A warrior's joyrney

Chapter 10

Egrin and Pagas led the survivors of the Panther and Eagle hordes out of the Great Green. Collecting their people and baggage from Zivilyn’s Carpet, they rode back to Caergoth to report the death of Lord Odovar, their sighting of the traitor Morthur Dermount, and not least of all, their repulse by the surprisingly well-armed and well-led forest tribes.

The news they brought was not unexpected-nor warmly received. Elsewhere, too, the war was not going as Prince Amaltar and his advisers had anticipated. Wanthred, leading the Firebrands alongside the Corij Rangers, had been attacked on three sides at once. His men had to resort to setting part of the woods ablaze in order to stage a fighting withdrawal under cover of the flames. The pillar of smoke from the conflagration could be seen all the way back to Caergoth.

Further south, two hordes under the dashing Lord Tremond had fared better. They penetrated deeply into the wilderness, sacking a dozen small settlements and taking hundreds of prisoners. In the shadow of his success, blame for Odovar’s and Wanthred’s failures was laid squarely at the feet of those two commanders.

Tol was present when Egrin disputed this injustice before the prince. Lord Urakan, the general of all the armies of the empire, angrily dismissed Egrin’s explanations. Urakan, looking nearly as regal as the prince himself in the burgundy velvet robes he favored, berated the accomplished warrior as if Egrin were a blundering neophyte, using abusive language Tol had never heard before. Behind the enraged Urakan, Crown Prince Amaltar slouched silently on his high-backed throne.

When Egrin tried to point out the hidden dangers of the Great Green, Lord Urakan cut him off.

“You failed, that’s all that matters!” Urakan stormed, black brows drawn down in a ferocious scowl. “Odovar let the foresters hoodwink him into an obvious trap, and you failed to extricate him!”

“My lord. Your Highness,” Egrin said to the general and the prince, “it is true Lord Odovar did not take adequate precautions against ambush. He was a loyal and formidable warrior, but not a skilled tactician. However, it was because of one of Lord Odovar’s chosen men that we were able to fight our way back with valuable information and captives.”

With a bow to the prince, Urakan said dismissively, “A shield-bearer claims to have seen Lord Morthur Dermount in the forest. The prisoners Warden Egrin brought out of the forest, Highness, are hardly compensation for the shame of our losses!”

Egrin did something unprecedented; he bypassed Urakan, his superior, and spoke directly to the prince.

“Your Highness, our two captives are of considerable importance. One is the chief of a major tribe in the northern forest. The other is-well, he may have dynastic importance.”

“How dare you!” Urakan’s face went purple with rage at being disregarded. His hand reached for the hilt of his sword, but he was wearing no weapon in the presence of the prince. He declared, “I will have satisfaction for this insult!”

“You’ll have no such thing,” Prince Amaltar said, sounding bored. He gestured for the burly general to stand aside. “Warden, bring the prisoners to me, and I will judge for myself.”

“They await Your Highness’s pleasure,” Egrin said, bowing. He snapped his fingers, and the two captives were hustled in.

Makaralonga hobbled forward, weighted down with heavy chains on his wrists and ankles. Despite his disheveled appearance-his garments muddy and bloody-his expressive face and noble bearing were still impressive.

Slightly behind the forester chief was a second prisoner, likewise shackled, but with his head and shoulders covered by a canvas hood. Two guards guided the hooded captive, while a second pair kept an eye on Makaralonga.

The chief stopped beside Egrin. He openly gawked at the elaborate tent and richly dressed folk around him. When he spied Tol in the crowd, he bowed his head gravely to the young man. He did not bow to Prince Amaltar, much to Lord Urakan’s anger.

“Are you the chief of the grasslanders?” Makaralonga. asked.

Amaltar smiled thinly. “I am his first-born son.”

“Ah! As the chief of the Dom-shu, I will treat only with the chief of your people.”

“Impertinence!” Urakan fumed. “By the gods, your head will decorate a pole above this tent before nightfall!”

Prince Amaltar, accustomed to the quick temper of his general, ignored him, and said to Makaralonga, “I regret my father, the emperor, cannot be here to deal with you, Chief. In his place he has sent me.”

