A warrior's joyrney

Chapter 7

East of the river, the Rooks and Eagles found clear signs they were not alone. They crossed wide areas of grass trampled flat by scores of cart wheels and hundreds of horses. Once they turned south, the evening sky ahead was illuminated by massed campfires; by day, stragglers and coveys of camp followers dotted the countryside.

Before noon on the fourth day out from Juramona, Egrin halted the horde and called in all his outriders. He climbed a convenient stump and addressed the youthful contingent among his soldiers.

“Lads, we’ll soon be joining up with warriors of the Great Horde. There are things you should know. The empire is wide, and those who serve the emperor come in all shapes, sizes, and colors. You’ll see many who dress differently, and bear strange arms. Don’t be distracted! Listen to your orders, don’t converse with strangers. You’ll be offered every sort of vice you can think of, and many more you haven’t yet imagined. No one expects you to behave like priests, but beware! Nothing is free. If an offer sounds too good to be believed, then believe it not. Pay up front for what you want, or you’ll pay a far higher price later.”

“Sir, what about the enemy?” called out a youth in the rear ranks.

“Your commanders will have an audience with the prince and his advisers, and we’ll know more after that. All I know myself is the enemy is said to be forest tribes, living in the Great Green. They’ve raided imperial lands around Caergoth, looting, pillaging, and carrying off captives.”

“Are they men?” asked Tol.

“Can’t say. We’re near enough Silvanesti land, there might be wild elves, Kagonesti, among our foes.”

Egrin got down from the stump and mounted Old Acorn. The Rooks and Eagles formed into a compact column and resumed their southern course.

Evidence of movement was all around them. Tol saw so many dust clouds he stopped counting them. Trampled grass became common, and the thickening stands of trees shielded sight but not sounds. All around them they heard the creak of harness leather, the fall of horses’ hooves, and the thump of wagon wheels. On ridges, the silhouettes of riders, all heading south, could be seen. One band in particular caught the attention of the shilder-a group of dark-skinned men in breech-cloths and wicker breastplates. Each carried a short bow and a sheaf of throwing spears-javelins, Manzo called them. They never overtook the Juramona horde, but merely dogged their heels. Their ghostly presence got on Relfas’s nerves, and he asked permission to chase them off.

“Think you can?” asked Egrin.

“Give me twelve horse, and I’ll banish them!” Relfas vowed.

“Take your choice, but no bloodshed, mind you.” To Tol, riding near him, Egrin said, “Will you go?”

Tol thought for a moment, then said, “No, I’ll stay with the column.”

Relfas picked twelve of the best riders among the shilder and led them off to chase the lightly clad riders away. Waving their sabers, they charged across the dusty plain. In a markedly unhurried manner, their quarry cantered behind a nearby hill. Relfas divided his eager group, sending four shilder out wide to cut the riders off, and leading the remainder behind the hill.

Tol twisted in the saddle, straining to see what was happening. Dust rose from behind the hill, but no horsemen appeared. A short while later, Relfas returned, his puzzled and dejected troop behind him.

“What happened?” Tol demanded.

“They vanished!”

Egrin, Manzo, and the other veterans laughed.

“Of course they vanished! Those are men of Alkel!” Manzo exclaimed, naming a province far to the west, on the shores of the sea. “They’re called Wind Riders, and it’s said they can disappear from sight-man and horse-in broad daylight.”

“You might have told us,” Relfas grumbled.

“Lessons are best learned by doing,” Egrin told the youth. “The Wind Riders serve the emperor as we do. They trail us for sport.”

Under the glaring noonday sun, the Rooks and Eagles emerged from a grove of hardwood trees onto a broad ridge. The air shook with the sound of hoofbeats, a ceaseless, rolling thunder. From the top of the ridge, they saw an awesome panorama spread out beneath them. Egrin halted the column and let the shield-bearers take it in.

The plain below was filled by a huge city of tents-hundreds and hundreds of them-tall, wedge-shaped tents in the southern style; conical canvas huts common to the Eastern Hundred; and vast, flat-roofed beehives called Daltigoth tents. Temporary corrals were sprinkled throughout the tent city. Most were filled with milling horses, but more than a few contained fat bullocks to feed the multitude. There was no fence of sharpened stakes around the camp. The site was so vast, there wasn’t enough timber available to surround it.

