Paul Thompson - A Hero's justice

“I have a right to be here,” the old marshal rasped, looking to Tol.

Hiding a smile of pleasure, which he feared his old mentor might misconstrue as amusement, Tol said, “You’re welcome, my lord. Always.”

Egrin shuffled through the crowd and stood at Tol’s right hand. Tol told the priest to continue.

Xanderel began to read the parchment he held.

“ ‘To those warriors gathered outside the gate of my city, I, Ackal the Fifth, sovereign lord of the Empire my forefathers made, send you this greeting.’ ”

Weak though he was, Egrin shot a penetrating look at Tol, who nodded. The emperor did not call them an army-an army suggested a legitimate body.

“ ‘Since returning to Daltigoth in triumph, after leading my imperial army in battle to destroy the bakali invaders, I have learned that certain eastern warlords banded together to fight the nomad tribesmen who entered my realm to plunder and pillage. Though not under imperial command, these eastern warlords did manage to drive the savages out of the empire, and for this I commend them.’ ”

A murmur went through Tol’s followers. A promising beginning.

“ ‘Yet this was not enough for some malcontents. Guided by malice and greed, these warlords forcibly entered the imperial city of Caergoth, damaged my property, and wrought violence on the person of my governor, Lord Wornoth. These and other crimes are fully known to me.

“ ‘Now these malcontent lords have come to Daltigoth, not as humble petitioners to my imperial majesty, but in arms, as rebels.’ ”

Loud denials came from Mittigorn, Argonnel, and the rest, and Xanderel paused in his reading until the protestations subsided.

“ ‘Despite this treason, I, Ackal V, forgive you.’ ”

More shouting. Xanderel plunged on, reading faster. “ ‘I forgive all your transgressions against my majesty, including bearing arms against my loyal hordes. Further, I will meet with all those warlords from the east who so desire it, to further mitigate the grievances they imagine they have against the throne of Ergoth. All this, I, Ackal V, do grant, if-’ ”

Here it comes, Tol thought.

“ ‘-the living body of the criminal Tol of Juramona is delivered to me this night.’ ”

Xanderel lowered the scroll, his hands visibly shaking. The silence was so complete, the faint crackling of the numerous torches seemed loud.

None of the warlords wanted to turn Tol over to the emperor, but the offer of a full amnesty, backed by a personal hearing of the complaints that had brought them here, was extremely tempting.

For his part, Tol was impressed. The emperor’s strategy was cunning. Smiling wryly, he turned and said to his followers, “Well, must I leave now, or may I pack my bags first?”

He never heard the dagger being drawn. The tall, turbaned priest standing beside Xanderel drew the blade from inside his robe. Without sheath or scabbard to scrape against, it came out as quietly as death. The Dom-shu sisters, standing just behind Tol, saw the blade glint in the torchlight.

“Assassin!” Miya shouted, as Kiya reached for her saber.

Xanderel and four of the clerics threw themselves to the ground. The rest of the delegation produced daggers or short swords from beneath their robes and flung themselves at the nearest astonished warlords. Their mounted escort drew sabers and attacked the Juramona Militia.

When the turbaned priest, drove his long dagger straight at Tol’s throat, Miya yanked Tol backward and Egrin interposed himself. He seized the assassin’s wrist with his good left hand. As they struggled for the dagger, the priest’s turban fell away.

Tathman!

Tol instantly recognized the captain of the Emperor’s Wolves, despite his trimmed beard. Number Six in hand, Tol shouted for Egrin to get clear, but the old warrior would not let go Tathman’s dagger hand. Lacking a weapon and hampered by his injury, Egrin kicked hard at the other man’s shins. His hobnailed boots cut through the priestly robes and drew blood.

Tathman punched Egrin in the face. The old warrior’s head rocked back, once, twice, three times. Still, his iron grip did not falter. With a roar of fury, Tathman chopped at Egrin’s arm with his fist and finally broke free. Immediately, he slashed downward at Egrin’s face.

Tol caught Egrin and spun his friend into Miya’s arms, then turned to deal with the emperor’s favorite killer.

Tathman fended off Tol’s cuts and thrusts, retreating back toward the wagon that had brought him. His fighting style was peculiar: He seemed more intent on cutting Tol than impaling him.

On one pass the iron blade hissed close by Tol’s face, and he suddenly understood Tathman’s intent. The edge of the blade was coated with a yellow substance.

Poison.

Tol risked a fleeting glance over his shoulder. Egrin lay on the ground, his head and shoulders in Miya’s lap. His eyes were closed, and the cut on his face was bright red and inflamed.

Something deep inside Tol exploded with anger. With repeated thrusts of Number Six, he forced Tathman back until the big man fetched up against the wagon box. Around them, warriors and false priests fought, cursed, and shouted, but neither Tol nor Tathman said a word as they lunged and feinted. Tol’s steel saber finally got through, slicing the captain’s robe and revealing a gleam of metal beneath.

The poisoned dagger whisked by Tol’s eyes. He recovered and slashed hard at the vile weapon, scoring a bloody cut on Tathman’s chin. Down came the dagger toward Tol’s scale shirt. Backing a step, Tol turned sharply and drove Number Six into his foe’s unprotected thigh.

Tathman grunted, and backhanded Tol with his free hand. The blow rocked Tol, and he staggered. A red haze clouded his vision, but instinctively he raised his saber to protect his face. Tathman’s dagger’s struck his handguard. Tol swept Number Six down and felt his blade strike flesh. His vision cleared. Tathman was clutching the base of his neck with one hand, blood welling between his fingers.

The rest of the assassins had been subdued in the meantime. Several warlords, including the redoubtable Zanpolo and white-bearded Trudo, had fallen to poisoned daggers wielded by Tathman’s confederates.

A company of militia ran up with spears leveled at Tathman. Panting, Tol waved them off. He and the Wolf captain stood, gazes locked.

Tol slashed at Tathman’s already wounded shoulder. The big man parried, parried again, then made a backhanded swipe at Tol’s eyes. Tol brought Number Six up to his cheek, edge outward, and the blade cut deep into Tathman’s wrist. The Wolf captain groaned loudly as the tainted blade fell from his nerveless fingers. Still he did not go down, but only-staggered back. His right wrist, partially severed, was held tight against his body; his left hand gripped his bleeding neck.

Tol struck again. Tathman received Tol’s saber through the knotted muscle of his upper right arm. Howling, Tathman fell.

Incredibly, the villain was not yet finished. After a brief struggle, Tathman made it to his knees.

Up went Number Six. Tathman raised his face and peered at his foe through sweaty, bloody strands of hair. There was no pleading in his eyes, only burning, unquenchable hatred.

The steel blade flashed down, and Tathman died.

Tol hurried to Miya. She held Egrin tightly, both of them shaking from the force of her grief. Egrin’s eyes were closed.

“He’s not breathing!” Miya sobbed.

Tol seized Egrin’s hand, saying harshly, “Don’t go, old man! Our j ob isn’t done!”

His plea was in vain. Egrin Raemel’s son was dead.

Tol rose, stumbling slightly on shaky legs. Kiya, standing behind him, gripped his shoulder. Her face was wet with tears.