Makaralonga acknowledged this with a shrug. Tired of standing in his heavy chains, he gathered the links in his hands and sat down on the thick carpet.

Chamberlain Valdid gasped at the forester’s liberty. Before he or Lord Urakan could object, Amaltar gestured to the second prisoner.

“You said this man’s capture had dynastic importance, Warden. Let’s see his face.”

“As you wish, Highness. But he is not a man.”

The hood was whisked off, revealing the Silvanesti warrior captured in the glade sacred to Reorx. Dazzled by sudden daylight, the elf blinked and squinted. His blond hair was lank and unwashed, his face smudged with dirt, yet his bearing was one of haughty disdain.

A loud murmur rose from the crowd behind Tol. Lord Urakan was stricken speechless by the sight of the Silvanesti.

“What does this mean, Warden?” demanded Amaltar, shaken at last out of his habitual calm.

“This elf, Kirstalothan by name, was taken in arms at a place called the Isaren Glade, near where Lord Odovar and I were ambushed. He was found in company with Grane, who evaded capture. In the glade was a shrine dedicated to Reorx, and these ‘offerings.’ ”

At Egrin’s signal, Tol and Narren approached, carrying two sacks. These they dumped on the carpet at the prince’s feet. Bronze arrowheads, spear points, and blades clattered out.

Amaltar asked to see one of the objects more closely. Valdid picked up a spearhead and handed it to the prince. Amaltar examined it closely.

“Chamberlain,” he said, “we had reports of foresters using metal, didn’t we?”

Valdid bowed to his lord. “Yes, Highness. Bronze arrowheads and the like were sent to us by several commanders, from all parts of the forest.”

The prince lifted a hand. “Send for Harpathanas Ambrodel, envoy of the Speaker of the Stars,” he commanded.

Valdid dispatched two heralds to the task. Prince Amaltar descended from the dais, tapping the spearpoint against his palm. He stood nose to nose with the elf warrior.

“You’ve been trading weapons to the forest tribes, yes?” he said, dark eyes narrowed. When the elf did not answer, the prince shouted, “Haven’t you?”

Kirstalothan averted his face and said nothing.

“What part did Morthur Dermount, alias Spannuth Grane, have in this plot?” Still the stubborn elf would not reply.

Amaltar stepped back. “Take him away and make him talk. I must know all about this!”

Hood replaced, the hapless Silvanesti was dragged out. No sooner had he departed than Valdid’s heralds returned. They held a hasty whispered conference with the chamberlain. Valdid’s face reddened.

“Let me guess,” Prince Amaltar said, anger in every syllable. “Harpathanas is no longer in camp?”

Valdid sputtered, “His tent is still pitched alongside yours, Highness, but no one is within! My heralds report that none of the Silvanesti has been seen since yester eve.”

Amaltar hurled the spear tip to the floor. “Is there no end to the treachery of elves?” he cried. “I see now why the Speaker’s envoy made so many perilous trips through the Great Green to visit us-he was distributing arms each time!”

“So it would seem, Highness,” said Egrin. “I’ll wager they hired Morthur Dermount to obscure their deeds with his magic.”

Amaltar went to the warden and took him by the shoulders. “You’ve done well, Egrin. By your service, you’ve opened our eyes to a deep and dangerous plot.”

“I thank you, Your Highness, but the honor of this service is not mine.”

Egrin held out his hand to Tol, kneeling with Narren by the piles of bronze weaponry.

“This lad, my shield-bearer, led the men who captured Kirstalothan and brought back the evidence of Silvanesti perfidy,” the warden said. “He also defeated the chief of the Dom-shu in single combat and made him Your Highness’s prisoner.”

Amaltar regarded Tol with unconcealed surprise, ordering him to stand. Although the shilder was little more than half the prince’s age, the two were of a height. Amaltar studied him for a moment, then said, “You shall be rewarded.”

“Thank you, Your Highness,” Tol said nervously. “But I was just one of a larger band of willing warriors. My deeds were no greater than theirs.”

Egrin described Tol’s rescue of the two beleaguered hordes with a hundred footmen.

