Paul Thompson - The Wizard_s Fate

The gates were closed, and Tol had to shout for admittance. A fur-clad guard answered him insolently until Tol delivered a few choice words.

“My lord!” the guard stammered. “Forgive me! I’ll admit you at once!”

The refugees huddled in the snow nearest the gate stirred when they heard the postern creak open. A squad of soldiers rushed out with spears leveled and held the people off.

Spotting an officer among them, Tol asked, “What goes on here, Captain? Who are these people?”

“Outlanders from the east, my lord. Folk from Thel, the plains of Duran, farthest Karth.”

“Why are they here?”

“They’re coming to every town and outpost on the eastern edge of the empire, my lord. They speak of invaders driving them off their land.”

When Tol entered, the captain’s men backed in after him, keeping wary eyes on the refugees. Several thousand souls clustered under the walls of Caergoth. Wagons had been turned into shanties, and crude hide tents covered both sides of the road.

“Why do you deny them entrance?” he asked, indignant.

“Governor’s orders, my lord. He fears disorder.” The closing of the postern boomed a counterpoint to the captain’s words.

Tol fumed at the injustice of it but wasted no more time with the captain. He touched heels to Tetchy’s sides and they entered Caergoth at a brisk trot.

Although smaller than the capital, Caergoth considered itself a more sophisticated, cultured city. There were several schools within its walls, including the famed Silvanesti Academy, as well as the library of the Temple of Gilean, reputed to be the largest depository of books in the empire. It was also a clean city; twice a day in winter, laborers were paid to clear snow and refuse from the main streets.

Tol rode directly to the governor’s palace and demanded an audience. In doing so, he bypassed a long line of favor-seekers waiting to see the governor. Much grumbling followed in his wake, but none dared gainsay the mighty warlord Tolandruth, especially considering his grim expression.

He expected to see Micantar, an old crony of the late emperor, Pakin III. Micantar had been governor of Caergoth since Tol was a lad. However, the tall, carved chair was occupied now by a much younger man unknown to Tol.

He saluted and gave his name. The governor looked up from the document he was reading.

“You broke the line,” he said sternly. “Go back and wait your turn.”

“I am Tolandruth of Juramona!”

A nod. “So you said. And I am Wornoth, governor of the province of Caer and the Great Green. Now that we’ve waved our titles at each other, try to behave in civilized fashion, won’t you?”

Tol turned back the edge of his fur-lined cape and rested a hand on his saber hilt. The motion brought guards running.

Wornoth rested his chin on his hand. “You warlords are all the same. The slightest opposition, and you resort to violence.”

“I haven’t resorted to anything-yet.”

“Very well. You’ve disrupted the orderly pageant of life here. What is it you want?” Wornoth asked, finally setting aside his scroll.

Tol answered as calmly as he was able. Shouting would get him nowhere with this bloodless functionary. “There are several thousand people outside your walls, dying of hunger and cold. What are you doing about it?”

Wornoth’s straight brown hair was parted in the center. He brushed the long locks away from his shoulders and sat back, crossing his legs under his blue robe.

“The garrison is not sufficient to drive off so many,” he said, shrugging.

“I wasn’t suggesting you attack them!” Tol snapped. “Let them in the city. Feed them!”

“Impossible.” Wornoth picked up his scroll again.

The casual dismissal was too much for Tol’s tenuous self-control. He drew his sword and stalked forward. Several of the guards backed away a step, but a few stood firm.

“Governor Wornoth, I order you to assist those people!”

The governor opened his mouth to speak, but Tol’s expression and the flashing point of his saber gave him pause.

Carefully, he asked, “Where am I supposed to find food for so many mouths?”

“The imperial storehouse.”

The governor was genuinely shocked. “That belongs to the emperor!”

Tol sheathed his saber. “I am the Emperor’s Champion. I’m certain he will approve of my request.”

Wornoth lifted his brows at that, but gave the order. His wounded shoulder aching, Tol found a chair by a wall and sat, as the wheels were set into motion for distribution of the food.

When the last of the lackeys scurried away to carry out the governor’s commands, Wornoth came to where Tol rested.

“I had no idea the emperor had a champion or required one,” he said, looking down at Tol.

“Ackal IV is not a man of arms.”

The suggestion of a smile twitched Wornoth’s thin lips. “My sincerest regrets, my lord. You seem to be one emperor behind. His Majesty Ackal IV went to the gods five days ago. Prince Nazramin has claimed the throne.”

Tol stood so quickly Wornoth backed away. “That’s impossible! Ackal IV has a son, a legitimate heir-”

“Prince Hatonar ceded his right to the throne in favor of his uncle.” The governor smiled. “Only Prince Nazramin has the strength and courage to lead the empire. It is not a task for the pampered son of our late, regrettably mad emperor.”

Tol growled an oath and seized Wornoth by the front of his gown. The governor was a slight man, shorter even than Tol himself, and Tol easily hoisted him up on his toes.

“The empire has been delivered into the hands of a fiend!” he hissed. “I can’t believe the Great Horde or the Imperial Council would accept Nazramin on the throne!”

“But they have, and without dissent! Unhand me, my lord. Please!”

Tol released him, thoughts racing ahead to Daltigoth. He had to go there quickly-to try to save the situation, or at the very least, to collect Valaran and the Dom-shu sisters. Anyone close to Tol was certain to feel Nazramin’s wrath.

He took hold of Wornoth’s arm, squeezing it painfully. “Listen to me,” he said in a very low voice. “You will continue to feed and house as many of the refugees as you can. Is that clear? If I hear of you mistreating them or neglecting their needs, I’ll come back and kill you myself. Nod if you understand me.”

White-faced, Wornoth nodded.

“Say it.”

“I will help the refugees with every resource at my command!”

Tol let him go. The governor drew back, massaging his abused arm.

Moving swiftly, Tol went to the governor’s stable, to claim a fresh horse. There he spotted the same captain of the guard who’d admitted him to the city.

“Captain, these poor folk outside-what’s driven them so far from home?”

“I’ve spoken to many of them, my lord, and their tales are as one. They say invaders have landed on the northeast coast and pushed inland, displacing everyone in their path.”

“What sort of invaders?”

The soldier frowned. “That isn’t clear. Some say black-skinned seafarers. Others blame the Silvanesti, though why elves would land by sea when they could march up from the south and do the same thing…” He shook his head. “A few claim the invaders are not men, but arkudenala .”

The archaic word meant “sons of the dragon.”

Tol scowled. “What in Corij’s name do they mean by that?”

The captain didn’t know. He asked if Tol wished to question the refugees, but Tol had no time. Instead he asked the captain to swear that if the governor stopped feeding and clothing the refugees, he would send word immediately to Tol in Daltigoth.

Flattered by the great Lord Tolandruth’s trust, the guardsman readily agreed.