sluggish ruler, with either a mutton joint or a tall tankard always in one hand. Dark whispers said the crack on the skull he’d received from Grane had changed him. Once he’d been harsh, but fair. Now he was cruel. Known before as a man of rough good humor, he had become suspicious and bitter.
Belly bulging over his thighs, he sat in his marshal’s chair, his children at his feet. Emea was a pampered nine year old who conducted herself as though she were empress of all Ergoth. Four-year-old Varinz was a good-natured boy, but overfed and lazy. On either side of Odovar were his two principal advisers-his consort Sinnady, and bald Lanza, priest of Manthus.
“Eh? Egrin? Took your time getting here, didn’t you?” Odovar said, gasping slightly.
“I was in the field, training the shilder,” replied the warden evenly. “I came as soon as I heard the horn.”
The marshal gave a grunt and reached down beside his chair for his tankard. He swallowed a long pull of beer, then burped loudly. Varinz giggled.
“Looks like we shall have some action at last,” Odovar proclaimed. “Too much peace has dulled our swords and widened our backsides!”
Egrin remained prudently silent, as did the rest of the assembly.
With another grunt, Odovar returned the tankard to its place by his chair. When he was upright once more, he said, “Call in the visitor-no, not the kender! The imperial courier!”
A lackey bobbed his head and hurried away. He returned shortly with a distinguished though travel-stained noble who wore the red livery of the imperial court. A mature man, he had a magnificent mane of iron-gray hair and a long, pointed beard. He saluted by striking his metal shod heels together.
Odovar waved a flabby, beringed hand. “Repeat your message for my warden.”
The courier turned and repeated his heel-clanging greeting.
“Are you Egrin, Raemel’s son?” he asked. At Egrin’s nod, the courier smiled slightly. “I served with you in the late Emperor Dermount III’s campaign on the north dales.”
Recognition flickered across Egrin’s face. “Yes! You’re-Karil-Kanel?”
“Kastel, son of Furngar.” The two men clasped arms as comrades and the courier said, “The years have treated you very well, son of Raemel. You seem unchanged.”
“Get on with it!” Odovar rumbled petulantly.
Kastel stiffened, resuming his formal manner, and said to Egrin, “There is to be war, my lord. His Imperial Majesty requires the high marshal of the Eastern Hundred to raise a force of four hordes, to be sent at once to join the army of Crown Prince Amaltar, now encamped at Caergoth.”
“Are we riding to Tarsis?” Egrin asked.
“No, warden. Our foes are the forest tribesmen of the Great Green. For many days they’ve been raiding the countryside south of Caergoth, stealing cattle, burning farms, and carrying off imperial subjects as captives. Worse outrages followed. Sixteen days ago, they attacked a hunting party and killed an imperial cousin, Hynor Ergothas. The emperor means to teach them a sanguinary lesson.”
The courier turned to Lord Odovar. “What is the fighting strength of your garrison, my lord?”
Odovar plainly didn’t know, and referred the question to Egrin.
“Two thousand, two hundred horse, plus six hundred ninety foot,” the warden said.
Kastel shook his head. “Not enough. His Majesty expects four thousand horse.”
Odovar laughed, his swollen belly bouncing. “Well, shall I put peasant spearmen on horses and call them Riders of the Great Horde?” He glanced at Tol, who stood a pace behind the warden. Tol kept his eyes down and his expression blank.
“If we recall retired warriors from their estates in the country, we might make up another two hundred horse, my lord,” suggested Lanza.
“Fine. Order it so,” said Odovar.
Onlookers in the assembled crowd murmured; such a move would be highly unpopular. One of the wise policies of long-ago Emperor Ergothas II had granted large tracts of virgin land to warriors of the Great Horde who had served the throne long and well. These retired soldiers had carved out enclaves, built fortified manor houses, and put the land to work, adding greatly to the wealth and prosperity of the empire.
In a louder voice meant to override the muttering, the marshal added, “How many shilder have you, warden?”
“One hundred six, my lord, but they’re barely half-trained.”
“They can finish their training on campaign. Nothing like real war to harden boys into men.” Again he laughed.
Lanza did the figures. “Three thousand, one hundred ninety… and six.”
“Best I can do,” Odovar said to the courier. “Convey my compliments to the crown prince and inform him three hordes will join him at his camp.”
“Yes, my lord.” Kastel bowed, unhappy. He would have to relate the unwelcome message to the emperor.
“Begin the preparations at once,” said Odovar with a wave of his hand. He groped for his tankard again.
“What about the other petitioners, my lord?” asked Lanza carefully.
The marshal snorted in his brew. “Fool kender! Run them out of Juramona!”
Kastel frowned at this casual dismissal. “My lord,” he said, “the kender of Hylo are the emperor’s vassals too. As they owe him their allegiance, so does he owe them protection. May I not hear what concerns them?”
Odovar’s face-always slightly flushed-grew even redder, quickly acquiring a near-purple hue. Lady Sinnady recognized the unhealthy rage that was now so quick to build in him. She leaned toward him, patting his hand and murmuring soothingly Following her example, the marshal’s children hugged his knees and did their best to jolly him out of his anger.
It worked, for now. His choler subsiding, Odovar said in a low voice, “Bring in the kender.”
A side door opened, and sentries waved in the new arrivals. They were fashioned like humans, except for their small stature and pointed ears. One had his long brown hair in dozens of tiny braids, each with brightly colored wooden beads worked in. These clattered noisily whenever he moved his head. His companion’s lighter, sand- colored hair was pulled to the top of his head and fell to the middle of his back in a single horsetail. Both kender wore homespun shirts over buckskin trews, and vests stitched in bright colors and decorated with painted beads.
“Hiya,” said the braided one. “Is this a ceremony?”
His partner thumped him soundly in the gut. “Hold your tongue, Rufus. These guys are important.” Spreading his hands wide and skinning back the sleeves of his shirt, he added, “Nothin’up my sleeve!”
Tol didn’t understand the gesture, but the kender went on without explaining.
“Me, my name is Forry Windseed.” Tossing his thick hank of hair to one side, he gestured at his braided companion. “This ugly joker is my brother-in-law, Rufus Wrinklecap.”
The braided kender, spread his hands also and shook out his sleeves. “Not
Windseed shook his head so that his beaded braids clattered and clashed. “Not a sapphire,” he said authoritatively. “Blue topaz.”
Wrinklecap’s snort was eloquent. “Topaz my a-”
“Explain yourselves!” thundered Lord Odovar, interrupting the high-pitched disagreement. Everyone present flinched, even Egrin, but the kender merely grinned.
“I bet he could kill it single-handed,” said Wrinklecap. “Did you smell his breath? He could knock ol’ Xim out with that-”
Odovar, face once again purple with rage, stood, and drew the sword hanging from the back of his marshal’s chair. The sight of sharp iron brought the kender at last to the point, so to speak.
“There’s this monster, you see…” resumed Windseed.
“Called XimXim,” his partner prompted. His Hylo accent made it sound like “Zeem-zeem.”
“We know the beast,” interjected Egrin. “The empire has sent warriors and mages to battle XimXim some eight or nine times.”
“I know of eleven instances myself,” said Kastel. “No survivors returned from any of them. Eleven