Amaltar openly stared. “Who are you, boy? From which line do you descend?”

“No line, Your Highness. My father is a farmer, as was his father, and all the fathers before him.”

The crowd of nobles, courtiers, and foreigners whispered amongst themselves, making much of Tol’s humble origin. As their titters and ugly comments came to his ears-”peasant upstart” being the kindest of the lot-his embarrassment vanished. He straightened his back and glared at the gaudily dressed idlers around him.

Prince Amaltar returned to his throne. He held up a hand for silence.

“You have served the empire well, Master Tol, and the empire does not forget. Three days hence, I shall confer on you the rank of Rider of the Horde, with an award of five hundred gold crowns.”

Turning to Valdid, the prince said, “Let it be written in the chronicle that Tol of Juramona was raised this day to the rank of warrior, with all mention due that honorable position. Draw five hundred crowns from my personal cache to give to him.”

“Yes, Highness,” said Valdid as the scribes busily took down the prince’s edict.

The audience was over. Tol stood dazed. The bronze weapons were cleared away for shipment to Daltigoth, where Prince Amaltar would place them and the story of their origin before the emperor. It could mean war with Silvanost. At the very least, it meant a temporary halt to the campaign in the forest. Faced with such a well-armed force, a radically different strategy was required.

Guards lifted Makaralonga to his feet. Hearing the chiefs chains clank, Tol’s attention snapped back to the here and now.

“Your Highness!” he said with newfound boldness. “What will become of the chief?”

Lord Urakan frowned at the shilder’s presumption and said, “He will lose his head! That’s the fate of all those who lead wars against the empire!”

“Must it be so, my lord? Chief Makaralonga is an honorable foe. He surrendered to me because I promised to spare his life.”

“His life belongs to the empire,” Urakan snapped.

Prince Amaltar sighed deeply. A liveried lackey placed a golden goblet of wine at his side.

“I’m afraid my imperial father will insist on his death,” he said, sipping wine. “It is the law of the realm.”

“Then, Highness’-Tol stepped up to the foot of the dais-“as part of my reward, may I be his executioner?”

The tumult around Tol died. Everyone from Egrin to Valdid betrayed open surprise.

The prince’s black brows rose. “Strange request,” he said. “Why do you want to do it?”

“I captured him, Highness. If he must die, let it be by my hand, with the same sword I used to defeat him.”

Silence reigned in the assembly. At last, the prince smiled and waved a hand at Chamberlain Valdid.

“Put that in the scrolls too,” Amaltar said. “I give the task of executing the captured Dom-shu chief to Master Tol, in token of his service to the empire.”

And so it was that six days later Tol found himself standing alone before the fighting men of Juramona, dressed in new leather armor and a brilliant white mantle. The three hordes-Firebrands, Panthers, and Eagles-and the shilder company, the Rooks, were drawn up on a hillside outside the imperial camp at Caergoth. They were awaiting the arrival of Crown Prince Amaltar. A south wind blew, piling clouds into gray pinnacles, promising much rain. Tol wore his empty saber scabbard, and an equally empty sheath for his war dagger. Even here, in the open air, the crown prince would allow no weapons near his person.

An honor guard two hundred strong thundered out of the camp. All rode white horses with bright crimson trappings. In their wake came more than a hundred mounted courtiers in their finery of velvet and silk, polished leather and thick brocade. Behind the courtiers were eight richly bedecked young women, each in her own chariot drawn by a pair of horses. The open, two-wheeled carts, the preferred mode of travel in the capital, were ill-suited to rough ground, and the women clung to their drivers as they bounced along. The eight women were Amaltar’s wives-polygamy was another custom reserved to persons of the highest rank.

The honor guard split into two sections, drawing up on each side of Tol. Courtiers formed a living avenue for the imperial party, and the chariots bearing Amaltar’s wives rattled down the line. They drove past Tol, pivoted, and stopped on the slope between him and his comrades.

At last, with the stately deliberation acquired by long practice, Prince Amaltar cantered up on his black horse. He rode well, and looked at ease in the saddle. That, like the crown of Ergoth, was his birthright. His ancestors, back to the great and terrible Ackal Ergot, had lived and died on horseback. In the words of the poet, the first conquest an Ergothian warrior had to make was “the kingdom of the saddle.”