Smoke ascended from a thousand fires, and brightly colored banners hung limply from their poles in the hot, still air. Red was the dominant color, with gold a close second. In addition to the banners, horde standards were thick as daisies in an upland meadow. Egrin pointed out some famous ones: the crossed iron thunderbolts of the Red Thunders, the gap-toothed brass skull of the Deathriders, and the white onyx ox head representing the Bulls of Ergoth. Standards of nine different hordes encircled a huge tent in the center of the camp. With the addition of Lord Odovar’s three hordes, some twelve thousand warriors would be assembled to enforce the emperor’s will on the foresters.

“Raise our standard!” Egrin commanded. Men and boys cheered as the pole was lifted.

Egrin ordered them forward and called for another concerted cheer. “Let them know the men from Juramona have arrived!” he cried.

Chanting Jur-ra-mo-na! the newest horde in the emperor’s service descended the ridge to the camp. At the time, amid the noise and chaos of the vast assemblage, their entry was barely noticed. Only much later would many claim to have seen the Rooks and Eagles arrive.

Lord Odovar reached the encampment just after dawn on the next day with the balance of his army, completing the force poised to invade the forest known as the Great Green. Egrin, accompanied by his lieutenants and Tol, sought out his commander. They found Odovar reclining in the back of an ox-drawn wagon. The marshal’s breathing was labored, his right leg propped on a roll of canvas.

“My lord, are you ill?” asked Egrin.

“Ill enough,” the marshal groaned. “That cursed horse collapsed on me two days ago. Threw me to the road and sprained my right knee. Useless beast! I had his throat cut.”

An empty flagon dangled from Odovar’s fingers. Without being asked, a dusty servant filled it with beer from a wooden bucket.

“Can you walk, my lord? Prince Amaltar will expect us to present ourselves soon.”

“Damn the protocol,” Odovar grumbled, but he knew Egrin was correct. He called for help. Two sturdy footmen dragged him off the back of the wagon. Wincing, he tried to put weight on his right leg. It crumpled, and only with considerable struggle did the soldiers prevent the marshal from landing on his cherry-red nose.

Felryn ordered a crutch made from a pair of spearshafts. While the men saw to the erection of the tents, Odovar and the commanders of his three hordes prepared for their audience with the Crown Prince of Ergoth. Durazen the One-Eyed would not be going. As captain of the footmen, his position was too lowly.

The leader of the Plains Panthers was a taciturn warrior named Pagas, whose misshapen nose was the result of a blow from a centaur’s axe. Pagas had the hard look of a seasoned fighter, allied with a surprisingly high-pitched voice, a side-effect of his deformed nose. He spoke as little as possible, since the sound of his voice undermined his fierce appearance.

Unique in the army, the wealthy gentry of the Firebrand Horde elected their leader. He was an old campaigner named Wanthred. With his silver hair and full beard, lacquered shield, and old-fashioned studded mail, he cut a far more impressive figure than the wheezing, corpulent Odovar. Yet, he, Pagas, and Egrin waited loyally for their marshal to lead them, hobbling, to the crown prince.

Nervously, Tol wrapped and rewrapped his sweating hands around the pole displaying the ceremonial banner of Juramona. Lord Odovar had tapped him to carry the triangle of scarlet cloth as they marched through the bustling camp to the imperial tent. Tol could hardly believe his good fortune. He, son of Bakal the farmer, was going to see the heir to the throne of Ergoth!

The sprawling army camp resembled a barely contained riot. Men and women dashed back and forth between tents, shouting, laughing, or screaming. Some were done up in armor, while others wore light linen shifts, such as well-born folk slept in. A few revelers of both sexes crossed Tol’s path, naked as newborn babes. Unclothed women were still a mystery to Tol, and he almost tripped over his own feet while trying to remedy that gap in his education.

A torrent of smells assailed him-some delightful, some foul. Cooking spices and incense mingled with the odor of horses and unwashed flesh. Pipers warred with drummers and lute players, while a cacophony of sutlers’ cries strove to overbear them all. Traders strolled along the tent line, loudly hawking their wares: beer, wine, nectar from Silvanost, roast meat, trinkets and trifles, amulets to heal wounds, ointments to sooth saddle sores, linen scarves, woolen leggings, silken smallclothes, and a host of other goods.

The nearer they got to Crown Prince Amaltar’s dwelling, the calmer the camp became. The wide lanes were patrolled by pairs of footmen in polished cuirasses, with battle-axes on their shoulders. Tol saw three such guards subdue a drunken warrior who’d wandered too close to the imperial enclave. The drunk was a brawny fellow, but the guards clubbed him quickly to the ground and dragged him away.

