Yes, Juramona teemed with ghosts.
Tol rode south, choosing an oblique course to the capital, one that would take him by his family’s old farmplace in the hills southwest. He hadn’t been there in six years, but he found the site readily enough.
It looked much as it had six years earlier, except that knee-deep snow now covered most of the ruined house and derelict pig pens. The walls of the root cellar where Tol’s mother had stored vegetables against difficult winters had collapsed, leaving a shallow depression overlaid by snow.
He sat silently, looking over the barren scene. Snow flecked his beard and dappled Tetchy’s sleek black hide.
A solitary figure caught his eye. Draped in many layers of fur, the fellow walked slowly up the path from the old onion field. Tol rode slowly toward him. He recognized the trappings of a fur hunter-a coil of rawhide snares, wicker basket carried on the back, the knobby club for dispatching trapped prey. The trapper crunched along atop the snow, his feet supported by woven willow snowshoes. Tol’s father had worn such snowshoes. He hadn’t seen their like in twenty years.
He greeted the trapper. The fellow halted, regarding the mounted warrior uncertainly.
“Greetings, m’lord.”
For a moment Tol thought the stranger recognized him, then with a flash of memory, realized the peasant likely would address any mounted stranger that way.
“How fares the fur trade?”
“Well enough, m’lord, well enough.” The trapper gestured to the lead-gray sky, adding, “Snow’s good for business.”
The fresh snow would make tracking the trapper’s prey-rabbit, stoat, and fox-much easier.
“Are you a local man?” Tol asked.
“Lived here all my life, m’lord.”
“Did you know the family who lived on that farm, over yonder?”
“That I did. Bakal and Ita, yes.”
Tol’s heart beat faster. “What became of them?”
The trapper rubbed his bearded chin with a mittened hand. “Lemme see, it’s been a while. Bakal, he took sick some winters back. Ita took him to the city to find a healer. Never come back.”
To his family and this trapper, “city” would likely mean Juramona. Was it possible his parents lived in the town he’d just left? He shook his head at the idea. Bakal would never have abandoned his holding, not as long as he drew breath.
The trapper was edging away, thinking the conversation at an end, but Tol asked, “What about the children? They had three, two girls and a boy.”
“Long wed and moved on. Don’t know about Nira, but I think the older girl, Zalay, lives over by Gooseneck Creek with her family.”
“And the son?”
“Oh, left a long time ago. Went into the army, I think.”
Tol was surprised. Had the local folk forgotten him, or did they not identify Bakal’s son Tol with the famous Lord Tolandruth?
He let the trapper go on his way. Snow flew from the man’s shoes as he hurried by, looking back now and then to make certain he wasn’t being followed. Tol wasn’t offended. The fellow must have had encounters with warriors before. No peasant craved the company of armed, mounted men.
Continuing south, Tol encountered hunters and herdsmen, peddlers, itinerant healers, and vagabonds of every stripe. Their ranks were thin, it being the winter season, but the life of the Eastern Hundred endured regardless.
A day out from Caergoth he began to meet a steady stream of travelers making for the city. They were not tradesmen, but refugees. They moved in small caravans of four to eight ox-drawn wagons. More than a few wagons were being drawn by people, the oxen having died on the trek. By the cut of their clothes and the accents he heard, Tol figured them for easterners, from outside the empire. There were a lot of them, and as he drew closer to Caergoth, their numbers grew. By the time he reached the walls of the city, the snowy fields were black with a mob of miserable foreigners, all seeking the protection of the imperial governor.
The gates were closed, and Tol had to shout for admittance. A fur-clad guard answered him insolently until Tol delivered a few choice words.
“My lord!” the guard stammered. “Forgive me! I’ll admit you at once!”
The refugees huddled in the snow nearest the gate stirred when they heard the postern creak open. A squad of soldiers rushed out with spears leveled and held the people off.
Spotting an officer among them, Tol asked, “What goes on here, Captain? Who are these people?”
“Outlanders from the east, my lord. Folk from Thel, the plains of Duran, farthest Karth.”
“Why are they here?”
“They’re coming to every town and outpost on the eastern edge of the empire, my lord. They speak of invaders driving them off their land.”
When Tol entered, the captain’s men backed in after him, keeping wary eyes on the refugees. Several thousand souls clustered under the walls of Caergoth. Wagons had been turned into shanties, and crude hide tents covered both sides of the road.
“Why do you deny them entrance?” he asked, indignant.
“Governor’s orders, my lord. He fears disorder.” The closing of the postern boomed a counterpoint to the captain’s words.
Tol fumed at the injustice of it but wasted no more time with the captain. He touched heels to Tetchy’s sides and they entered Caergoth at a brisk trot.
Although smaller than the capital, Caergoth considered itself a more sophisticated, cultured city. There were several schools within its walls, including the famed Silvanesti Academy, as well as the library of the Temple of Gilean, reputed to be the largest depository of books in the empire. It was also a clean city; twice a day in winter, laborers were paid to clear snow and refuse from the main streets.
Tol rode directly to the governor’s palace and demanded an audience. In doing so, he bypassed a long line of favor-seekers waiting to see the governor. Much grumbling followed in his wake, but none dared gainsay the mighty warlord Tolandruth, especially considering his grim expression.
He expected to see Micantar, an old crony of the late emperor, Pakin III. Micantar had been governor of Caergoth since Tol was a lad. However, the tall, carved chair was occupied now by a much younger man unknown to Tol.
He saluted and gave his name. The governor looked up from the document he was reading.
“You broke the line,” he said sternly. “Go back and wait your turn.”
“I am Tolandruth of Juramona!”
A nod. “So you said. And I am Wornoth, governor of the province of Caer and the Great Green. Now that we’ve waved our titles at each other, try to behave in civilized fashion, won’t you?”
Tol turned back the edge of his fur-lined cape and rested a hand on his saber hilt. The motion brought guards running.
Wornoth rested his chin on his hand. “You warlords are all the same. The slightest opposition, and you resort to violence.”
“I haven’t resorted to anything-yet.”
“Very well. You’ve disrupted the orderly pageant of life here. What is it you want?” Wornoth asked, finally setting aside his scroll.
Tol answered as calmly as he was able. Shouting would get him nowhere with this bloodless functionary. “There are several thousand people outside your walls, dying of hunger and cold. What are you doing about it?”
Wornoth’s straight brown hair was parted in the center. He brushed the long locks away from his shoulders and sat back, crossing his legs under his blue robe.
“The garrison is not sufficient to drive off so many,” he said, shrugging.
“I wasn’t suggesting you attack them!” Tol snapped. “Let them in the city. Feed them!”
“Impossible.” Wornoth picked up his scroll again.
