A warrior's joyrney

Chapter 20

The moons had set and sunrise was still a few hours off as the victors picked their way carefully down the mountain from XimXim’s cave. Tol and Kiya carried the badly wounded Mandes. Miya followed, slowly and painfully, clutching her sides. They saw no one in the gully at the foot of the mountain. Bloodstained rocks and charred earth gave evidence of the battle that had raged in their absence, yet all was quiet now.

Lowering Mandes’s limp body to the ground, Tol cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted, “Juramona! Juramona!”

The bushes stirred, and soldiers emerged. Some had their heads bandaged, or wore an arm in a sling. Seeing their commander, they raised a glad shout.

“The monster is dead!” Tol yelled.

The jubilant noise became a deafening tumult. Waving swords and spears, the soldiers engulfed them. A few ran down the ravine to inform the rest of their comrades. Tol ordered saplings cut to make litters for Mandes and Miya, then slumped to the stony earth. He sat with arms propped on his knees, head hanging tiredly. Something firm pressed against his back. Kiya had adopted the same posture, her back to his. He relaxed slightly against the welcome support.

The defile soon was full of happy, shouting men. The Ergothians cheered Tol so incessantly he gruffly ordered them to cease.

His officers soon got the troops in order. Torches were lit. Tarthan, Wellax, Allacath, and Frez sorted the men into companies and had them lined up in proper formation by the time Egrin arrived with the balance of the demi-horde.

Egrin, Darpo, Sanksa, and Fellen came forward and saluted. Tol lifted a hand and Darpo, his scarred face wreathed in smiles, hoisted him to his feet. Kiya rose as well, on the arm of Sanksa.

“My lord, I rejoice to see you!” said Egrin.

“I rejoice to be seen,” was Tol’s sincere reply.

“XimXim is destroyed?” Tol nodded. “Then this is a great day!” Egrin proclaimed.

In truth, Tol did not find it so. He was very glad to be alive, and happy the Dom-shu sisters and Mandes lived, but he wasn’t exactly proud of his victory.

“It wasn’t a battle, it was a bloody farce,” he growled. “We went up there just to have a look around! We had no plan. We just fought for our lives and managed to win-barely!”

Egrin nodded. “There’s no antidote for victory. It often leaves a bitter taste.” He told Tol of their losses in XimXim’s attack.

Narren’s death hit the young commander hard. He stood with eyes closed until the burning in them subsided.

When the litters were ready, Miya and Mandes rested a bit more comfortably. Frez, who as a boy had apprenticed to a sawbones in Caergoth, wrapped a tight linen bandage around Miya’s ribs. It was the only treatment he knew for her condition. After a few drafts of strong wine, though, the Dom-shu woman fell asleep.

In addition to his arm, Mandes had lost a great deal of blood, but he was still breathing, thanks to Kiya’s timely attention. Frez had a strengthening broth of bone marrow, herbs, and red wine prepared, and a soldier was appointed to spoon small amounts between the sorcerer’s slack lips.

Kiya washed the ash from her hands and face, and ate cold rations from a leather pouch. By this time the rising sun was beginning to color the eastern sky and Tol realized he was ravenous. He cleaned up and broke his fast.

A young soldier brought Cloud. Muscles aching, Tol swung into the saddle. Seeing Kiya limping along, he held out his hand. “Will you ride, lady?”

“A Dom-shu walks,” she replied proudly.

“Get on and spare your feet.”

To everyone’s surprise, she did just that. She cut a curious figure, seated behind Tol. Her arms and legs were covered in cuts and scratches, and she was a head taller than her ostensible husband. At first, she looked uncomfortable on Cloud, but soon leaned her head on Tol’s shoulder and fell asleep.

“What now, my lord?” asked Egrin.

Tol said, “Back to Hylo town. We’ll rest there a day, then march to the coast. By now Lord Urakan should have reached Old Port. The Tarsans will not sit and wait for him to find them. I mean to join our companies to his army.”

“Very good, my lord.”