Amaltar reined up. His personal entourage, including Lord Urakan and Chamberlain Valdid, fell into place behind him. All looked solemn and serious, save for Urakan. His beetling black brows met over his nose in a deep scowl aimed directly at Tol. The youth realized that although he might have won the gratitude of the prince, his deeds had annoyed the noble general in some unfathomable way.

“Tol of Juramona!” Valdid’s voice rang out over the whipping wind. “Advance to your sovereign lord, His Royal Highness Amaltar Ackal of Ergoth!”

Tol stepped forward smartly, striking his heels together as Egrin had taught him.

“Kneel,” Valdid told him. Tol did so, and the chamberlain intoned the ritual questions: “Are you a free-born man, bound to no other lord or state? Do you swear allegiance to the House of Ackal in the person of His Imperial Majesty Pakin III and his son, Prince Amaltar?”

Tol recited the answers he’d learned from Egrin. “I am a free-born man. I renounce all loyalties to any lord but His Majesty Pakin III, and his duly anointed heir, Prince Amaltar.”

“Arise, Tol of Juramona!”

Tol stood. The prince held out an empty brass scabbard, chased with the red ribbons signifying the House of Ackal. “My eye is on you, Master Tol,” Amaltar said, placing the scabbard across Tol’s upraised palms.

“I shall strive to prove worthy, Your Highness.” Tol hung the new scabbard from his baldric.

That should have concluded the ceremony, but Amaltar broke tradition. He drew his own dagger and presented it hilt-first to Tol.

“A personal token of my gratitude,” he said in a low, friendly tone.

Breathless with surprise, Tol took the weapon. It was magnificent-a chilled iron blade filigreed with gold, set in a cross-shaped hilt of burnished brass with a ruby adorning each tip. The handle was wrapped in silver wire. The pommel was a golden dragon’s claw grasping another ruby the size of a hen’s egg.

Courtiers and imperial wives strained to see what had passed from the prince’s hand to Tol. More disciplined, the honor guard and the Juramona hordes kept their faces front, but their eyes were full of curiosity.

Prince Amaltar turned his horse and trotted away, his entourage trailing behind him in strict order of precedence. The last man in the party was Amaltar’s valet, who gave Tol two heavy suede bags. Tol grunted under the weight of five hundred crowns.

The imposing array of chariots, horsemen, and soldiers departed in a swirl of hooves and flashing jewels. Once they were gone, a roar rose behind Tol. Grinning, he turned to see Narren leading the footmen in a hearty cheer of approval. They broke ranks and engulfed him, shouting, shaking him, and pummeling his back with painfully vigorous enthusiasm.

Tol pressed the bags of gold on Narren. “A crown to every footman in the guard,” he shouted in his friend’s ear. “And don’t forget Crake and Felryn!”

Word of this generosity spread through the crowd like oil on a fire. The cheers became louder, and two stout soldiers hoisted Tol on their shoulders. They paraded him around in a circle until Egrin and the mounted commanders broke up the celebration.

“Well done, lad,” said Wanthred. “A coup worthy of my own youth!”

Pagas, laconic as always, contented himself with clasping Tol’s arm and nodding his approval.

“We owe our lives to you twice over, Tol,” Egrin said. His remark plainly puzzled the youth, and he added, “If you hadn’t come to rescue us, we might all have been slaughtered. And if you hadn’t captured the elf and the forester chief, we would have been disgraced before the whole of the empire.”

Egrin added, “And now we’ve been ordered home.”

Pagas and Wanthred were surprised, so much so that Pagas broke his silence and piped, “By whose command?”

“The new marshal of the Eastern Hundred. By Prince Amaltar’s order, subject to the emperor’s approval, our new marshal is Enkian Tumult, lord of the house of Mordirin.”

The name meant nothing to Tol, but Pagas’s and Wanthred’s faces hardened with concern. Wanthred fell to stroking his silver beard, which he did only when deeply troubled.

