants, men and women of every size, shape, and color, dwelled within its wooden wall. Some were Riders of the Great Horde, born to the warrior class like Egrin, and these were striding about with long spears, helmets, and scaly breastplates, but most of the people thronging the streets were artisans or laborers, folks with greasy hands and dirty faces who crowded around to witness Lord Odovar’s return. Some were not human at all. The boy spied a pair of bearded fellows no taller than himself, yet easily twice as broad.

Egrin saw him staring and said, “Traders from Thorin.” In response to Tol’s blank look, he added, “Dwarves.”

Tol drew a breath and gazed anew at the pair. He’d heard tales of dwarves, but had never seen them in the flesh. These two were both black haired and well muscled. They held stout walking sticks, and their fingers glittered with jeweled rings.

The mounted warriors came to the foot of the high earthen mound in the center of Juramona and halted. Three men on horseback drew up to greet Lord Odovar. The one in the center wore a heavy brass chain around his neck, and it was to him the marshal spoke.

“Greetings, Morthur Dermount,” said Odovar. He was leaning heavily on the pommel of his saddle, but though he was bruised and haggard, his voice was strong.

“Greetings to you, Lord Marshal. All Juramona rejoices at your safe return,” Morthur replied.

Morthur Dermount had a thin nose, spade beard, and straight black hair cut severely away from his neck and ears. His dark eyes were hooded by black brows. Though not opulently dressed, he had the casual arrogance of one born to privilege.

“Your rescue was well timed,” Odovar said sarcastically. “Another half hour and the Pakins would have finished us.”

Morthur bowed his head. “I live to serve you, Lord Marshal.”

Odovar’s countenance flashed from annoyed to furious. “Impudent wretch! I know your game! If I had died out there, Juramona would have fallen to you, and only the Pakins would have my blood on their hands!”

“My lord, you do me an injustice,” Morthur answered mildly.

“Justice is what I say it is,” Odovar snapped. “Now make way! I want food and wine, and the attentions of a healer. Is wise Felryn about?”

“He will be sent for, my lord.” Morthur and his escort moved aside, and Lord Odovar dismounted. He stomped up the wooden ramp into the great house on the mound.

The crowd slowly went about its business. Egrin called to him. Tol saw the warden standing a few paces away. The remnants of his troop sat on horseback around him.

Tol hurried to join them. They tramped down the winding lane, between a solid line of two- and three-story buildings, massively made of thick timbers and painted mud plaster.

Heavy shutters closed the windows to the weather, and atop the peak of each house was a colorful emblem, a talisman to protect the structure from ill fortune. Bird figures were common-brightly painted wooden roosters or wildfowl. A few wrought in copper were green with corrosion.

The street was muddy, though it hadn’t rained recently, and Tol quickly learned why: Everyone in town threw his or her slops in the street. From the barber’s soapy shaving water to the housewives’ washwater and every townsman’s chamber pot, it all ended up in the street, and Juramona, for all its wonders, smelled much the same as a compost heap.

The Household Guard lived in a large log house on the north side of the hill. On the roof peak was a great bronze eagle, the talisman of the guards. The house had two floors; the lower one was the stable for their horses. When Egrin and Tol walked in, they were greeted by a loud whinny.

“Old Acorn!” Egrin grinned broadly, patting his loyal steed’s neck. “Trust you to make it home before any of us!”

The rest of the troops led their animals in and turned them over to stableboys. Saddles and tack were speedily removed. Each horse was led away to its own stall, and the boys fell to watering and feeding them. More than one animal had wounds from the skirmishes of the past two days, and an elderly man in a patched robe appeared to tend their injuries.

At Egrin’s request, the old man first took a look at Tol’s injured cheek. The cut had stopped bleeding, so after telling the boy to wash it well, the elderly fellow moved off to minister to the valuable war-horses. Tol followed the loud-talking warriors up the wide wooden stairs to the next floor.

The whole of this level was taken up by a single room. A spiderweb of beams overhead supported a steep thatched roof. From the beams hung brightly colored banners. One wall of the room held two wide fireplaces. Down the center of the room was an enormous trestle table, laden with victuals. Baskets of boiled nuts steamed next to heavy trenchers of roast venison. Capons, seared by fire, lay in piles between crocks of foamy beer. More boys toiled along the table, dispensing beer and food to the ravenous fighting men.