Egrin gave the orders, and the foot soldiers assembled in marching formation. They should reach Hylo City by late afternoon.

Word of XimXim’s demise spread ahead of the Ergothians. The journey out from Hylo’s capital had been desolate and lonely; the return was like a festival. Kender turned out in droves, lining the road to cheer the Ergothians. Lacking flowers so late in the season, they stripped off the most colorful leaves from nearby trees and spread them before Tol’s horse.

Riding alongside his commander, Egrin said drily, “Victors are always popular.”

Kiya, still mounted behind Tol, eyed the cheering crowd with distrust. “Just keep an eye on your valuables. Kender are even more dangerous when friendly!”

The soldiers did lose equipment to kender “curiosity”-haversacks, gauntlets, a few mantles-but nothing vital. By the time the Ergothians entered Hylo town, the crowds were tremendous. None of the soldiers, not even the oldest and most experienced, had any idea there were so many kender in all of Hylo. Little people cheered from every window, some waving bits of scarlet cloth tied to sticks, like miniature imperial banners. Kender children ran alongside the marching column.

“XimXim is de-ad! XimXim is de-ad!” they chanted, drawing the last word into two syllables.

Their procession bore left into the main square, packed from side to side by the shouting throng. The mob had left a clear lane across the square. It led straight to the door of the royal residence, where Tol halted the column.

“Looks like we’re expected!” Egrin shouted over the din.

Tol nodded. “We represent the empire-let’s pay our respects to the king.” He looked back over his shoulder at the unmoving line of men. “Find Darpo! Tell him to join us up front.”

Soon, the former sailor rode through the double line of soldiers to Tol’s side. Tol raised his hand to signal the soldiers forward. The kender took this as a greeting and let out a high-pitched roar of delight. Tol managed a smile, then waved his men to follow between the two walls of cheering kender.

Hylo’s royal residence was no bigger than any other house on the square. Three stories high, built of cut stone, and half-timbered, the residence was guarded by a detachment of the Royal Loyal Militia. These seventeen kender were dressed in a hodge-podge of military finery-Ergothian iron helmets, Tarsan octagonal shields, mantles in the Silvanesti style. Their weapons were the usual swords and spears, though reduced in size for kender. According to Lord Urakan, the kender imported weapons from the dwarves of Thorin, so the implements were likely made of very good iron and bronze.

Standing at the top of the steps was a fellow slight even by kender standards, almost lost in a long pinkish-brown cape.

“Is that the king?” Tol asked Darpo, but Darpo could only shrug. He had visited various Hylo ports, but had never caught sight of the kender king.

Tol halted Cloud at the foot of the steps. Kiya dismounted and stretched, her limbs unused to riding. Tol tried to mask the exhausted tremor in his own muscles. At his order, Egrin, Darpo, and Kiya joined him in climbing the steps of the royal residence. The tiny kender in the cape resembled a wooden doll, his face seamed with a thousand fine cracks and his long white hair pulled back in a tight bun.

The crowd quieted somewhat. With a respectful nod, Tol said, “Do I have the honor of addressing Lucklyn, king of Hylo?”

“You have more honor than that,” said the wizened kender. “I’m Casberry, the queen. Lucklyn’s gone on a wander and left me in charge.”

Tol and his party knelt. “Forgive me, Your Majesty!”

The queen cackled. “Never mind. At my age, I don’t mind being mistaken for a king. It’s better than being taken for a corpse!”

“Very true,” said Tol. The Ergothians rose.

The queen took out a long-stemmed clay pipe and stuffed a brown weed into it. She stamped her foot and one of the militia left his post to fetch a burning twig from within the house.

While he waited for the queen to get her pipe lit and drawing, Tol noticed she had extremely bright green eyes, like the color of new spring leaves. They reminded him, with an unexpected pang, of Valaran’s.

At last the queen said amiably, between pulls on her pipe, “So, you finally killed XimXim?”

“I did, Your Majesty, though not alone.” Tol introduced Kiya, and gave credit to Miya and Mandes as well.

