Paul Thompson - A warrior's joyrney

Although Egrin looked chastened, Tol clapped him on the shoulder warmly. He was ordered to head south with Miya, Mandes, and the seventeen men who had been badly wounded in the fight with XimXim. Mounted on all their remaining horses, Egrin and his party would seek out Lord Urakan and inform him of Tol’s intentions against the Tarsans.

Egrin saluted. “That mission I shall fulfill.”

The soldiers caught a few hours of rest, then, before dawn, with the rain still falling, they broke camp. The demi-horde was reorganized into eight companies-some two hundred and sixty fighting men, plus Kiya. They parted company with Egrin at Fingle’s Creek. The line of wounded, some in litters, others hobbling on crutches fashioned from spears, moved slowly away in the rain. A two-wheeled kender cart, acquired in Hylo City, carried Mandes and Miya. Miya was still asleep, which was just as well; conscious, she would never have agreed to be parted from her sister.

Egrin raised his hand in farewell, then rode away. He and his limping command were quickly veiled by the gray morning.

“I wish he was with us,” murmured Frez, at Tol’s side.

Tol, equally sorry for Egrin’s absence and still grieving the loss of Narren, stiffened. Frez’s downcast words penetrated his gloom, reminding him how important their fighting spirit was to his plan.

“Regret nothing!” Tol said staunchly. “Egrin has nothing to prove, to us or anyone.” Assuming a light-hearted tone, he gave Frez a slap on the back and added, “Would we not gladly die for the empire?”

“Why not?” replied Tarthan, a wry look on his dark face. “I’ve done most things, but I haven’t been killed yet.”

Muddy to their waists, the foot soldiers turned south. When Fingle’s Creek shrank to a narrow stream, they forded it and mounted the eastern bank. The woods were thin here, crisscrossed by footpaths and cart trails. The Ergothians hugged the creekbank, and by midmorning had reached the slapdash defenses of Old Port.

Kender weren’t known for keeping buildings in repair, and the Old Port wall was no exception. The stones were cracked open by vines, and the wooden gates were rotten. None of the wall seemed to be guarded, but Tol and his men avoided the south gate just in case. They slipped silently into the sleepy town.

In the high street they came upon a pair of armed humans, each carrying a bucket. Wellax’s company swiftly captured them. They proved to be mercenaries-men from the eastern lands beyond the Khalkist Mountains. Astonished to find Ergothians in Old Port, they finally answered Tol’s questions after a little encouragement.

They had been looking for fresh water to take back to the Wave Chaser Inn, three streets away. A few score Tarsan soldiers were quartered there, and a late night revel had used up every potable in the place. The main Tarsan army was south of Three Rose Creek, outside Old Port. Tylocost was preparing to strike south and destroy Lord Urakan’s army once and for all.

The number of men in the Tarsan army was somewhere between ten and twelve thousand. All the rest of Tylocost’s fifty thousand strong had been lost in the past two years-in battle, to sickness, and to XimXim. More troops were on the way from Tarsis, the prisoners said. A reinforcement of twenty thousand was expected before autumn.

This news added urgency to the Ergothians’ plan. Tol had the two men bound, gagged, and heaved into a convenient cellar. He sent half his men up the high street. He and the rest of the demi-horde surrounded the Wave Chaser Inn, a stout stone structure built by a Tarsan sea captain as a haven for his fellow countrymen in the kender town.

Slipping on a helmet and yellow cloak taken from one of the mercenaries, Tol walked boldly in the front door.

The great room was full of soldiers sleeping off the effects of too much drink. Tol took a deep breath and shattered the silence.

“On your feet!” he bellowed. “Lord Tylocost comes! Get on your feet, you stinking swine!”

His training-ground voice stood him in good stead. Blearily, the mercenaries got to their feet, shaking their more sodden comrades awake.

“Turn out! Turn out!” Tol shouted. “The army’s moving out! Any man not on his feet and in the street will be considered a deserter. We all know what Lord Tylocost does to deserters!”

In threes and fours, the soldiers staggered into the rainswept street. Tol’s own men were drawn up in two double lines, and the befuddled Tarsan troops obligingly formed up between them.

Meanwhile, an officer, from the look of the gold leaves on his helmet, approached Tol. “What’s happened?” he asked in a hoarse voice. “I thought we were staying in Old Port for at least a fortnight-”

“General’s orders. He’s routed the Ergothians and needs every available man to join the pursuit.”

The officer nodded. Looking down to buckle his sword belt, he noticed Tol’s Ergothian-style riding boots.

The Tarsan’s head came up. “You’re-!”

Tol whipped out his saber and laid its edge against the man’s neck. “Be wise!”

The Tarsan officer glared at Tol with bloodshot eyes. His hesitation lasted only a moment; he had no choice, and knew it. He surrendered.

Tol prodded him outside, where the bewildered Tarsans were facing four lines of Ergothian spears. At their officer’s command, the Tarsans grounded their arms.

The wine cellar of the inn proved a perfect dungeon, albeit filled with casks of north plains wine and Tarsan-style beer. Tol had the disarmed enemy soldiers herded into the cellar and the door bolted. Laughing at their easy coup, the Ergothians demolished the wooden stairs leading up from the cellar and used the heavy timbers to brace the door shut. Full casks, long feasting tables, and heavy bags of flour were piled against the braces. It would take the Tarsans a full day to break out.

“Let’s go,” Tol said. “Time is short! Egrin should have reached Lord Urakan’s camp by now.”

The rain had ended at last, and the sun was breaking through the tattered clouds. Tol’s men sorted through the cloaks and weaponry given up by the mercenaries. One entire company-Darpo’s-was outfitted with saffron-colored cloaks and peaked Tarsan helmets. They also tied red cloths around their right arms to identify themselves as imperial soldiers.

They left Old Port by the east gate, heading toward the alluvial plain between Fingle’s and Three Rose Creek. A low ridge dominated the north side of the stream. Tol could not imagine crossing the creek and climbing that ridge in the face of an entrenched enemy, but stubborn Lord Urakan had tried. Tol was counting on that same stubbornness now. Stung by defeat, Urakan would fall back, but slowly and reluctantly. Tylocost would swoop down upon him to complete his victory.

That’s what Tol would do, and what he expected the skilled elf general to do.

The south shore of Three Rose Creek was covered with rafts, scows, and barges used to ferry the Tarsan army across. No guards remained behind. Tylocost had cut loose from his base and was going all out to catch Urakan’s retreating hordes.

As most of Tol’s force hurried on, Fellen’s company stayed behind. They proceeded to sink or set adrift all the watercraft the Tarsans had left behind. There would be no escape for Tylocost.

The enemy’s trail was easy to follow. Thousands of men and horses had trampled through the waist-high cattails as they climbed up from the creek into the sparse pine woods. Just inside the woods, Tol paused, waiting for Fellen’s company to rejoin them. A distant rumble came to his ears-Tylocost’s army, on the move.

“Twelve thousand men,” Allacath muttered.

“Equal parts foot and cavalry,” Tol added. “The Tarsans hire plains nomads for their riding skills.”