As warden, Egrin’s place was at the table’s head. He sat down, and a platter of venison was speedily put before him. A leather jack of beer appeared, and two sizzling capons. Egrin drew his knife to attack his dinner, then paused. He called Tol to him and proceeded to carve off half his portion of venison and push it to one side of the large trencher. Hacking a crisp bird in two, he added that to the serving and called for a cup. The small clay beaker he filled with beer from his own jack.

“Eat your fill,” he said.

Although his head was swimming with hunger, Tol hesitated. The table’s twenty-pace length was crowded with the Riders of the Great Horde, all talking, eating, and drinking. The serving lads ringed the room, staying back out of the way until called. None of them was eating.

“Go on. Eat.” Egrin took the heavy gilded sword from Tol’s hands, and leaned it against the table.

When his fingers touched the hot capon, Tol’s reservations vanished. He tore into the bird greedily. Egrin couldn’t know how rare a treat this was for the farmer’s son. Perhaps four times a year he would taste red meat-and chicken or game birds only a little more often. Meat was for men, Tol’s father always said. Women and children had to make do with broth and vegetables.

The capon was sweet and smoky, much finer than the stringy partridges or tough chicken he was used to. Tol put the stripped bones down and reached for the beaker.

He’d drunk watered cider once. Old Kinzen, herbmaster and healer to the hill farmers, had treated him for a cough with a decoction of sumac and willow in mulled cider, diluted by half with water. That drink had been bitter, but the warriors’ beer was not. The first sip made Tol’s tongue tingle, and the first swallow spread the sensation all the way down his gullet.

Tol’s surprise showed plainly on his face. Egrin grinned at him.

“The second thing a Rider of the Horde learns,” the warden said, loud enough for his comrades nearby to hear, “is to drink beer.”

Red-faced from the liquid’s spreading warmth, Tol asked, “What’s the first?”

“How to fight.” The men cheered.

Tol finished the capon and venison, then washed it all down with the last golden drops of beer. The world seemed to waver a bit, and he found himself sitting down without meaning to. Warriors looked at him and laughed.

“Our fare’s too much for him,” said Manzo, sitting across the table from Tol. Helmetless, Manzo’s long brown hair was revealed to be as prematurely silvered as his beard.

“Is this the lad who saved Lord Odovar?” asked another man.

“The same. He saved me as well,” Egrin said. They demanded to hear the tale. Pushing himself back from the table, Egrin related his fight with Vakka Zan, and how Tol interfered with the noble’s fatal thrust. The raucous noise died as the Riders all listened, enthralled.

When Egrin finished, a blond-haired man farther down the table shouted, “A peasant boy did all that? Unbelievable!”

“By Draco Paladin, it’s true,” said the warden.

“Ah, he’s got a rider’s blood in his veins!” said Manzo.

“I’ll wager his mother’s mate doesn’t know that!” the blond man quipped. That set the assembly to roaring.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of loud voices and raucous laughter. Tol curled up on the oaken floor by Egrin’s chair and slept deeply, weighed down by the toil of his journey, his rich meal, and the potent brew.

When he woke some time later, a tempest of snores filled the hall. Egrin and the other riders had fallen asleep in their chairs, slumped over the table or with heads hanging back, mouths agape. The shuttered windows admitted a dim gray light. Tol crept to the nearest one, carefully stepping over sleeping warriors. It was early morning, and the sky was thick with low clouds. He could smell rain coming.

Vakka Zan’s golden saber lay across the sleeping Egrin’s knees. Tol tried to take it without rousing the warden, but Egrin’s senses were too keen. As soon as the heavy blade began to slide across his lap, he jerked awake and grabbed for the hilt.

Egrin scrubbed his face with one hand. “It’s early. Why are you stirring?”

“Dawn is breaking. Isn’t it time to wake?”

“For farmers maybe. Warriors sleep longer.”

Egrin shifted the hilt to his shoulder and folded his arms over the blade. “G’night,” he murmured, resting his head on his crossed arms.

Defeated, Tol tip-toed away. He decided to have a look around. Perhaps he could find some water-he was terribly thirsty and his injured cheek was stiff and aching.

He went down the wide steps, picking his way around guardsmen sleeping in awkward positions on the stairs. The stable below was quietly astir as boys went to and fro, filling mangers with hay and troughs with water. They ignored Tol, concentrating on their chores.

