black-bearded grin faded. “We also have fourteen prisoners.”
“Keep them under tight guard. I’ll want to interrogate them.”
Tol started back to the waiting army, but Wilfik caught his arm.
“Some of the prisoners are known to us, my lord. They looted Juramona, murdered many. Our men want to see them pay for that!”
“They’re prisoners of war,” Tol replied firmly. “I order them spared. They can give us valuable information about the larger bands of nomads.”
Tylocost fell in step beside Tol. Together they crossed the field toward the three companies still standing at attention.
“The deserters, my lord?” Tylocost said relentlessly. “One in ten?”
Tol halted. “Very well. See to it. One in ten-but no more, understand?”
With a nod, the elf departed. Tol studied his retreating back. Was that a smile on Tylocost’s face as he turned away?
Forty of the militia had collapsed from heat and fatigue while they’d waited for Tol’s return. They had to be carried by their comrades when Tol at last ordered the men back to camp. Ragged cheers greeted the victors. The aged, the young, and the infirm were buoyed by the sight of the fearsome nomads fleeing from their former victims. Tol’s name was chanted, but once he started shouting orders, the survivors of Juramona fell to, bringing food, water, and medicine to their defenders.
The captives were taken to a ruined stone house in Juramona. Fourteen rangy nomads-five women and nine men-sat disconsolately as glaring militiamen stood guard on the low walls surrounding them. Most of the nomads had minor wounds.
“Who is chief among you?” Tol called out.
Fourteen pairs of sullen eyes gazed at him, but no one answered. Tol repeated his question more sternly, and a blond youth with sword cuts on both shoulders spoke.
“Our chief is Tokasin,” he said. “He will hear of this outrage, and his wrath will be terrible!”
Tol laughed. “Every nomad in Ergoth will hear about this day. That’s for certain! Your days of terror are coming to an end!”
A black-haired woman with blue tattoos on her cheeks asked, “Who are you, grasslander? You’re not one of these sheep.”
He told them. From their nervous shifting, they obviously recognized his name.
Although he asked several times where their chief was, they would say no more. He ordered they be given food and water, but no treatment for their wounds until they decided to talk. The sergeant of the guard he warned to be alert for any who might show a change of heart.
Feeling bolstered, Tol returned to camp. On the way he saw soldiers routing out Seventh Company deserters who were hiding in the town’s ruins. The militia men had no qualms about arresting their former comrades. Their own lives had been put at risk when the Seventh ran away, and they were none too gentle about catching the cowards who had endangered them. Near the ruins of the town wall, a gang of workmen was knocking together salvaged timbers in an open area. As he passed this gallows, Tol’s fragile confidence gave way to gloom.
Zala, freshly scrubbed, was waiting for him at his shelter. She had bandages, a jar of ointment, and a basin of clean water. She ordered him to take off his jerkin and let her inspect any damage. Amused by her imperious tone, he did so, and she commenced scrubbing his back.
“Ow! What is that, sharkskin?” he complained.
“Quiet!” She resumed scrubbing at the dirt and blood with the coarse bit of wet cloth. “Some warrior! Can’t take a little cleaning!” She resumed with a vengeance.
The washing revealed that Tol hadn’t so much as a scratch. Zala muttered something about luck, and he smiled. Kiya was always saying he was the luckiest dolt the gods ever made.
Despite the roughness of her ministrations, Tol found his eyelids growing heavy. He hadn’t tasted battle in six years, and no amount of wood-chopping in the Great Green could substitute for the adrenaline rush of open combat. Exhaustion claimed him. His chin dropped to his chest.
Zala stepped back and regarded him in amazement. He was snoring! The great ox was asleep!
Tol shifted position, easing himself onto his side without ever waking. Zala watched him, a frown on her face. What she’d been through today would trouble her own sleep for many nights to come.
Ackal V let the empty cup fall to the flagstone floor. It was solid gold, cast in the reign of Ackal Dermount, but without wine in it, it was just so much cold metal. He reached for a full cup, this one of translucent crystal etched with the Ackal arms.
His private chambers were alive with revelry. Smoke from the roaring fire mixed with the smells of incense, sweat, and spilled wine. The emperor had decided to forget his troubles with a little celebration. Breyhard had failed, and his army was lost. Crumont had managed to return across the Dalti River and fall back to the Ackal Path, ready to defend the capital from a bakali assault. It had never come. The lizard-men disappeared once more into the rich farm country northwest of the city. The Great Horde was searching for them.
The only ones invited to this party were the Emperor’s Wolves and a few special guests, including Breyhard’s kin. His two wives were chained to pillars, with his three children cowering at their feet. Breyhard’s brother had been arrested as well, but the Wolves had been careless and allowed him to fall on a concealed knife, cheating the emperor’s vengeance.
Filthy, unkempt Wolves lurched around the captives, bellowing insults and drenching them with wine or cider. In the shadows beyond the firelight, Ackal’s hounds were savaging something: a beef joint from the cooking spit, or one of the servants-the emperor couldn’t tell which.
Ackal V got up from his couch, brushing aside a sodden courtesan. With the exaggerated dignity of the intoxicated, he smoothed his wrinkled crimson robe and tightened its sash. Without being called, Tathman appeared silently at his master’s elbow.
“I’ve neglected my guests,” the emperor said. “Come.”
Two Wolves had passed out while berating the dead warlord’s wives. Ackal roused them with kicks. Once they crawled away, he addressed the chained women.
“You know why you are here, don’t you?”
The elder wife, a plump, dark-eyed brunette, nodded curtly. The younger, red haired and half Breyhard’s age, only sobbed and hung slack against her bonds.
“I have decided to be merciful and spare your lives,” he said, weaving slightly as he tried to stand straight. “You will be consigned to slavery in Windgard.” This was the capital of the Last Hundred, the province at the extreme western end of Ergoth, south of the Seascapes and west of Thorngoth. “The marshal there will be your master, and will do with you as he sees fit.”
The elder wife pleaded, “Majesty, send me away, but please don’t punish the children. They can serve the empire well when they grow up, but as slaves, their lives will mean nothing!”
“The law is clear. A general who loses his army loses his life and family.”
The younger wife, red-eyed behind her ginger hair, cried, “Not me! Don’t send me away, sire! I married Breyhard only half a year ago-I thought he was to be a great warlord!”
He lifted her chin. “You married him for his position? Not love?”
“Yes!”
He let go her chin and glanced back at Tathman. “Have her head put on the wall.”
The woman screamed, but Ackal roared at her, “I’ll not have my warriors wedded to greedy, ambitious wenches!”
Tathman signaled to two reasonably sober Wolves. They took the younger wife away. As she shrieked and begged for her life, Ackal V calmly returned to the pillar holding the elder wife.
“Lady, I’m going to set you free,” he said. “You asked for your children’s freedom, not your own. You’re the kind of woman the empire’s warriors need. Take your children home and raise them to be better Riders than their father.”
Moving carefully but quickly, the elder wife gathered up her children. They disappeared into the darkness between the double line of columns.
Tathman was gnawing his long lip, staring after the departed group. “Speak,” Ackal told him.