The men of Juramona paused to allow the burdened guards to cross in front of them. Odovar, taking a deep pull on the flagon he carried, said, “There you see the folly of vice, young Tol. Take heed.” The marshal belched.

Tol inclined his head. “Yes, my lord.”

Directly ahead was the enormous imperial tent, ringed with banners and standards. At the entrance, armed guards halted Odovar’s party with crossed weapons.

“Who would enter the house of Amaltar, first prince of Ergoth?” demanded the watch commander, a towering warrior with an elegant, drooping, dark mustache. “Name yourselves!”

“I am Odovar, marshal of the Eastern Hundred, and these are the masters of my hordes!” For a moment, the old bark returned to the marshal’s voice.

“I am Wanthred, son of Orthred, lord of Six Pines.”

“Egrin, son of Raemel, warden of the Household Guard.”

Pagas was unhappy at having to speak, but said firmly in his high voice, “Pagas, son of Janjadel, master of the Plains Panthers.”

The watch commander nodded. “Disarm, my lords.”

The men were taken aback. Odovar spoke for all. “You ask Riders of the Horde to surrender their swords? Why? We are free and loyal men!”

“It is the will of Crown Prince Amaltar. He remembers too well the fate of his uncle, Emperor Pakin II, assassinated in his own hall by ‘free and loyal men.’ ”

Everyone knew the evil tale. The late emperor had been widely admired for his skill in ending the civil war and preserving the empire. For this he’d been dubbed “the Conciliator.” In spite of his successes, a cabal of lords from within his own house had murdered him, touching off the rebellion that had sent Odovar into battle and ultimately brought him to the onion field and Tol.

Although they understood Prince Amaltar’s caution, the Juramona men still felt it was unseemly to ask warriors to give up their swords. However, the watch commander’s iron gaze was steady on them. Odovar glared back.

Egrin broke the impasse by unbuckling his sword belt, and handing it to the nearest guard. One by one they submitted. Even Tol had to surrender his saber. But where his betters had taken affront, he found the requirement curiously pleasing. In this small way, he was his masters’ equal, considered as dangerous as these accomplished warriors.

They entered the tent and left the coarse outside world behind. Under their feet was a thick carpet the color of old wine. The tent’s side walls were a loose weave to let in the daylight. From deeper within the structure, hidden by the interior cloth walls, an oddly cool breeze wafted over the startled warriors.

Odovar paused, eyes closed, leaning on his crutch. The others hovered behind him.

“What is it, my lord?” asked Wanthred, concerned.

“Nothing… a memory from long ago.” Odovar looked at the flagon in his hand as if seeing it for the first time. He flung it out of the tent.

“When I was not much older than you, boy,” the marshal told Tol, “I was taken before Emperor Dermount III. I received my honor dagger from his own hands. He was served by a corps of magicians who surrounded him with sweet, cool air like this. Strange how one remembers small things from so long ago.”

Easing Felryn’s makeshift crutch out of his armpit, Odovar leaned it against the tent wall. “I’ll not go before Dermount’s grandson a cripple,” he vowed. He squared his heavy shoulders, his face white from the pain of standing unaided.

Egrin signaled Pagas, and the two warriors took up positions close on either side of Odovar. The marshal glared at them.

“Peace, my lord,” Egrin said. “Grant us the honor of walking by your side.”

Odovar’s cheeks took on new color as they bolstered him. “Right,” he growled. “Follow me!”

The cloth corridor wound ever inward in a left-hand spiral. At one point the men of Juramona heard gentle, tinkling music. Further along the curving path, they found a wind chime stirring from the cool outward flow of air. Shards of clear crystal hung on pale threads fine as hair. The crystals touched lightly, playing the tune. Tol was delighted. He had never seen such a thing.

A small room opened in front of them. In it, a mixed group of warriors awaited the crown prince’s pleasure. There were seafarers from the north, black-skinned like Tol’s friend Crake, and dressed in white silk and peaked iron caps; bare-chested Wind Riders, their skin painted with mystic signs; Imperial Guards, with clean-shaven chins, and wearing crimson cloaks; and a lone kender. Dressed in fringed buckskins, the kender was telling jokes to the assembled warriors, who were laughing uproariously.

An Imperial Guardsman with gold chevrons on his helmet saluted by clanging his iron-shod heels together.

“Lords of the Eastern Hundred? You are expected. Follow me.”