Queen Casberry choked on smoke. “Not Mandes the Mist-maker?”

“It may be, Majesty. He is skilled at making fogs.”

“He owes us money,” said the queen. “For practicing magic in our realm without a license.”

Tol promised to settle the debt, and the queen moved on to another subject. She tottered over to the Dom-shu woman, gazing up at her considerable height.

“Did someone hex you?” she demanded. “You’re tall as a vallenwood!”

“We of the Dom-shu tribe are all of goodly height,” said Kiya.

The queen tapped the pipe stem against her yellow teeth thoughtfully, then asked, “How’d you like to work for me?”

“Doing what?”

“Bodyguard.” The ancient little queen stepped closer and continued in a loud whisper, “This bunch of empty pockets aren’t much good, you know. When XimXim attacked the city, all of them hid in the cellar!”

“Probably a wise decision,” said Kiya, remembering the terrible toll XimXim had taken on the trained warriors of Ergoth.

The queen snorted. “So? Want to be my royal guard?”

Kiya’s open face revealed the blunt rejection she was prepared to make, but a warning glance from Tol prompted her to say, “Sounds tempting, Your Majesty, but I’m not a free woman. Lord Tolandruth here is my husband.”

The map of fine lines on the queen’s face drooped in unison. “Oh. Well, if you ever get tired of him, come see me. I pay good. Ask anybody.” With a sparkle in her green eyes, she returned to the center of the landing.

“Thanks very much for killing XimXim,” she said to Tol. “He’s been bothering us for a long time. Ate a cousin of mine, Rufus Wrinklecap. Not the Rufus Wrinklecap, mind you. That one once borrowed-”

“You’re welcome, Your Majesty,” Tol said hastily, forestalling what he supposed would be a long tale. “By your leave, we would like to camp for the night just outside the town. We’ll be marching off to Old Port in the morning.”

“Fine, fine. There’s the matter of the fee, though.”

Tol again promised to meet any fine levied against Mandes for his unlicensed practice in Free Point. He was grateful to Mandes-and not a little worried about his recovery from the battle with XimXim.

“There’s another fee,” Casberry said, stroking her pointed chin. “For killing XimXim.”

Tol’s comrades exploded with outraged exclamations. The queen was unmoved by their protests.

“Our law requires all hunters pay a fee, since all game in the kingdom belongs to the crown. That’s me,” she explained. She rapped the bowl of her pipe against the heel of her hand. Burnt weed spilled out, soiling the front of her belted robe. “You being foreigners, I don’t hold it against you that you didn’t pay first. But I must have the hunting fee before you leave my domain.”

Kiya muttered something about thievery. Egrin looked grim, and Darpo scratched his scarred brow, trying to think of a reasonable argument to offer for why they shouldn’t be required to pay.

Tol simply said, “How much, Your Majesty?”

“It’s based on the weight of the game killed. Rabbits are half a copper each, wolves three, deer five, pigs seven, elk and wild oxen go for one silver piece per carcass,” Casberry said, regarding Tol slyly. “XimXim was a rather big fellow, was he not?”

“Yes, Majesty. Yet his carcass weighs surprisingly little.”

“Eh? What?”

“He fell deep into the mountain and burned up in a pool of molten rock. All that’s left of him is smoke and ash, probably weighing no more than a grown boar.” Tol put two fingers in his belt pouch. “Seven coppers, you said, for pig-sized game?”

Plainly unhappy, Queen Casberry ignored the snickers of her militia and grabbed the coins. “How do I know XimXim burned up?” she asked, once the money was in her hand.

“You have my word as a Rider of the Horde and a lord of the Ergothian Empire,” Tol replied loftily. “Of course, Your Majesty could visit the cave and see for herself that the monster is dead. I myself will mark a map for you.”

“Yes, yes, thank you very much!” she said, waving away Tol’s offer. “You may camp outside our city for as long as you like.” The crafty look returned to her wizened face. “Your Lord Urakan is already defeated, though.”