In back of the guardsmen’s hall was a well. Two boys about Tol’s age were hoisting a chain of buckets out, each brimming with fresh water. As soon as they set a pail down, another boy whisked it away.

“Spare some water?” Tol asked. “I’m dry as dirt!”

The tow-headed boy at the bucket chain shrugged. “Help self.”

Tol raised the brimming bucket to his lips and drank deeply. The water was cold and tasted of minerals, much better than the creek water they drank back home, which too often tasted of mud or dead leaves. Twice every summer the creek dried up when the family needed it most.

After rinsing his injured cheek, Tol put the bucket down and thanked his benefactor. The second boy hooked the pail on the chain again and hauled away on the metal links, dragging the empty buckets over the flagstones and back down the well. Tol asked their names.

“I’m Narren,” said the tow-headed boy. “He’s Crake.” Narren indicated his companion, who was dark-skinned, like the northern seafarers Tol had heard tales of. Crake absently waved a hand.

“Horses not fed, watered, and combed by the time the masters wake up, we all get beaten,” he explained.

Narren nodded, confirming this.

“You joining us?” Crake asked, pushing the empty buckets over the lip of the well wall with his bare foot.

Tol had no idea what Lord Odovar or Egrin had in store for him. But before he could ponder it long, a clatter of horses’ hooves out front was punctuated by the blare of brass trumpets.

Narren and Crake immediately abandoned the bucket chain and rushed into the stable. The other boys likewise ran about, clearing away stray buckets and brooms.

The front doors of the stable flew open, revealing eight riders led by Morthur Dermount. He wasn’t smiling today. Black brows collided over his thin nose, and a purple vein throbbed visibly in his neck.

“Where is the warden? Roust him out, before I put a torch to this place and wake him myself!” he roared.

An older boy ran upstairs to fetch Egrin. On the steps, guardsmen steeped in beer stirred sluggishly, peering at the new day with bloodshot eyes.

“Why am I standing here in horse dung, waiting?” Morthur bellowed after several minutes. “Bring me the warden of the Household Guard!”

Egrin came down looking rumpled and cross. He drew himself up in front of Morthur and unsheathed his dagger blade in salute.

“My lord,” he said hoarsely. “My apologies for the delay.”

Morthur looked down scornfully from the height of his horse’s back. “You sleep off yet another drunken carouse while I, a cousin of the emperor, am left waiting in the stables! It’s intolerable, warden!”

“Yes, my lord. What is it you require?”

“The Lord Marshal tells me you captured a Pakin noble yesterday, one Vakka Zan to be exact.” Egrin confirmed it, and Morthur added, “He is to be judged this morning. Lord Odovar would see him shortened by a head.”

Egrin started visibly. “I thought the Lord Marshal intended to hold the Pakin as a hostage, or for ransom?”

Morthur sneered. “So thought I, warden. Vakka Zan is more nobly born than anyone hereabouts, save myself. Such blood should not be shed lightly, but the Lord Marshal has made his will plain.” He moved to go, then turned back to add, “Oh, and Lord Vakka’s sword. Fetch it to Lord Odovar at once.”

Egrin glanced at Tol as he said, “Sword, my lord? It’s mine as a trophy of single combat.”

“I merely convey the High Marshal’s commands,” Morthur said irritably. “I, with the blood of emperors in my veins, reduced to carrying messages…” His hands tightened on the reins and his horse pranced under him. Egrin was forced to step back smartly to avoid its heavy hooves.

Morthur smiled thinly at the warden’s quick movements. With a shout, he rode off, trailed by his retinue. Egrin watched them go, scratching his chin through his gray-speckled beard.

“Bad business,” he said. “Bad business.”

Tol remained behind when the other boys dispersed to their tasks. He came to Egrin’s elbow. “I must give up the sword?” he said.

“Seems so, lad.” Egrin scratched some more. “Or maybe not. You will accompany me to the High House to see the marshal. You shall carry the sword.”

Feeling a mix of pride and apprehension, Tol asked, “Why me, sir?”

“To remind Lord Odovar not only what I owe you, but what he owes you as well.”

He slapped Tol sharply on the back. “Make haste! If we hurry, we can reach Lord Odovar before Lord Morthur does. He’s a lazy sort, and may visit two or three taverns before heading back to the High House.”