There was much celebrating in the Juramona camp that night. Tol’s elevation and his sharing of the crown prince’s bounty did much to lift the spirits of the men demoralized by their losses in the forest.

The only group not happy were Tol’s own comrades, the shilder. Because they had elected to obey orders and stay behind at Zivilyn’s Carpet, they had done no fighting and so shared none of the glory. The success of the lowly foot soldiers who had accompanied Tol added further gall to their cup. Tol’s rival Relfas was bitterest of all.

Tol did not revel late into the night with the rest. He slipped away from the bonfire where the footmen were drinking and singing. His mind was not on the celebration but on the unpleasant task he faced at sunrise-the execution of Chief Makaralonga.

He walked slowly through the darkened periphery of the camp, deep in thought. Whatever happened, he was determined to spare Makaralonga’s life. Since the brutal death of Vakka Zan years ago, he’d had a horror of executions. Moreover, he’d given his word to Makaralonga that the chief would be spared if he surrendered. Imperial law or not, Tol intended to keep his word, but he couldn’t simply let the tribesman go. Lord Urakan was expecting Makaralonga’s head, and if it wasn’t forthcoming, Tol’s own head could easily take its place on the roof of the Imperial Palace.

“Your thoughts are loud.”

Tol flinched. Deep in the shadows stood Felryn, leaning against a wagon. The healer added, “You’re pondering how to spare the life of the forester.”

“So you divine thoughts, too?”

Felryn shook his head. “No. It has been plain on your face since supper.”

They walked together outside the ring of wagons. Tol poured his feelings into the healer’s sympathetic ear, finishing with a plea for help in saving the chief.

“Why ask me? Egrin is your mentor, is he not?”

Tol drew in a breath and let it out slowly. “Egrin is a good man,” he said carefully, “but he will not go against the law. I saw Lord Odovar use Egrin’s sense of duty against him when he forced him to execute Vakka Zan. He can’t help me. But perhaps you can.”

Felryn smiled, acknowledging the wisdom of Tol’s reasoning and thinking to himself how much the callow farm boy had matured. He extended a hand. He did not clasp forearms, warrior-fashion, but took Tol’s hand in his own large one and shook it, as one priest to another.

“I will help you,” he agreed.

The morning brought a sky leaden with thick coils of black, rain-heavy clouds. A warm wind rushed through the camp, upsetting carefully stacked spears, rattling the tents, and awakening every man. Close on the heels of the wind came the first drops of rain. In moments the sprinkle was a deluge. The lashing torrent soaked through the oiled canvas panels of the tents, droplets falling in a steady indoor shower. In these miserable conditions, the Juramona hordes struck camp.

Tol and Felryn rode to meet the warden. Between their horses Makaralonga trudged, his hands tied. A thick halter wound around his neck, the end of the rope held in Tol’s hand.

Tol saluted with Prince Amaltar’s dagger. “I am prepared to carry out the imperial order,” he said, having to spit water and blink rapidly against the pouring rain.

“Why are you here, Felryn?” Egrin asked.

The healer indicated a large pot he had balanced on the pommel of his saddle. “Lord Urakan wants the chiefs head sent to Daltigoth,” he said. “This pot contains salt and medicinal oils. I’m to insure the head survives the trip to the capital.”

“We’ll do him in by the Wilder Green,” Tol said. In answer to Egrin’s inquiring look, he added, “The chief must die, but it doesn’t have to be here, a spectacle for all to see. The Green is a fitting place of execution for a forest chief.”

Egrin, his thoughts impossible to read, nodded. The Wilder was a small woodland several leagues east which bordered the river of the same name.

Tol and Felryn rode eastward, drenched all the way by rain. When the trees of the Wilder Green came into sight, Makaralonga broke his silence at last.

Lifting his bound hands toward the dark sky and continuing rain, the chief exclaimed, “Chislev herself weeps for your treachery! I knew a grasslander would never keep his word! So be it! When my blood flows, it will be a curse on you, Tol of Juramona. My curse on your faithless head!”

They ignored him, and he tried to plant his feet. However, Smoke continued to move ahead and Makaralonga was jerked forward. He had to content himself with raging at them as they rode stolidly onward through the rain. Once, he tripped, and Tol let go of the rope lest the chief be strangled. Immediately, Makaralonga jumped up, ready to run.

