Paul Thompson: A Warrior_s Journey

The Pakin staggered. Cursing colorfully, he backhanded Tol. His scale-covered gauntlet split the boy’s cheek open and snapped his head back. Still Tol held on. Unable to pry the boy off, the Pakin twisted around and raised his sword. Tol clenched his eyes shut.

He heard a meaty thud, and a heavy weight pinned him to the ground. The slender Pakin nobleman had collapsed on him. Tol couldn’t get free until Egrin dragged the unconscious Pakin off him.

“Are you all right?” the Ackal warrior asked.

Tol scrambled to his feet. He had a bleeding gash on his cheek where the Pakin had hit him-his head still rang from the blow-but otherwise he felt fine. He nodded in reply.

Horns resounded, and horsemen deluged the melee. The Juramona garrison, seeing their lord in peril, had sortied to rescue him. They quickly put the Pakins to rout, surrounding the exhausted men of Egrin’s troop.

Lord Odovar rode up, looking remarkably fit after his ordeal. Battle agreed with him.

“So, Egrin Raemel’s son! Alive but unhorsed, I see,” he boomed jovially.

“Unhorsed, but not empty-handed, my lord.” The warrior pointed to the fallen Pakin.

“Turn the blackguard over, so I may see his face,” Odovar said. Egrin did so, and Odovar cried, “Vakka Zan! By Draco, you have true Pakin blood there!”

“A kinsman of the Pretender?” Egrin asked, scrutinizing his captive’s slack features.

“His nephew, I believe. Bind him up, men. He’ll make a pretty present for the emperor!”

Odovar’s men tied Vakka Zan hand and foot, and threw him over a horse. Those of Egrin’s troop who had survived formed up behind the marshal. The gate now stood wide open.

Manzo rode past. “Warden,” he said respectfully, “you shouldn’t walk. I’ll fetch a horse.”

Egrin held up a torn and bloody gauntlet. “No need. My legs work well enough for now. Old Acorn would take it amiss if I rode another animal.” Manzo drew his dagger and saluted his commander.

Garrison and guardsmen rode on, leaving Egrin and Tol to walk the last hundred paces to Juramona. Tol moved ahead of the warden when the latter paused to pick up something.

“Boy,” Egrin called. “Master Tol!”

He stopped. No one had ever called him “master” before.

“This is yours.”

Egrin held out Vakka Zari’s gilded sword, hilt-first Tol gaped.

“Go on, take it. You earned it. To save my life you attacked an armed man bare-handed. I may have subdued Lord Vakka, but you made it possible. His sword is yours.”

“Sir! It’s too good for the likes of me-”

“Nonsense! My life is worth more to me than any blade in Ergoth. You saved me, and you’ll have this reward and my thanks.”

Tol took the heavy weapon from the smiling Egrin. With its point in the dirt, the pommel came up to Tol’s chin. Bloodstained and mud-spattered though it was, the weapon was far and away the finest thing Tol had ever seen, much less owned.

He grasped the sword hilt in both hands and swung the blade up. It was weighted near the tip, the better to cleave through armored foes, and Tol had to step lively to keep his balance. He recovered, laid the flat of the sword on his shoulder, then looked up at the warden.

“Forward, my man,” said Egrin. “Lord Odovar awaits.”

When Tol entered the gate at Juramona, he felt he was leaving one world behind and entering an entirely new one. Never afterward would he experience such a head-turning, heart-pounding initiation. He forgot the bloodshed he’d just witnessed and the throbbing cut on his cheek, and all but forgot the gilt-edged weapon lying hard and heavy on his shoulder.

Juramona had begun life as a log fort, growing into a sizable town only after the lords holding it were named high marshals of the province. Some three thousand inhabitants, men and women of every size, shape, and color, dwelled within its wooden wall. Some were Riders of the Great Horde, born to the warrior class like Egrin, and these were striding about with long spears, helmets, and scaly breastplates, but most of the people thronging the streets were artisans or laborers, folks with greasy hands and dirty faces who crowded around to witness Lord Odovar’s return. Some were not human at all. The boy spied a pair of bearded fellows no taller than himself, yet easily twice as broad.

Egrin saw him staring and said, “Traders from Thorin.” In response to Tol’s blank look, he added, “Dwarves.”

Tol drew a breath and gazed anew at the pair. He’d heard tales of dwarves, but had never seen them in the flesh. These two were both black haired and well muscled. They held stout walking sticks, and their fingers glittered with jeweled rings.

The mounted warriors came to the foot of the high earthen mound in the center of Juramona and halted. Three men on horseback drew up to greet Lord Odovar. The one in the center wore a heavy brass chain around his neck, and it was to him the marshal spoke.

“Greetings, Morthur Dermount,” said Odovar. He was leaning heavily on the pommel of his saddle, but though he was bruised and haggard, his voice was strong.

“Greetings to you, Lord Marshal. All Juramona rejoices at your safe return,” Morthur replied.

Morthur Dermount had a thin nose, spade beard, and straight black hair cut severely away from his neck and ears. His dark eyes were hooded by black brows. Though not opulently dressed, he had the casual arrogance of one born to privilege.

“Your rescue was well timed,” Odovar said sarcastically. “Another half hour and the Pakins would have finished us.”

Morthur bowed his head. “I live to serve you, Lord Marshal.”

Odovar’s countenance flashed from annoyed to furious. “Impudent wretch! I know your game! If I had died out there, Juramona would have fallen to you, and only the Pakins would have my blood on their hands!”

“My lord, you do me an injustice,” Morthur answered mildly.

“Justice is what I say it is,” Odovar snapped. “Now make way! I want food and wine, and the attentions of a healer. Is wise Felryn about?”

“He will be sent for, my lord.” Morthur and his escort moved aside, and Lord Odovar dismounted. He stomped up the wooden ramp into the great house on the mound.

The crowd slowly went about its business. Egrin called to him. Tol saw the warden standing a few paces away. The remnants of his troop sat on horseback around him.

Tol hurried to join them. They tramped down the winding lane, between a solid line of two- and three-story buildings, massively made of thick timbers and painted mud plaster.

Heavy shutters closed the windows to the weather, and atop the peak of each house was a colorful emblem, a talisman to protect the structure from ill fortune. Bird figures were common-brightly painted wooden roosters or wildfowl. A few wrought in copper were green with corrosion.

The street was muddy, though it hadn’t rained recently, and Tol quickly learned why: Everyone in town threw his or her slops in the street. From the barber’s soapy shaving water to the housewives’ washwater and every townsman’s chamber pot, it all ended up in the street, and Juramona, for all its wonders, smelled much the same as a compost heap.

The Household Guard lived in a large log house on the north side of the hill. On the roof peak was a great bronze eagle, the talisman of the guards. The house had two floors; the lower one was the stable for their horses. When Egrin and Tol walked in, they were greeted by a loud whinny.

“Old Acorn!” Egrin grinned broadly, patting his loyal steed’s neck. “Trust you to make it home before any of us!”

The rest of the troops led their animals in and turned them over to stableboys. Saddles and tack were speedily removed. Each horse was led away to its own stall, and the boys fell to watering and feeding them. More than one animal had wounds from the skirmishes of the past two days, and an elderly man in a patched robe appeared to tend their injuries.