Paul Thompson: The Wizard_s Fate

In Tol’s tent, Kiya and Miya helped lace him into his fancy general’s armor. The sisters had been with him fifteen years. Ostensibly wives and hostages given by their father, Chief Makaralonga of the Dom-shu tribe, whom Tol had captured in battle, in reality the women were more like big sisters (each was a head taller than he) than hostages. Wives they were not, either. Tol’s heart lay elsewhere.

Tol studied his reflection in a dull brass mirror. Just past thirty, broad-shouldered and stocky, with a square face and long brown hair, he had grown to look very like his father. Even the short beard he sported, in place of the sweeping mustache favored by the empire’s elite, was very like Bakal’s. He suddenly realized he was now about the age Bakal had been when Tol had left the family farm to begin his training as a warrior in Juramona. Where was his father now?

The crimson armor, jeweled dagger, and velvet mantle Tol wore as a warlord and the General of the Army of the North couldn’t keep him from looking like who he was. In spite of twenty years’ service and the favor he enjoyed from the imperial regent, Crown Prince Amaltar, he still felt like an impostor hobnobbing with the high and mighty. The decade he’d spent campaigning in the wilds had only strengthened that feeling.

Kiya flipped her long horsetail of blonde hair over her shoulder and announced, “You look like a bushberry,” naming the bitter, inedible, and bright red fruit of a forest vine.

“A bushberry with whiskers,” Miya added. She had short golden-brown hair and a lighter build than her warrior sister. In charge of Tol’s household and domestic affairs, she had a skill as a haggler which made her the bane of merchants across the empire.

Tol divided a sour look equally between them. “Exactly what I needed to hear before facing the nobility of Tarsis.”

Kiya made a dismissive sound. “You’re twice the warrior of any of those snobs.”

“And you’re the Crown Prince’s champion,” put in Miya. “When he becomes emperor, your star will know no bounds. Why should you be unhappy?”

A face flashed into Tol’s mind-green eyes and a smile framed by a rich fall of dark brown hair. Valaran. Ten years had passed since he’d last heard from his beloved, ten years of silence that puzzled him. Despite the passage of time, the distance between them, and the fact she was married to Crown Prince Amaltar, Tol still could not forget her. Val was lodged in his heart, a thorn that could never be removed.

The sisters knew of that old pain, but with the practicality of their forest upbringing, they saw no point in dwelling on it.

“You’re right, I’ve no reason to be unhappy,” Tol replied firmly, replacing his frown with a smile. “Life is good.”

Kiya grasped him by the shoulders, staring hard into his eyes. “Let the Tarsans see the great Lord Tolandruth in all his glory. By the gods, I wager if you glare at them the right way, they’ll melt into their fancy boots!”

The jest had its intended effect, lightening his mood. Seating his ceremonial helmet on his head, Tol stepped outside.

Torches blazed at the entrance to his tent, and his honor guard snapped to attention when he emerged. All his old comrades were present, save the wounded Darpo: there was balding Frez, dark-skinned Tarthan, Fellen the engineer, and Sanksa, the Karad-shu tribesman.

Looking them over with a grin, he suddenly missed Egrin, Raemel’s son, the man who more than any other had made a warrior out of a clumsy peasant lad. Egrin had become Marshal of the Eastern Hundred when his predecessor, Lord Enkian Tumult, dared to criticize Prince Amaltar’s leadership during the worst part of the war against Tarsis. Removed as marshal, Enkian was made Warden of the Seascapes, the wild, desolate northwest coastal province. Not only a demotion, it was a dangerous assignment. Tarsan ships raided the Seascapes regularly. The previous two wardens had died leading their men against Tarsan raiding parties.

Wind lashed at the burning torches and drove sand against the soldiers’ armor. Tol pulled on a pair of studded gauntlets, the last detail of his formal outfit, and strode away flanked by his retinue. He didn’t like twenty armed men following his every move, but generals were expected to have entourages.

They marched through camp. At every junction soldiers turned out to cheer them. Even the camp followers joined in. By the time Tol reached the pavilion where the meeting was to take place, the whole Ergothian camp resounded with his name.

Lord Regobart was waiting outside the tent with his own large honor guard. He inclined his head politely to his young colleague.

“Welcome, my lord. I was able to track you by your stealthy approach,” Regobart said.

Tol removed his helmet, smiling at the old warlord’s jest, and they conferred in confidential tones. Regobart wanted to establish his primacy in the upcoming negotiations. He was twice Tol’s age, a warrior of long service to the empire, and the scion of one of the oldest and noblest families in Ergoth. His ancestor, also named Regobart, had fought at the side of Ackal Ergot, founder of the empire, yet he knew the younger man had the acclaim of the troops and the powerful backing of the prince regent.

“You speak for the emperor here, my lord,” Tol assured the elder general. “You understand these matters far better than I.”

Regobart looked relieved. “Shall we put our brand on these sheep?”

Tol did not believe the Tarsans would be so compliant. Nonetheless, he nodded agreement, and thus they entered the great tent.

Regobart had spared no effort to make the pavilion extravagant. The center room was easily twenty paces across. Thick carpets covered the sand, and light was provided by six brass candle-trees, each holding twenty fat tallow candles. A trestle table in the center of the room was laden with ewers of wine and beer. Along the rear wall a cold repast had been laid out on another table. The Tarsan delegation hovered there, murmuring among themselves and eyeing the guards posted around the room.

The entrance of the two enemy generals silenced the desultory talk. The Tarsans-eight men and four women-sorted themselves into a line. The central place was held by a tall noble, finely made and clad in a pale linen robe edged with gold. A gilded chaplet sat on his head.

“I am Valgold, Prince of Vergerone,” he said, pressing a beringed hand to his chest and bowing slightly. “I speak for Tarsis.”

“Regobart, Lord of Caergoth.” The elder general gestured to Tol. “And this is Lord Tolandruth of Juramona.”

Glancing down the row of enemy leaders, Tol spotted a face he recognized. It belonged to a woman of striking appearance, with black hair and prominent amber eyes. She was elegantly attired in a close-fitting gown of green velvet and stood with one hand on her hip, the other holding a heavy goblet. Her gaze moved from Regobart to Tol and back, with no sign of recognition.

Prince Valgold began to introduce his colleagues: first, Syndic Trylani, a portly, balding fellow; then Syndic Formigan, ebony-skinned; and Princess Shelei Gozandstan, a silver-haired matron dressed entirely in white. Four strands of lustrous gold chain encircled her neck and hung to her waist.

Regobart bowed. “Princess Shelei and I have met. Greetings, Your Highness.” Unsmiling, she acknowledged the general with a barely perceptible nod.

Syndic Pektro was the one with wine-stained fingers and crumbs in his brown beard. Prince Helx of Mokai was a clean-shaven young man with a cruel expression and a dagger poorly concealed beneath his purple robe. Syndic Tomo, a stout fellow clad in a leather-girded tunic, was the only Tarsan still eating.

Masters Vyka and Rorino, and Mistress Xalia Tol, were immediately recognizable as priests. Plainly dressed, all three wore incised amulets on chains around their necks and stood with hands clasped at their waists. Vyka was the elder of the men; Rorino, no more than twenty. Xalia, about Tol’s own age, wore the medallion of a priestess of Shinare.