Tol drew the new saber Egrin had given him in a private ceremony. “Can you outrun a horse?”

Makaralonga’s broad chest heaved as he panted with the force of his anger. He abandoned his attempt to flee, but glared as Tol recovered the halter. Abruptly, his frustration and fury shifted to Felryn and the vessel he carried.

“My head will not fit in that cabbage pot!” he snapped.

“Probably not,” Felryn replied, “but after a few weeks in the salt, it’ll shrink down very nicely.”

A dozen paces from the edge of the forest, Tol stopped. He dismounted, never letting go of the rope around Makaralonga’s neck. Felryn likewise got down, clutching the clay pot close to his chest.

“Kneel,” Tol said to the chief.

“I won’t! I am a free man! Kill me on my feet!”

So saying, Makaralonga bolted. Tol put out a foot and tripped him. He sprawled in the dripping grass.

Tol put the sharp edge of his sword under the chiefs chin. “Stay still, or this will hurt!” he said severely.

Makaralonga closed his eyes. He felt a slight tug, then the blade came away from his throat. Stiffening, he awaited the return swing, the rending of his flesh, and the outpour of his life’s blood on the sodden ground.

“Get up,” said Tol. “You’re free.”

The chiefs eyes flew open. It was true. The halter had been cut from his neck, and Tol sliced through his bonds with a single stroke of the jeweled dagger.

“What trickery is this?” Makaralonga demanded.

“I never intended to kill you. I asked Prince Amaltar for the task so I might free you instead.”

Makaralonga looked from Tol to Felryn and back again, too astonished to take in what he was hearing.

Tol sheathed his dagger. Felryn put the clay pot down and removed its lid. The pungent smell of spices erupted, reaching their noses in spite of the continuing drizzle.

Felryn pulled on a leather gauntlet, then stuck his hand into the pot. He lifted the heavy object inside. Golden oil streamed down the face of a dead man.

“By the Blue Phoenix! It’s my head!” Makaralonga exclaimed, staggering back in shocked disbelief.

From braided locks to yellow beard to broad nose, the severed head looked exactly like the chief. Felryn returned it carefully to the pot and replaced the lid.

“How is it possible?” Makaralonga asked.

“Our masters in Daltigoth expect a trophy. We could not disappoint them,” Tol said. “Felryn used his magical skills to alter the appearance of another man-a victim of war.”

“His suffering was already over, and now, so is yours,” said Felryn.

He clapped the chief on the shoulder and hauled himself onto the broad back of his horse. Makaralonga threw his arms around Tol and hugged him fiercely.

“Forgive me, noble foe! I thought you would kill me to please your masters!”

Tol struggled to breathe in the ardent embrace, his face crushed against the larger man’s chest. “All right, all right! I always meant to keep my word!”

Zivilyn’s Carpet, and the edge of the Great Green, lay another six or seven leagues east. Makaralonga would have to tread carefully to evade capture and reach his forest kingdom safely. Capture would mean death not only for him but for Tol as well, if his failure to behead the chief became known.

Makaralonga looked down at Tol, the rain running down his face.

“Henceforth, you are my son!” he declared. “I will make peace with your people, for your sake!”

Tol hadn’t expected this. “Very well,” he said. “Send some of your people to Juramona, and we’ll make a pact of peace. Don’t come yourself! Remember, you’re supposed to be dead.”

Makaralonga’s face split wide in a grin. “I shall be the best of corpses, brave son Tol! You shall know me as Voyarunta-‘Uncle Corpse’!”

He sprinted to the trees. Before plunging in, he turned and waved at his deliverers. Tol raised a hand in farewell, and Makaralonga vanished into the woods.

“Do you think he’ll keep his promise?” asked Felryn as they rode away.

“A man like him lives by his word,” Tol said.

Chief Makaralonga was indeed as good as his word. Before summer was out, a party of eleven tribesmen made the long trek from the Great Green to Juramona. They evaded Ergothian patrols up to the very gates of the town, and there asked to see “the mighty lord Tol.”

