Paul Thompson - A Hero's justice

Tol offered his hand. As Tylocost clasped it, Tol said, “Thank you. And now you’re free, General. You are no longer my prisoner.”

Tylocost’s eyes widened. “But so much remains to be done!”

“I know, but I also know that I may not return from this last ride. You’ve done amazingly well by me, and I’m grateful, so I give you your freedom.” But he tightened his grip until Tylocost winced. “That does not excuse you from the duty I expect you to perform.”

“Of course not. I would wish you luck, my lord, but you seem plentifully supplied already, so I’ll give you a warning instead: be certain of nothing.” Pale blue eyes bored into Tol’s brown ones. “You stand in the center of events so complex and loyalties so tangled that even I cannot see all the threads. Make certain your will is as hard as that steel blade you carry, and trust no one.”

Smiling a little, Tol asked, “Not even you, General?”

The elf’s expression was grim. “Not even I.”

Before Tol could say more, Tylocost was gone, melting into the darkness. Instinct told him he would never see the Silvanesti again.

It was very late when Tol retired to his room in the Riders’ Hall, but hardly had he lain down when someone slipped into the room.

“Peace,” said the figure, and he recognized Kiya’s voice. “I wish to sleep here tonight.” ¦

He was dumbfounded. Not in twenty-odd years together had they ever been so intimate, despite Kiya’s status as his wife.

He stuttered rather incoherently for a moment and she hissed, “I’ve not come to seduce you! My father snores so loudly, I can’t sleep in the room he shares with his men. Move over, Husband.”

He complied, but felt oddly shy. Kiya lay down with her back to him and muttered, “Don’t get any strange ideas.” There seemed no safe answer to that, affirmative or negative, so Tol said nothing.

He was just dozing off when someone else entered the room. “Husband, I-Kiya! What are you doing here?” Miya demanded.

“Trying to sleep! Shut up!”

“Both of you shut up,” Tol growled. He was exhausted, and in no mood for sisterly wrangling.

Miya elbowed her way in next to Kiya. “You think I can sleep with Father’s snoring? And I’m certainly not leaving you two here alone.” Kiya told her she had too much imagination.

With the two tall forester women in the bed, there was scarcely room for Tol. He slid off onto the flagstone floor. While the sisters sniped at each other, he claimed a blanket and curled up beneath it.

Twenty years together, and now his wives wanted to sleep with him. The prospect was so daunting he vowed to get the final drive to Daltigoth underway as soon as possible.

The day dawned cloud-capped and windy. Before sunrise, the Army of the East marched out of Caergoth and formed on the great road to the capital-the Ackal Path. Virtually every Rider in the city had joined Tol, giving him a total strength of forty-four full hordes, six demi-hordes, and the two hordes of Juramona Militia, the only foot soldiers in the Army. There was great disaffection among the imperial warriors for their poor treatment by the emperor and the emperor’s deputy, Governor Lord Wornoth. The proud Riders were ready to march on Daltigoth and present their grievances to Ackal V in the most direct manner possible-at sword point.

Even so, it was a tenuous coalition, held together by anger and injured pride. The Riders of Caergoth and the provincial Riders of the landed hordes would fight if contested, but privately Tol wondered how they would respond if the emperor sought to appease them. That didn’t seem likely. Ackal V was clever, but he was not the sort to placate anyone, even with a sword at his throat.

The first rays of sunlight had just touched the tops of the city wall when the last men fell in place. Each horde commander rode out to meet Tol, who waited in the center of the road on a new mount. The Riders’ stables had yielded up a fine dappled gray war-horse.

Tol greeted the horde commanders by name and assigned them their places in the march. Two wings of twenty hordes each would ride west, each wing flanking the imperial highway. The bulk of the army, and the baggage train, would proceed on the road.

“If we are challenged, do we fight, my lord?” Lord Wagram asked.

“We’re not going to Daltigoth to attend a festival!”

There was much smothered laughter at Zanpolo’s quip. The legendary warlord was mounted on a large horse as black as its rider’s forked beard.

Wagram reddened, demanding, “Do we attack imperial troops on sight then?”

This was a legitimate question, one Tol had long been considering. “No, my lord. If any hordes confront you, try to parley and convince them to join us. If they spurn your advances, ride on. If you’re attacked, fight back. But don’t start battles yourselves. Our quarrel is with Ackal V, not every Rider in the Great Horde.”

Another of the Caergoth warlords, Quevalen by name, asked, “What exactly is our quarrel, my lord? Wornoth has paid for his perfidy. Are we to depose the emperor, or merely seek redress for our many grievances?”

Tol wouldn’t impose his private vengeance on every man in his service, but neither would he deceive them.

“Ackal V seized power illegally from Prince Hatonar, his brother’s heir,” he said. “And I have evidence he was behind the illness and death of his brother, Ackal IV.”

He sought the eye of every warlord before him. “We seek the ouster of Ackal V and the restoration of the imperial throne to the rightful heirs of Pakin III and Ackal IV. The new emperor will see to it our grievances are heard.” Again, he stared at each of them, slowly turning in his saddle. “If anyone here cannot accept this, let him depart now without blame.”

There was restive movement, especially among the younger officers, but none broke ranks.

“Remember, my lords, no one here is a rebel. We do not seek to overthrow the empire. We mean to save it!”

He put heels to his war-horse’s sides and set out at a trot. Egrin and Pagas came close after, then the warlords of the landed hordes-Argonnel, Mittigorn, Trudo, and the rest. Soon the whole army was in motion. The noise of massed hoofbeats was thunderous.

In the rear, at the head of the baggage caravan, Kiya slapped the reins against the backs of her four-horse team, setting the animals into motion. Miya, sitting next to her on the wagon seat, finished tying a scarf over her head and signaled to the teamsters to follow.

“Can he do it?” Miya asked.

Kiya squinted against the rising dust. “Husband is doing it.”

The Army of the East rode ready for combat, but the first two days of the journey passed without hostility. The countryside, which had been emptied of people by the parallel invasions of bakali and nomads, had sprung to life again. As Tol’s army passed out of the Caer Hundred into the Heartland Hundred, strange things began to happen.

Ordinary folk, who normally wouldn’t have come within a league of an armed horde, turned out by the hundreds. Word spread that Lord Tolandruth was leading the hordes to Daltigoth to set things right, so cautious observers left their hiding places and came forward to cheer. Nor did they come with empty hands.

The bountiful countryside between Caergoth and the capital had not been ravaged in the recent invasions. No nomads had made it this far west, and the bakali had passed far to the north. With high summer upon the land, the fertile heart of the empire was bursting with plenty. Even the drought that gripped the Eastern Hundred had not affected crops here. The peasants brought fruits, vegetables, and smoked meats. Before long, Riders were festooned with bags of grapes, onions, melons, and carrots, and even several live chickens, their feet lashed together.