Tol advanced two steps until he was standing over her. The Royal Loyal Militia tried to interpose their spears, but he would not be deflected.

“You have news of Lord Urakan?”

“I do,” answered the queen, not in the least intimidated.

When she offered nothing further, Tol said, “Perhaps my men and I should remain in Hylo City, to defend it from the Tarsans. We could camp here in this square-”

“They aren’t coming here!” Casberry snapped, then began fussing with her pipe, trying to stuff more brown weed into the bowl.

“How do you know?”

When she ignored him, stubbornly persisting in loading her pipe, Tol delved into his pouch and produced five gold coins-part of the original treasure paid to him by Prince Amaltar after the battle in the Great Green. The coins were imperial crowns, rated at twice the value of a typical gold piece. The haughty profile of Ackal Ergot marked each thick, heavy disk.

Seeing the coins, the queen of Hylo forgot her pipe completely. Tol put the imperial crowns in her hand and gently closed her tiny fingers around them. She could hardly hold them, they were so large.

“I may have been wrong about XimXim’s weight,” he said in a low voice.

Casberry bit one coin. Satisfied, she tucked all five up one voluminous sleeve. “I’m told on good authority that Lord Urakan’s army tried to cross Three Rose Creek two days ago,” she said, naming a shallow stream northeast of Old Port. “When half his army was across, the Tarsans attacked. Many Ergothians were slain, and Lord Urakan withdrew into the town.”

Tol chewed his lower lip. Timing like that was no accident. Tylocost was living up to his reputation. He’d probably had Urakan’s hordes under observation the whole time, and struck when he could do the most damage.

“How do you know the Tarsans won’t come here?” he repeated.

“Don’t have to,” was her acute reply. “If they destroy Lord Urakan, Hylo is theirs, isn’t it?”

When Tol turned to order his men to march away, he was stunned to see the square, formerly packed with deliriously cheering kender, was now empty, save for his ten companies. He heard a rustle of cloth and the clink of armor and spun around in time to see the last of the Royal Loyal Militia closing the door of the royal residence behind him. The Ergothians were alone in the square.

It was raining by the time they pitched camp, halfway between Hylo City and Far-to-go. A pile of thunderheads had risen out of the bay and rolled ashore, loosing a deluge that drenched everyone.

Tol made sure Mandes had a warm, dry place to sleep. The wizard was still in his litter, face wet with sweat. Tol lightly pressed two fingers to the vein in Mandes’s throat. His pulse was rapid, his breathing shallow.

Surprisingly, the sorcerer’s eyes opened. “My lord?” he said weakly. “The monster… defeated?”

Tol smiled. “We’re alive, aren’t we?”

“Filthy creature… mangled my arm, didn’t he?”

Tol didn’t know how much to tell the weak man, so he said, “You made the difference, Mandes. If it hadn’t been for your magic, none of us would be alive now.”

“Thank you, my lord.” His gaze flickered around the tent. “Where…?”

“Outside Hylo town. We saw the queen today. She claims you owe her money.”

For the first time Tol heard Mandes use a foul word. “Some thieves get hanged,” he murmured. “Others get crowns.”

“Never mind. Take your ease while you can. We’ll be on the march tomorrow. Lord Urakan has been bested by Tylocost again, and we’re marching to his aid.”

Tol was leaving when Mandes rasped, “My lord, a thought!”

Tol returned, and the sorcerer said, “It’s no betrayal of the empire to help yourself, instead of Lord Urakan. To win the war, you must overcome Tylocost, even if that means letting others taste defeat.”

Mandes’s strength was exhausted. He closed his eyes and slept.

Outside, rain poured down Tol’s face. What did Mandes mean? The words of a feverish man were often like divination-a glimpse of truth through a veil of mystery. Was there a way Tol could defeat Tylocost with fewer than three hundred men?

Tol walked around the camp, weighing what he knew about the situation in eastern Hylo. He turned the facts over in his mind, considered, pondered, mulled. Although several of his soldiers called greetings, he never heard them.