Egrin and a guard of twenty horsemen, including Tol, came out to meet the delegation. The Dom-shu were impressive folk, each strongly built and at least a head taller than the “grasslanders” who greeted them. They wore close-fitting tunics of pale buckskin and boarskin trews, embellished with beads and shells. They carried knives and bows, but on drawing near to Juramona had unstrung their weapons to show their peaceful intent.

Most striking of all were the leaders of the party, two women. One was a strapping blonde with waist-length hair. The other was an equally towering creature with bobbed brown locks.

“We are Dom-shu. We come in peace from our chief, Voyarunta,” said the blonde woman.

From his place in the ranks, Tol grinned. Makaralonga had remembered to use his new name, the one with the double meaning.

She continued. “I am Kiya, eldest born of the chief, and this is my sister, Miya. We have come to make peace between the Dom-shu and the grasslanders of Juramona.”

Egrin rubbed his bearded jaw in puzzlement. He was quite in the dark.

“I will take you to Lord Enkian, marshal of the Eastern Hundred,” Egrin said. “He commands here.”

“What of the great lord Tol?” said the brunette giantess, Miya.

All eyes in the mounted guard turned toward Tol, and Egrin pointed him out.

“Greetings, husband!” Kiya exclaimed. “We are your new wives!”

There was perfect silence for the length of four heartbeats, then all the Ergothians (save the red-faced Tol) burst out laughing. The Dom-shu did not understand what amused the grasslanders so, but they were good-natured enough to join in the merriment.

Tol urged Smoke forward, halting him in front of the two female foresters. He decided not to dismount. The sight of them towering over him would only provoke more laughter.

“I asked for no wives,” he said sternly, when the hilarity subsided.

“It is the wish of our father, Chief Voyarunta,” said Miya. Her dark hair was cut shorter than Tol’s own, but her brown eyes were softer and her face more round than her sister’s.

“We were told the great lords of the grasslanders keep more than one wife,” Kiya added. “Is this not so?”

“Yes, but-”

“It would be a grave insult to the Dom-shu to refuse us,” warned Miya.

Egrin came to the flustered youth’s rescue. “The great lord Tol is overwhelmed by your chiefs offer,” he said. “Give him time to adjust to the magnitude of his good fortune. In the meantime, please be our honored guests in Juramona.”

The Dom-shu strode into town between two lines of riders. Their appearance drew crowds along the route to the High House. Solitary wanderers and traders were common in Juramona, but fierce tribesmen from the Great Green had never been seen here before.

Bringing up the rear of the little column, Egrin and Tol went over the situation in hushed tones.

“Don’t be hasty,” Egrin said. “If it brings peace to the frontier, accepting the Dom-shu’s offer seems a small price to pay.” He smiled. “Besides, what’s wrong with having a wife?”

Tol’s voice rose. “Two wives? I don’t want to get married!”

“Nonsense. It’s time you settled down with a wife… or two,” said Egrin, chuckling. More seriously, he added, “I was married when I was your age.”

Tol was so surprised he reined up. The warden never spoke about his past, and Tol had never dared question the older man.

“Really?” the boy said. “Where is she now?”

Egrin’s face was solemn. “Her soul went to the gods many years ago. That is past. What will you say to Marshal Enkian?”

Tol watched the last of the Dom-shu disappear around the curve of the street leading up to the marshal’s residence. He gave a helpless shrug. “What can I say?”

Enkian Tumult, Lord Mordirin, was descended from Mordirin Ackal, fifth emperor of Ergoth. That unfortunate autocrat had been dethroned by his wife, Empress Kanira, and imprisoned in the Imperial Palace for the rest of his days. The children of Mordirin Ackal were proscribed for a century. When civil war broke out between the Ackals and Pakins, the ruling clan needed all the allies of royal lineage they could muster, and so readmitted the Mordirins to the imperial fold. The Mordirin line no longer had any claim to the throne, but constituted a powerful and wealthy clan in their own right.

Enkian was the physical and temperamental opposite of the late marshal. Where Odovar had been hearty, impetuous, and harsh, Enkian was cool, calculating, and ascetic. Burly Odovar would have made two of Enkian, who was tall but lean, and, like Prince Amaltar, pale skinned and dark of hair and eye.

