Paul Thompson - A Hero's justice

Miya rode out of the ranks of Zanpolo’s men. Tol took the reins of his gray war-horse from her. He was trembling so with battle rage and exhaustion, he missed the stirrup twice before finally setting his foot in and swinging into the saddle.

“Have the healers see to Lord Egrin,” he said. “There’s a man’s weight in gold for those who save his life!”

He gathered his reins, ready to gallop after the retreating imperials, but Miya took hold of the gray horse’s bridle. “Wait, Husband,” she said. “Let your warlords chase the enemy. You should stay here.”

He yanked his horse’s head to the side, breaking her grip, and snarled, “No! Not enough blood has been shed-not nearly enough!”

Miya was appalled by his bloodthirsty words, and by the ugly emotions that twisted his face. Kiya, mounted as well, steered her smaller plains pony in front of his muscular warhorse, blocking his attempt to ride away. He shouted at her to move, but she refused to budge.

With a hiss of steel, Number Six came free of its scabbard. Tol raised the saber high.

Miya cried out, but Kiya said calmly, “Will you kill me, Husband?”

Crimson shame washed over his face as he lowered the sword. The three of them stood frozen in place as the hordes of Mittigorn and Argonnel swept past in a swirl of dust and pounding hoofbeats.

It was Tol who finally broke the terrible moment. He bowed his head and covered his burning eyes with one hand.

He’d lost comrades on every campaign he’d fought. It was never easy, but the sorrow was lessened by knowing they died well, fighting as honorable warriors. Yet he felt no such comfort in this case. If Egrin died…

Tol shuddered. Egrin was more than his second father. Tol had known his real father for eleven years. He’d known Egrin nearly three decades. Not only had Egrin opened up an entirely different world to Tol and taught him how to be a warrior, the former marshal had showed when it was best not to fight. Egrin had taught him what it meant to be an honorable man.

A strong hand clutched his arm. It was Miya’s. She said his name, and the awed tone of her voice penetrated his grief. He looked up and beheld an amazing scene.

To the west, where the imperial hordes were retreating, clouds were descending onto the battlefield. Tol saw no faces in them, just billowing masses of white vapor sinking to the ground. They filled the open space between the withdrawing imperials and Tol’s pursuing hordes. The green pastures and leafy orchards were slowly swallowed up by a wall of dense mist.

“The emperor’s covering his tracks!” said Kiya.

Wearily, Tol sheathed Number Six. “The battle is over today,” he said. “When the clouds disperse, we’ll resume the march. This was just a skirmish to delay us.”

Miya was incredulous. How could he call today’s bloody encounter a skirmish?

“We faced no more than ten hordes today. Ackal has ninety more. Imagine today’s battle increased ninefold.”

Miya shook her head. She followed as Tol rode back to check on Egrin.

Kiya never noticed them leave. The low-lying cloudbank was staring at her-its contours holding the same implacable faces she had seen before. After a moment the faces dissolved, leaving only featureless fog.

Within the Tower of High Sorcery, the assemblage of wizards formed a great circle, hands clasped. As they ended their joint incantation, sighs and groans of exhaustion filled the vast hall. Older mages tottered to benches along the wall and collapsed. Young and old alike flexed fingers grown stiff from a half-day’s concentrated effort.

By projecting their collective consciousness into the air above Lord Tolandruth’s army, the wizards could study its progress. The veil that had formerly cloaked the bakali and nomads was gone. None of them knew why, although there was much speculation. But they had been able to follow Tolandruth’s progress since his defeat of the nomads at the Isle of Elms.

Merkurin, chief scribe of the White Robe order, finished his description of the battle and signed his name to the scroll with his customary flourish. The document, covering Lord Tolandruth’s movements for a single day, was over ten paces long. While his colleagues conjured, an image of what they were seeing appeared in the air over their heads. Merkurin, outside the great circle, wrote down all he saw. The process was exhausting for everyone, and made more so by the distance from which they had to operate.

Merkurin rang a small bell. An acolyte of the Red Robes hurried to him. The chief scribe rolled his report and sealed it. Handing it to the young woman he reminded her, “For His Majesty. No one else is to see it.”

She bowed her head. “Yes, Master Merkurin.” The emperor would soon have his report. Merkurin hoped he knew what to do with it.

Drums rolled, echoing off the walls of the Inner City. The imperial Household Guard was drawn up in a hollow square, swords hared. Outside the ring of armed men stood the assembled warlords of the empire-those remaining who were still able to reach Daltigoth at the emperor’s command. They solemnly watched the spectacle unfolding before them. Every window in the palace and Riders’ Hall facing the plaza was filled with spectators.

Within the square of guardsmen nine men stood in a line. Warlords all, the nine were bereft of arms and armor, clad in ordinary trews and linen shirts, the garb of condemned men. Their hair and beards had been shorn away.

Also within the square was Ackal V, seated on his golden throne. Prince Dalar stood by his right hand. The heir to the throne wore his own suit of armor, cuirass and helmet wrought in thin, brightly polished brass.

The condemned men were the commanders of the hordes who had been ordered to stop Tol’s advance on the capital. Their leader, General Meeka of the Golden Ram Horde, had protested that he had not had sufficient men to stop Lord Tolandruth, well known as an accomplished strategist. His use of Tol’s old title had cost Meeka his life, and insured the emperor’s rage against his subordinates. Meeka was beheaded forthwith, and his horde commanders likewise now faced the emperor’s wrath.

“You have been found guilty of cowardice,” Ackal V declared. “By law and custom set down by my glorious ancestors, you should all be executed, and your property forfeited to the empire!” He paused for effect. “But I am disposed to be lenient. Only two of you shall die. I leave it to you to choose who shall lose their heads.”

The nine neither spoke nor moved. Their eyes remained fixed forward, staring beyond their angry liege.

Ackal V flushed. “Choose two, or all will die!” he shouted.

The warrior at the right end of the line, a cousin of the Tumult and Dermount clans, stepped forward. “I will die to spare my comrades, Majesty,” he announced.

Immediately, the man next to him stepped forward, saying, “So shall I!”

In turn, each of the others took the fatal step toward the emperor.

Ackal V leaned to the right, murmuring, “You see, Dalar, what I must work with? They fight poorly, disobey me, then offer their necks out of pride. What can I do?” He sighed loudly and sat back. “Very well. Your emperor grants your final wish. Kill them all.”

The warlords outside the ring of guards stirred, shouting, “No!” and “Spare them!”

Ackal V glared at the assembly. “The Inner City wall has room for many heads!” he said loudly.

Dalar flinched at his father’s injustice, but for once the warlords did not. New cries went up: “Shame!” and “Where is honor?” The plaza reverberated with the noise.

Nonetheless, the emperor jerked his head, and his executioner strode toward the waiting prisoners. The swordsman’s bare chest rippled with muscle as he lifted his weapon high.