There was a way, he decided at last. A very dangerous way, calling for extreme coolness and the utmost courage from his men. He was prepared to try it, but what of the others?

He stalked through the rainy night, calling for Egrin and his captains. It was time for a council of war.

“With all respect, my lord, the notion is insane.” The flat statement came from Egrin. As a life-long warrior, his opinion carried considerable weight, but for once Tol was unmoved by his mentor’s caution.

“Very well,” Tol replied. “Other opinions?” Darpo, as stalwart a man as ever lived, looked at the movements marked in charcoal on Tol’s map.

“If it works, it would be glorious,” he said, chewing his lip. Egrin was adamant. “Our men will be slaughtered.” “I don’t think so,” Tol countered. “Tylocost is a clever, accomplished general, but who has he faced all these years? Lord Urakan? — a stout fighter and steady leader, but a dull tactician. Lord Regobart? — a brilliant general, but impetuous and unstable. Prince Nazramin-” Tol paused, unwilling to speak his mind even in front of his loyal officers. “Prince Nazramin thinks war is like a boar hunt: Whoever sheds the most blood wins.”

A few tired chuckles greeted this comment. The council of war had gone on a long time, first with Tol explaining his idea, then with his subordinates discussing it. Midnight had come and gone.

“I believe in this plan,” Tol said. “Tylocost knows nothing about us. If he’s heard we went after XimXim, he might even believe us destroyed. Should word of the monster’s demise reach him, he’ll not credit it. After all, his army of trained mercenaries was decimated by XimXim. What chance would three hundred Ergothians stand?”

“It took only four,” said Sanksa, with a rare smile.

Tol remained serious. “We must attack,” he said, “but I want each of my commanders to believe in my plan. Anyone who doesn’t should remain behind in Old Port.”

The men from Juramona didn’t hesitate.

“We’ll follow you anywhere,” Darpo vowed, and others echoed the sentiment.

Only Egrin remained silent. He stared down at the map with a frown on his bearded face. All eyes turned to him.

At last he looked up. “I go where you lead, my lord,” he said.

“That’s not what I want,” Tol said. “Do you believe the plan can succeed?”

When the elder warrior pursed his lips and said nothing, Tol nodded. “Very well. I have a special task that needs doing. You will undertake it.”

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.”

“They can’t stand up to our horsemen,” said Darpo staunchly.

“They’ve been doing a pretty good job so far,” was Allacath’s gloomy reply.

When Fellen’s men had caught up with them, Tol ordered his men into battle formation. Five companies would lead: Tarthan’s on the far left, then Wellax, Allacath, Frez, and Darpo on the right. About fifty paces behind them would come the second line, the companies of Fellen, Sanksa, and Egrin, the latter now commanded by Kiya. In ordinary times, it would have been impossible to convince Ergothian warriors to follow a tribal woman into battle, but her part in defeating XimXim had won Kiya much respect from the hard-nosed soldiers.

Darpo’s company, disguised by yellow cloaks and peaked helms, advanced slightly ahead of the rest of the line. Several times they came within sight of the rearmost echelons of the Tarsan army, but Tol held them back, allowing Tylocost to keep ahead. The time was not yet right to strike.

Midday came. The sky was bright blue, flecked with clouds only at the far eastern and western horizons. It was summer, and the warm wind off the sea combined with the sun to make the day sultry.

Tol and his men ate and drank on the march, passing waterskins back and forth in the ranks. Off to their right, the west, a distant shout went up, closely followed by the telltale clatter of arms. Tol tossed his waterskin to the man behind him and drew his sword.

“Close up the line. Shields up,” he said quietly.

Two hundred round shields swung into line; two hundred long spears protruded beside them. Darpo’s company scattered into a thin skirmish line. They trotted through the slender pines toward the din of battle, but hadn’t gone far when an officer on horseback cantered back to them.

“What are you men doing here?” the Tarsan demanded. “Get to the front! We’ve caught the Ergos. They won’t escape this time!”