“Why must we arrive before Lord Morthur?”

Egrin’s eyes narrowed, but a hint of a smile revealed his good humor. “Showing a fool to be a fool is easy, but showing a fool to a fool may save a man’s life.”

Glowering over the half-timbered houses of Juramona, the High House was almost a second town in itself. The seat of the Lord Marshal perched atop the man-made hill built by a thousand prisoners of war and had its own stable, armory, larder, and great hall. It was in this last that Lord Odovar conducted the affairs of his domain, subject to the will of his over-lord and master, the emperor of Ergoth.

Tol arrived with Egrin, Manzo, and three other guardsmen. He rode behind the warden, Lord Vakka’s saber held tightly in his sweating hands. They ascended a steep ramp made of logs into the lowest courtyard, then dismounted to walk up the spiral ramp that encircled the mound. Every structure on the hill had a flat, sturdy roof, manned by gangs of spearmen. The spearmen wore simple pot helmets and painted leather cuirasses over quilted jerkins. They were not Riders of the Great Horde, but hired men. Horseless, their only purpose was to defend the High House, for which they were paid in salt, meat, and bread.

The second-to-topmost tier was the marshal’s hall. Egrin, Tol, and the guardsmen were held at the door until a lackey returned with Lord Odovar’s permission for them to enter. It was granted, and Egrin marched in boldly at the head of his men.

Odovar was seated in a tall chair on a carpeted timber platform higher than the rest of the floor. He’d washed away the filth and blood of the past several days and wore a finely woven crimson robe and sash. Leather bands, sewn with red and blue gems, encircled his forearms, and a heavy gold chain rested on his chest.

To Odovar’s left, on a lower bench, sat a handsome, well-fleshed woman. She was garbed in a white cloth that seemed to shine with its own light and, combined with her pale skin and light hair, gave her an otherworldly radiance. A large sapphire hung from a golden chain around her neck, and similar blue stones sparkled in her dangling earrings.

At the marshal’s right hand stood a thick-waisted, bald man. He wore a stiff linen robe with a red velvet stole draped around his neck. His hands, like his belly, were big and soft-looking. A tight smile never left his face as he watched Egrin’s group approach.

The walls of the great hall were plastered and whitewashed, making the round room seem even larger than it was. Fires flickered in standing brass braziers on each side of the marshal’s high chair, and heavy tapestries in bold, deep hues hung from the rafters behind the raised platform.

Egrin stopped abruptly, slapping his boot heels together and raising high his dagger. “My lord! I have come as you bid. How may I serve you?”

Odovar gave the pale woman’s hand a squeeze and kiss, then dropped it. His forehead was swathed in a linen bandage, almost obscuring one eye.

“Where is Morthur?” he asked.

“I don’t know, sir,” Egrin replied. “He delivered your summons and departed. I came here straightaway.”

“In some swill shop, no doubt,” Odovar said, answering his own question, “or chasing a milkmaid around the dairy barns.” His lady simpered, and the bald man clucked his tongue disapprovingly.

“I see you brought the Pakin’s sword,” Odovar added. He held out his hand.

Tol was reluctant to relinquish the weapon. Egrin nudged him, and Tol approached the high chair with arms outstretched, the gilded saber balanced across his hands. Odovar rose and took the sword. He swept it back and forth through the air, admiring its weight and the flashing glints from its gold chasing.

“A masterful blade,” he said. “Made by the elf smith Exanthus, I’m told.” He took the hilt in both hands and brought the saber down in a powerful chop. “Should sever the traitor’s head with no trouble. What do you think, Lanza?”

He reversed his grip and offered the weapon to the bald man beside him. Lanza took it gingerly and scrutinized the fine filigree on the blade with a practiced eye.

“The hilt is typical Daltigoth, but the blade is Silvanesti work, right enough,” he said. “You could probably cleave the altar stone of Solin with such an edge.”

Odovar took the sword back. He seated himself again and leaned toward his lady, showing off the sword’s exquisite inlay to her.

“My lord, I would ask a boon of you,” Egrin said.

The marshal, only half listening, merely grunted. He chucked his lady’s chin gently with the sword hilt, and she giggled, fluttering long eyelashes at him.