He held open a flap, and they passed through into a larger room, likewise carpeted from wall to wall. An assortment of dignitaries and favor-seekers waited here, sipping wine from golden goblets and conversing in low tones. All wore civilian dress. Three were dwarves with elaborately curled beards and rich, heavy robes of black and gold brocade. A singular trio, two men and a woman, were dressed in billowing trews, wide sashes, vests, and flat cloth hats. Tol had seen merchants in Juramona dressed in similar fashion and knew the three hailed from the city of Tarsis, far to the south of Odovar’s domain.

The Tarsans fell silent as the Juramona men passed by. The woman’s eyes, Tol noticed, were the deep, rich color of honey. She was twice his age and exuded an air of worldly charm he could sense as clearly as he smelled her perfume. She didn’t lower her eyes, like the girls in Crake’s tavern did, and her frank perusal made him uncomfortable. He looked ahead and tried to ignore her knowing gaze.

Once they were in the next room, their escort said, “You’ve just seen Hanira, ambassador from Tarsis.”

“The lady?” asked Odovar, and the guardsman nodded. “I’d heard Tarsan women share rule in their city-a foolish indulgence,” the marshal said firmly.

“But a handsome woman,” said Wanthred, stroking his silver whiskers.

“And ruthless, they say,” murmured the guard.

This third chamber was like the one they’d just left, a waiting room for those seeking an audience with the crown prince. Folk even more exotic to Tol’s eyes were gathered here-a gaggle of six little men, bald as eggs but bearded. All were talking at once and waving little wooden tablets at each other.

“Gnomes. A delegation from Sancrist Isle,” said their guide.

The gnomes were shorter even than kender, coming barely up to Tol’s waist. Their skin was a warm brown, and all had large noses and curly white beards. Their clothing was as peculiar as their appearance: each wore cloth trews stitched to a sleeveless top, with straps crossing over the back and buttoning at the shoulders. Squares of cloth were sewn to the front of these garments, and the squares bulged with slivers of chalk, snarls of string, and oddly shaped metal instruments.

“…it’s as simple as hydrodynamics!” said one gnome in a rapid, high-pitched shout.

Odovar looked questioningly at the Imperial Guardsman, but he only shrugged and said, “Gnome-speak.”

Leaving the babbling little men behind, the Juramona delegation and their escort entered a fourth room. It was the largest of all, ten paces wide at least, and the ceiling rose twice the height of a man. A buzz of conversation permeated the room, which was crowded with richly dressed folk of many nations and races. By this time Tol was growing accustomed to exotic strangers, but his mind reeled at the spectacle overhead.

At the peak of the canvas roof a flock of birds circled. They were shaped like geese, but weren’t like any birds Tol had ever seen. They were transparent! Solid and clear as spring water, their wings wafted up and down as they endlessly rounded the room, sending a cool downdraft over the assembly. As they passed beneath them, Tol saw the transparent geese were dripping water from the flapping wings. A droplet fell on his cheek. It was very cold. At last he understood-these birds were made of ice!

To one side, a quartet of serene-looking men stood, eyes closed, lips moving silently. The man on the end twirled a silver bead on a thread, each revolution matching exactly the motion of the ice-birds overhead. Dressed in white homespun robes with red jackets and red sash belts, each man wore a thick silver medallion on a chain around his neck. They were Red Robes, mages of the Order who served the gods of Neutrality.

The Imperial Guard led them out of this room. The Juramona men passed through a wide curtained doorway and beneath a series of wooden arches, each one wider and grander than the last. At each stood a pair of armed guards with spear and shield. This close to the Royal Presence, Tol was relegated to the back of the delegation, behind Lord Wanthred. Voices and music filtered back to him, and the splash of running water. He strained to see over the old noble’s broad shoulders.

“Wait here,” their escort said. He stepped forward, and spoke in a low voice to a richly draped man of middle years. This fellow had a big nose and leaned on a gold-capped staff.

“Ah, yes, bring them ahead,” the big-nosed man said. His face was scrubbed pink, and his fingernails gleamed like mother-of-pearl. He was the cleanest man Tol had ever seen.

Lord Odovar announced himself and his vassals, and the man nodded.

“I am Valdid,” he said, “second chamberlain to His Highness. My lords, attend upon me.”

He turned away, the hem of his blue brocade robe flapping, and they followed him into the heart of the tent-palace.

It was a single great room, thirty paces wide, filled but not crowded with warlords, courtiers, favored guests, and diplomats. Tol’s gaze was caught by a white-robed figure surrounded by a dozen attendants in light, etched armor plate. By their slim, angular features and upswept ears, he realized he was seeing Silvanesti elves for the first time.