Darpo hurled a spear, killing the officer. The riderless horse galloped away. While the Ergothians were searching the dead man, a troop of enemy cavalry came riding by. They were lightly armed nomads, wearing Tarsan colors, but rode past without stopping. Darpo let them go.

In the dead officer’s cuirass, Darpo found a dispatch. As he was skimming its contents, Tol and the main body of soldiers came jogging through the trees. Darpo handed him the letter.

“ ‘Proceed at once to the enemy’s left, and charge home,’ ” Tol read aloud. “ ‘Their unhorsed cavalry won’t fight on foot.’ ” He looked up swiftly. “It’s signed ‘Tylo.’

“What are we going to do?” Wellax said.

Tol crumpled the strip of parchment. “We go straight in,” he replied.

He knew his plan would work better if the Tarsans routed the battered, horseless Ergothian riders. It was a harsh decision, but there was no time to waste explaining to his men. Mounting Cloud, he urged his soldiers forward.

The sounds of combat increased. Atop a sandy knoll Tol took in the panorama of battle. On his right, the Tarsan cavalry was swarming around a large body of Ergothians on foot-the horseless riders mentioned in the dispatch. Had Tol commanded them, the Ergothians might have formed a tight circle and held off the enemy light horse, but the imperial riders had no proper training in fighting afoot. They sallied forth in groups of ten and twenty to attack the nomads, who easily evaded them. Then the Tarsan cavalry charged and tore the isolated knots of Ergothians to pieces, trampling them underfoot or impaling them with their long, light lances.

In the center of the battlefield, a strong force of Ergothian horsemen was holding out against combined forays of Tylo-cost’s cavalry and heavily armed foot soldiers. Encased in armor, using shields so large and heavy it took two men to shift each one, the Tarsan infantry could push the Ergothian cavalry back. But the Tarsans’ great weakness was their lack of maneuverability.

On the left, another mixed force of enemy foot and cavalry was driving steadily through a small force of riders. Judging by the stout resistance in the center, Tol deduced Lord Urakan was there, his granite-hard resolve steadying his men. Tylo-cost would gravitate to the center as well, looking to overwhelm the imperial hordes and complete their destruction.

“Darpo, off with those rags!” Tol said.

“Yes, my lord!” Darpo’s company shed their Tarsan cloaks and helmets.

“Juramona!” cried Tol.

“Juramona!” answered his chosen retainers. The city guardsmen under their command raised spears high and added, “Daltigoth! Daltigoth!”

Tol’s men fell on the rear of the Tarsan force. His hardy footmen drove through the nomad cavalry but slammed to a halt when they reached the armored infantry. The nomads reformed and swarmed around the rear of Tol’s formation, expecting to scatter the few Ergothians. To their immense surprise, Kiya’s company formed a tight block bristling with spears and ran at them, trapping the Tarsan force against Sanksa’s company in the rear. At least a hundred nomads fell, and the balance fled in consternation. A few of Sanksa’s men picked up stones and contemptuously flung them at the fleeing barbarians.

Deep in the fight, Tol saw none of this. He was in formation with Darpo and Frez, and they hit the enemy foot soldiers hard from behind. The rear ranks died where they stood, unable to face about in the press, but the middle ranks managed to turn and meet Tol’s onslaught. The Tarsan troops were armed with short, heavy swords, shields, and halberds. Tol’s spearmen kept the short swords away, battling the halberdiers to a standstill. The fight degenerated into the kind of slashing match Tol could not afford with his slender line of men, so he called for Fellen’s company to hit the enemy’s flank. The engineer arrived like a whirlwind, bowling over the mercenaries in their weighty suits of iron mail and bronze plate. In the center, five thousand Tarsans were pinched between Tol’s two hundred sixty and Urakan’s three thousand. Lighter troops might have fought their way out, but the heavily armored foot soldiers were trapped by their inability to maneuver.

Lord Urakan felt the tide turning, even before he understood why. The pressure lessened on his beleaguered riders. By his side, Egrin declared, “My lord, Lord Tolandruth has hobbled them! It’s up to you to knock the enemy down!”