Enkian had the high forehead and sharp features of the Ackals, and an equally sharp and calculating mind. According to the wags in Juramona, Odovar had been twice the warrior Enkian was, but only half the ruler.

Enkian did not laugh when Tol’s so-called wives were presented. He thanked them sincerely and promised to hold a lengthy parlay on the subject of peace. Reassured, the Dom-shu allowed themselves to be ushered into another room, where their presence was celebrated with beer and many haunches of venison.

Alone with their liege, Egrin and Tol stiffly awaited the verdict on the Dom-shu. The marshal sat in a characteristic pose, fingers folded together under his chin as he considered the matter.

“The women will stay,” he said at last. When Tol looked distressed, he added, “Not as your wives, Master Tol. We’ll keep them as hostages to the Dom-shu’s future good behavior.”

Egrin bowed. “Wisely chosen, my lord.”

“You won’t imprison them, will you, my lord?” asked Tol.

“That wouldn’t be friendly, would it? No, they shall be guests of the Eastern Hundred, and provided suitable quarters. You shall live with them, Master Tol, and keep a close eye on them.”

Again the youth looked alarmed. “What if they expect me to be a husband to them?”

“Carry a sword at all times,” replied Enkian dryly. He did not smile at his own joke, but asked, “Can either of you fathom why the Dom-shu would choose this time to make peace? We invaded their land and executed their chief not two months past.”

Egrin said, “Perhaps that’s why, my lord. The foresters respect strength. Considering what’s happened, maybe they understand the empire must be dealt with, not opposed.”

He was referring to the severance of relations between Ergoth and Silvanost, which had come about once the elves’ scheme to arm the forest tribes became known. Trade between the two nations had been cut off, and Silvanesti prestige had suffered a grave reverse among all the nations of the west.

Enkian sat back in his chair thoughtfully. “You may be right, warden,” he said. “It seems the empire has much to thank you for, Master Tol. We must find a proper place for you in the ranks of the Great Horde. Have you considered what you would like to do?”

This very question had occupied Tol’s thoughts fully in the weeks since his return to Juramona. He had discussed his future with everyone close to him-Egrin, Felryn, Crake, Narren, even Pagas and old Lord Wanthred. He could ask for assignment to any spot in Ergoth, to any horde in the emperor’s service. Ambition required that he choose a position close to the seat of power in the capital, Daltigoth, or at least on a frontier where danger paved the road to fame. A picked band of warriors was hunting Morthur Dermount in the Great Green-joining them would put him squarely on the path to advancement in the empire.

He took a deep breath. “I wish to remain in Juramona, my lord. And”-he glanced sideways at Egrin-”I would like Durazen’s old command.”

Enkian was startled. “Why would you want command of the foot guards?”

“I learned in the forest a warrior’s worth lies not in how he arrives at a battle, but how he fights once there. I believe foot soldiers can fight and win as surely as any horsemen, my lord, given the right training and leadership.”

The new marshal shook his head. “You’re a fool, boy. A lucky fool. What you did in the Great Green was a fluke, a chance favor granted by the capricious gods. It gave you an opportunity few men ever see-imperial notice, a crown prince’s gratitude. Yet here you stand, throwing the opportunity away.”

Enkian stood, plainly disgusted. “Elevation or no, you’re still a peasant, not a true Rider of the Horde. Very well. Walk with your footmen, if you wish. I shan’t stop you.”

Hardly a gracious start to Tol’s first command, but having gotten what he wanted, Tol was happy. He kept his pleasure hidden, not wishing to annoy the haughty marshal further.

He accompanied Enkian and Egrin to the Dom-shu banquet. There, he sat between Kiya and Miya, who ate prodigiously but drank little. After sundown, they followed him to the Householders’ Hall. When he explained no women were allowed to pass the night inside, they squatted just outside the door, resting their heads on their knees. Tol hesitated, thinking he should try to locate better quarters for them. The blonde, Kiya, waved him away impatiently, so he left them there.

The next morning, that’s where he found them, waiting for his return.