He had no time to stare, for fresh wonders were ahead. A carpeted platform rose from the center of the room. Tripods with unlit braziers flanked four corners of a heavy wooden chair, which was padded with leather and carved with the arms of the House of Ackal. The prince’s throne was empty.

Tol looked this way and that, trying to decide which of the many lordly men present was the prince. Perhaps the tall, muscular noble in burgundy velvet? He wore a silver circlet on his brow. Or maybe the rather portly lord speaking to the elves in a musical tongue that must be their own language. Or could he be the handsome blond fellow, only slightly older than Tol, laughing in a group of young women?

Valdid, the second chamberlain, went down on one knee. “Your Highness,” he said, “the marshal of the Eastern Hundred is here with his warlords.”

None of Tol’s guesses was correct. Crown Prince Amaltar was perched on a folding stool, a scroll in his hand. He was dressed in a simple robe of midnight blue silk, cinched at the waist by a wide leather belt. A jeweled war dagger was thrust through the belt, the only visible weapon in the room. The prince’s black hair was cut shorter than the fashion, barely brushing his collar, and unlike all the other men present he sported neither beard nor mustache. Around his neck on a fine gold chain he wore a woman’s golden torque, set with a pair of rubies-said to be a memento of his deceased mother.

Putting down the scroll he held, the prince’s dark eyes inspected the Juramona men as they knelt before him.

“Long life to Your Royal Highness and to your noble father. Death to all enemies of Ergoth!” Odovar cried. The fighting men and many of the women present echoed the marshal’s sentiments, but the foreigners merely looked on, quietly amused.

“Rise, loyal vassals,” said Amaltar.

Grunting from the task of raising his bulk on a sprained knee, Odovar managed to stand without help.

“How long has it been since I last saw you?” asked the prince.

“I last met Your Highness eleven years ago, after the battle of Torgaard Pass.”

“That’s right! You gained the pass from the Tarsans with a picked force of fifty men, as I recall.”

“Your Highness favors me by remembering,” Odovar said, bowing his head. “Aias, we did not hold the pass for long.”

“No matter.” Amaltar gestured to the stool he’d vacated. “Take your ease, my lord. Your leg obviously pains you.”

Odovar colored. “I cannot sit in Your Highness’s presence!”

Amaltar’s pleasant demeanor vanished. “You can if I order it. Sit, marshal.”

Odovar slumped onto the stool, stiff leg extended, embarrassed both by the breach of protocol and by how obvious his need for it was.

The prince snapped his fingers, and a light camp table was carried over, its top covered with scrolls. At another imperial command, four nobles, each the commander of a horde, unrolled a large parchment and held it open by the corners. It was a grand map of the vicinity, drawn in vibrant colors. The blue Caer River snaked across the landscape. Caergoth, three leagues away, appeared as a black ring on the west bank of the river. The only spot on the map devoid of color was the forest itself, east of Caergoth. A line of green delineated its boundary, but within the border no features were depicted.

“The Great Green, my lords,” Amaltar said. He waved a beringed hand across it. “One hundred and fifty leagues end to end, varying from eighteen to thirty leagues wide. We know the dimensions and fringes of the forest thanks to our own surveyors-and our friends the Silvanesti.” He nodded to the listening elves. “But the interior a day’s ride beyond the border is as hidden to us as the far side of the red moon!”

A line of scribes stood behind Amaltar, ready to note any imperial utterances. Four waited with styluses poised, while the fifth was writing, rapidly but discreetly, recording every word the prince said.

Amaltar smote the map with his fist. “Since the days of Ackal Ergot, this region has sheltered brigands, runaways, rebels, and savages. My uncle, Emperor Pakin II, thought he could pacify the forest tribes with gifts and soft words. All he gained for his efforts was the worst series of raids since the founding of the empire. The foresters have continued to block our attempts at eastern expansion, and in their latest raid they murdered my cousin Hynor. No asset to empire was Hynor, but the killing of imperial relatives cannot be allowed to pass.”

“The foresters respect nothing but force, Highness, and heed nothing but cold iron,” Odovar said staunchly. His fellow warlords murmured agreement.

“That’s why we are here,” said the prince. “We will harrow the Great Green like a farmer does a patch of weeds. Any pests we don’t destroy will be forced to flee over the mountains.” With one finger, he traced a line across the unknown land, east to the north-south course of the Kharolis range.

“Is that our limit, Highness?” asked the black-haired noble in burgundy who wore the silver circlet.

“It is, Lord Urakan. When your men reach the western slopes of the mountains, they’ll have ridden far enough.”