Egrin forged on. “My lord, I ask you to spare the life of Vakka Zan.”

The whispered dalliance between Odovar and his lady died. The marshal turned his full attention to Egrin.

“What?” Odovar demanded. “Did you say spare the traitor?”

“Spare a noble hostage,” Egrin countered.

Odovar leaped to his feet, hand clenched around the sword hilt. “How dare you plead for that rogue’s life! You’ve gone soft on the Pakins, Egrin!” The marshal’s voice rose to a shout. “I will exterminate this traitor. There will be no peace until every Pakin has his head removed from his shoulders! Vakka Zan will die, and the emperor will know he has a strong hand in the Eastern Hundred!”

The hard plaster walls echoed Odovar’s shouts. His lady gazed up at him worshipfully, and bald Lanza nodded approval. Odovar resumed his seat with a forceful thump, his face flushed.

Egrin spoke quietly, trying another approach, “My lord, this is Tol, the boy who saved you from Lord Grane day before yesterday.”

Odovar squinted from under his bandage. “Yes? So it is. As his reward, find a place for him in the stables or the cookhouse.”

“Yes, my lord. You may not know it, but the boy also saved my life in the fight outside the town gates.” Egrin related how Tol had thrown himself on Vakka Zan, saving Egrin from certain death. The tale seemed to please Odovar. His high color faded, and he smiled.

“A game lad indeed,” he said. “I should put you to work in the High House.”

Egrin glanced at Tol. “My lord, I must tell you-I gave the boy the Pakin sword. He saved me, and I defeated Lord Vakka. By right of combat, the Pakin’s life belongs to me then, does it not?”

Odovar’s massive hands closed into fists. “Greater things are at stake than the rights of single combat. The Pakin must die.”

Egrin paused, giving his lord’s words due consideration, then said, “Will you at least agree, my lord, the sword belongs to Master Tol?”

The marshal laughed shortly, unpleasantly. “Give a Silvanesti-forged blade to a peasant boy? What would he do with it? Plow a furrow?”

Egrin nudged Tol. The boy stepped forward. He was quaking inside, but as before his voice did not betray his fear.

“My lord, I gladly would give the Pakin sword to you-”

Odovar snorted. “My thanks, boy!”

“-in exchange for the life of Vakka Zan.”

The marshal was out of his chair and down from the platform in one bound. “What knavery is this, Egrin? You bring a peasant brat to bargain with me, like some market day fishmonger? Saved my life or no, if I give the word his head will go on a spike next to the Pakin’s!”

Tol’s hard-won courage failed. He stepped back, trembling.

“The boy meant no harm, my lord,” Egrin said quickly. “I told him what to say.”

Odovar skinned back his lips in a broad, cruel smile. “I am not an ogre, after all. I accept your gift of the Pakin’s sword, boy.” He bowed his head mockingly to Tol. “And I, Odovar of Juramona, will not take the life of Vakka Zan.”

Tol almost fainted with relief at the marshal’s generosity. Yet the warden looked grimmer than ever.

“No, I will not take his life-you shall,” Odovar announced, thrusting a finger at Egrin. “In the main square of Juramona, at dawn tomorrow.” He handed the sword to Egrin. “You may borrow my Silvanesti sword to do the job.”

Smoothing his crimson robe and tightening the sash at his waist, Lord Odovar resumed his seat. The great hall was still, save for the hiss of the braziers. No one moved or spoke for a long minute.

“Go,” said the marshal at last, waving dismissal. “Practice your swing, warden. I don’t want a botched job tomorrow.”

The warriors saluted. As they withdrew, Odovar had one last spear to cast. “Bring brave Master Tol with you to the execution, warden,” he called out. “We have him to thank for both sword and traitor.” Egrin did not acknowledge the cruel command, so Odovar shouted, “That is my order!”

Egrin turned and saluted. “It shall be done, my lord.”

The warriors and Tol remained silent until they had left the High House. Once on the streets of Juramona, Tol said, “I never meant to cause Vakka Zan’s death!”

“You didn’t,” Egrin said grimly. “This is by the will of the High Marshal alone.”

Tol lowered his voice so only the warden could hear him. “It doesn’t seem right.”

“Right is the word of the emperor, and through him, his princes, lords, and marshals. If you intend to live in Juramona, Tol, you’d better learn that truth straightaway.”