Brandishing the standard of his own horde, the Golden Riders of Caer, Lord Urakan charged straight into the center of the melee. His Ergothians broke the first line of infantry, then the second; by the time they reached the third, however, they had no momentum left. Mercenaries closed around Lord Urakan. Halberds whirled and struck the standard from his hand. He replaced it with his saber, but the foot soldiers used the hook ends of their pole arms to drag him from the saddle. Fighting furiously, brave, arrogant Lord Urakan was pulled into the mob of Tarsan soldiers, and brutally slain.

Seeing this, an angry Egrin took command and re-formed the center of the imperial line. The center held, but the Ergothians were now in difficulty on both flanks. The unhorsed warriors on the left had been beaten and were streaming away from the fight with howling nomads in pursuit. On the right, the Tarsans and Ergothians battled back and forth, neither side gaining an advantage. Everything depended on the center, on which side would outlast the other.

Tol left the front line long enough to climb a small pine tree and survey the battlefield. The enemy center was pinched in the middle, leaving two large blocks of troops joined by a thin line. Egrin was sending waves of mounted attacks against this narrow line. Men and horses were piling up in heaps.

Sunlight flashed off a brilliant object in the midst of the Tarsan center. Tol shaded his eyes and saw an officer on foot wearing a tall, silver helmet with a brightly polished comb. Such workmanship had to be elven. Could this be Tylocost himself?

Shinnying down the tree, Tol shouted for Darpo. Covered in blood not his own, the intrepid warrior raced to his commander’s side. Tol pointed out the shining helmet.

“Tylocost?” Darpo exclaimed, his scarred face brightening. “I’ll bring you his head!”

“Only if it’s still attached to the rest of him!”

Darpo grinned, nodding. He knew his commander did not approve of butchery. He called together a dozen men and prepared to thrust deep into the enemy formation. Tol joined them, moving shoulder to shoulder with his brave foot soldiers.

They rushed through a gap in the line and used their spears to lever apart the armored Tarsans. Because they didn’t stop to fight, Tol and Darpo were able to force their way through enemy lines quickly. They found a gap, where wounded Tarsans were sheltering from the battle. Idle archers, their bowstrings made slack by the recent rain, grabbed maces and tried to drive the Ergothians out, but were no match for the spears and shields of Tol’s men. Half the archers perished. The rest broke and ran.

From the open ground, Tol could see Lord Urakan’s army as it pressed forward, and the mercenary infantry bending back under the strain. He spotted the bright helmet again. Its owner was up a birch tree, watching the attack of Urakan’s hordes.

Tol, Darpo, and their small group ran through the wounded and dying men, leaping over them as they lay on the bloodstained soil. They reached the birch tree with Tol in the lead.

“Tylocost! Come down!” he shouted, striking the slim trunk with the flat of his sword. “Come down, or I’ll cut the tree down with you in it!”

The warrior in the shiny helmet showed no sign of hearing, much less complying. A handful of nearby Tarsans rushed to their leader’s rescue. Darpo’s men fought them off while Tol, Darpo, and two guardsmen chopped at the tree with discarded Tarsan swords. Chips flew. With a loud crack, the slender birch sagged and began to fall.

Hardly had the tree come to rest when Tol and his men swarmed over it. The Tarsan in the bright helmet stepped nimbly from the branches and whipped out a fine sword with a long, slender blade. Tol rushed in, dagger in his left hand, saber in his right.

The Tarsan’s blade flickered in and out, close to Tol’s throat and face. He knew his opponent was trying to unnerve him, but he refused to be cowed, and bored in with his saber while blocking his opponent’s attacks with his dagger. At last Tol pinned his foe’s blade with the dagger and brought his own weapon down on the Tarsan’s grip. The cup hilt saved the fellow’s hand, but the blow broke three of the Tarsan’s fingers. The slender sword fell to the ground.

