provoke the prince, as he now rules the empire in his father’s stead. Worse to tell, Mandes must have altered or destroyed your reports, offering instead to the prince his own lies. He claims to have bested XimXim alone, and gave sole credit for the defeat of Tylocost to Lord Urakan, who he said died of his wounds on the very doorstep of victory!”
Sanksa clawed dirty blonde hair from his face and drained the flagon. “The final clod of dirt on your grave was a letter claiming, in your name, that ah you wanted from life was to remain in Hylo with the army until Tarsis was defeated. With Mandes performing wonders for him, Prince Amaltar’s fears for his own safety have been greatly eased, and he does not feel so strongly the need of a champion. So, my lord, you, Egrin, and the good men of Juramona are condemned by lies and villainy to exile at opposite ends of the empire!”
Stunned and silent, Tol wandered to the tent flap. Outside, the imperial camp was alive with activity as Lord Regobart’s new arrivals sought their billets.
“And Regobart?” Tol said, casting an ugly look over his shoulder at Sanksa. “Is he also a part of this web of deceit?”
“Egrin says Lord Regobart is not to blame for your predicament, being an honorable soldier and a loyal vassal of the emperor. ‘Serve him well, as you did Lord Urakan,’ Egrin told me to tell you,” the lanky warrior said.
Tol turned away, his shoulders hunching slightly in defeat. Rising to his feet Sanksa exclaimed, “Do not despair, my lord! The gods know virtue and will punish evil. You will best your enemies as you did XimXim and Tylocost, two mighty foes!”
Tol thanked the earnest warrior for his efforts and bade him stay in Tol’s own tent to rest and eat. He promised to make right Sanksa’s desertion.
Stepping outside the modest tent (he had ceded the larger one to Lord Regobart), Tol inhaled the cold air of early spring. It had been a morning like this, many years ago, when he’d gone to the onion field to work, and instead ended up saving the life of Lord Odovar. What would he be doing now if he had run away and left Odovar to the Pakin rebels? Still hoeing onions on a frosty morn? He banished such thoughts. There was no going back. Whatever destiny the gods intended for him, it was not on a hardscrabble farm in the wilds of the Eastern Hundred.
He looked south at the greening sward of forest between the camp and the plains of Ergoth. Juramona lay that way, and beyond, Daltigoth. Valaran was there. Had Mandes altered his letter to her, too? Loneliness like a fist gripped his heart. Had she been told he was staying away by his own choice? Would she believe that of him?
“My lord!”
The call did not penetrate Tol’s troubled thoughts. Fellen approached, saying, “The new infantry spears are ready for your inspection. Will you see them now?”
Tol’s gaze was still fixed southward.
After a moment, Fellen asked, “My lord?”
“Take it back!” Confused, Fellen asked him what he meant.
Tol looked at the engineer and proclaimed, “I will crush my enemies, and when they are dust, I shall take back what is mine!”
Fellen took him to mean the Tarsans. Later he would remember Tol’s words, and know the truth.