Prince Amaltar went on, specifying goals for the invasion. Ten hordes would enter the Great Green in five different locations. They would move parallel to each other as they drove into the woods. Two hordes would remain outside, to guard against sallies by the tribesmen and to catch anyone who tried to escape back into Ergoth.

The three Juramona hordes would not be fighting together. The Firebrands, under Wanthred, would fight alongside another horde from southwest Ergoth, the Corij Rangers. The Rooks and Eagles and Pagas’s Panthers, with Lord Odovar, would enter the Great Green through a large meadow known as Zivilyn’s Carpet.

Amaltar called on the flaxen-haired, white-robed Silvanesti. The elf glided to the map table, trailed by his entourage. This included several dark, painted faces-elves of the woodland Kagonesti race.

The prince said, “My good cousin, Harpathanas Ambrodel, speak of your experiences.”

The tall elf bowed slightly to the heir of Ergoth. “I have fought my way through the great forest seven times,” he said. His voice was mellifluous and pleasing, though it carried a definite air of command. “Each journey brought new battles against new foes. You will find humans, Kagonesti, and, occasionally, ogres.”

The assemblage stirred at the mention of ogres. Harpathanas spoke again, calming his listeners.

“Most ogres never leave the high slopes of the mountains, far to the south,” he said. “Single marauders sometimes stray north to the lowlands, but not often.”

The Silvanesti smiled thinly, showing narrow white teeth. “Humans are the most numerous folk in the forest, as they are elsewhere. The forest humans live in tribes, as humans did centuries ago on the plains. The sizes of the various tribes are hard to measure. At one skirmish my archers had to contend with two hundred human fighters, but I believe more than one tribe was arrayed against us. I would say a typical tribal war party would include ten to fifty warriors, including women. They fight alongside their men.”

The handsome young warlord laughed at that, tossing back his long blond hair. “I look forward to meeting them!” he said.

“Be careful what you wish for, Lord Tremond. Forest women are ferocious in combat and collect the heads of any foes they vanquish,” Harpathanas replied gravely.

“And sometimes they take other parts,” said one of the Kagonesti. Rough laughter encircled the table. None of the elves joined in.

At Harpathanas’s behest, a Kagonesti left his entourage and stepped forward to describe forester weapons and tactics. The Kagonesti’s muscular build and tanned face, painted with red and blue loops and lines, seemed at odds with his attire-a plain yet good-quality dark green robe.

“They are good archers,” said the Kagonesti, “but use only short bows, which may not penetrate iron plate armor. Their favorite tricks are deadfalls and pit traps, which they also use against wild beasts. Take care when pursuing tribesmen who flee too easily. They are likely leading you into a trap.”

“Do they use metal?” asked Wanthred.

“Such metal as they trade for or take from their victims. Elsewise, they use flint weapons.”

Odovar leaned an elbow on the map table. “What about the forest elves? Will we have to fight them?”

Harpathanas and his Kagonesti retainers exchanged glances.

The painted elf replied, “Some of my woodland brethren have mated into human tribes, and some humans have likewise joined Kagonesti bands. These mixed groups will fight you. The pure Kagonesti bands will not, unless trapped and forced to give battle, but there are few west of the mountains anyway.”

The war council continued well into the afternoon. Tol strove to absorb everything, but late in the day he began to think over the crown prince’s plans. Amaltar accepted as fact the notion that Ergothian cavalry could fight in the forest, and none of his warlords objected, but Tol wondered. As a very minor member of the imperial army, he had no right to question his masters. That night in the tent he shared with Relfas and four other shilder, he expressed his doubts.

“It seems wrong,” he said. “How can mounted men fight in thick woods? The foresters go about on foot, I’m told. They fight from behind bushes and from treetops. How will our hordes come to grips with them?”

Relfas, tipsy from cheap Kharolian wine, shrugged broadly. “Don’t worry so mush-uh-much. Ol’ Egrin will see us through,” he said blithely. “The warriors of Ergoth will defeat the rugged-rag-uh-ragged root-eaters! You’ll see!”

The other boys cheered his bravado, and Relfas added, “I’m going to clip the ears off the first tribesman I kill and wear them home as trophies.”

“I want one of those woods-women,” said Janar, also befogged with drink. “Simpler than courtin’ the girls back home!”

They all laughed, but Tol didn’t feel merry. When his comrades staggered out to find more wine, he remained in the tent. By the light of a tallow candle, he prepared his armor, honed his saber and spearheads, and continued to brood over the morrow.