Tol brought the edge of the dagger to his opponent’s neck. “Surrender!” he panted.

“Will you spare my men if I do?”

“Yes!”

The Tarsan pulled off his helmet. He was an elf all right, but not at all what Tol had expected. Instead of the handsome gallant of bardic song, Tylocost was downright homely. His hair was long, but more gray than yellow, and his pale blue eyes were closely set over a long, thin nose. His fair skin was blotched with large brown freckles, and he was thin to the point of emaciation. He asked Tol’s name, then confirmed his own identity.

“I am Janissiron Tylocostathan, called Tylocost by the Tarsans.”

The men of the storming party surrounded the enemy general. Tol guided his prisoner at sword point to the center of the Tarsan line, where Tylocost called for a cornet. A youth answered, standing just outside the ring of Ergothian spears, but hesitated when ordered to sound “ground arms.”

“Do it, boy,” Tylocost told him. “We’ve lost today. There’ll be another time, another day to fight.”

Blushing with shame, the cornetist put the brass horn to his lips and blew a four-note signal. He kept repeating it until the Tarsan foot soldiers threw down their weapons. The Tarsans’ nomad cavalry, not inclined to submit to Ergothian mercy, galloped away. Weary imperial horsemen let them go. The Battle of Three Rose Creek was over.

Moments before, twenty-five thousand men had been fighting to the death. Now a hush fell over the battlefield. The survivors of Tol’s small band pushed through the Tarsan army, most of whom were sitting dejectedly on the ground. Tol saw Tarthan and Frez, Fellen and Sanksa, leading their men toward him. He strained his eyes and stretched his neck until, with great relief, he saw Kiya among the survivors. She had an ugly cut on her sword arm, but walked her with head held high.

Tarthan, the eldest of Tol’s retainers, saluted with his dagger. “My lord,” he said. “I present the demi-horde of Daltigoth and Juramona, one hundred forty-eight blades fit for duty.”

Before Tol could reply, Kiya walked past the gathering Ergothians and threw an arm around his shoulders.

“You are well?” he asked, smiling up at her.

“Sore.” She eyed him up and down. “And you haven’t got the slightest scratch, have you?”

“No holes. No missing parts.”

With a rumble of hoofbeats, the imperial hordes arrived. Tol was surprised but pleased to see Egrin leading the riders.

“Greetings, my lord,” the elder warrior said. “The day is yours!”

“Well, we won, at any rate. Where is Lord Urakan?”

Egrin shook his head once, and Tol understood. “Are you in command of the army then?” he asked.

A smile ghosted through Egrin’s gray-flecked beard. “No.” In answer to Tol’s puzzlement he added, “You are the victor, my lord. The army is yours.”

Tol was about to protest when Kiya raised a cheer: “Tolan-druth! Tolandruth! Tolandruth!”

Tol’s retainers added their hoarse voices, then the multitude of Ergothians took up the cry. Tol felt his face burn.

Turning away, he found himself face to face with the homely but clever General Tylocost.

“To the victor goes all praise,” the elf said calmly. “Savor it-for now. Soon enough it will be only a memory, given the fortunes of war.” When Tol grimaced and kept his flushed face averted, Tylocost frowned and asked, “Forgive me asking, but just how old are you, my lord?”

“Twenty and one years.”

The elf looked pained. “Merciful Astarin! I’ve been beaten by a child. What will they say in Silvanost?”

Tylocost’s chagrin cheered Tol considerably. He raised his head, and his grin incited fresh cheers. Tol stared in bemusement at the sea of dirty, bloodstained men, all happily bellowing his name.

“Don’t just stand there grinning like a lout,” Tylocost said.

Nettled, yet unsure, Tol said, “What should I do?”

The elf sighed. “A child, a veritable babe! Raise your sword or spear, my lord. Such devotion should be graciously acknowledged.”

Tol took out his nicked and battered saber one more time. When he lifted it high above his head, the chant of his name became a great single roar. It was heard as far away as Old Port.

It would soon be felt in both Tarsis and Daltigoth.