Without further ado, the eastern gate opened and a double line of horsemen emerged. At the same time, a small band of people on foot, drably dressed in brown and gray, rose up from the tall summer grass near the city wall and started running toward Tol’s position.
“Stand ready!” Tol boomed. “Close ranks at my command-and not before!” To the elf: “Can you make out who they are?”
Tylocost stared across the distance, concentrating. Fine lines grooved his forehead and the corners of his close-set eyes.
“Twenty or so kender.”
The kender troop moved across the open field. The horsemen-several hundred Riders of the Great Horde-
drew sabers and spurred forward. Their targets were the kender, not Tol and his troops.
The kender kept together until the horsemen were almost upon them. Then, as though in response to some silent signal, the little band scattered, each kender heading in a different direction. As the Riders swerved to chase the various foes, their disciplined line was reduced to confusion.
Tol laughed. Tylocost pushed back the brim of his gardener’s hat and muttered a phrase in his own language.
“I’m beginning to see why you recruited them,” he said. “They’re damned infuriating, aren’t they?”
“Best skirmishers in the world. Fighting a band of kender is like trying to count dandelion seeds in a gale!”
After several embarrassing collisions and much disorder, the Ergothians sorted themselves out. By that time the escaping kender were filtering through the open ranks of the Juramona Militia. Tol called out to one familiar face.
“Curly Windseed! Where’s your queen, and the humans she went to save?”
The brown-haired kender scrubbed his nose. “They lit out for the other side of the city. Nice of you to meet us, by the way.”
Tol saluted the brash little man. “My pleasure. How was the city?”
“Crowded.”
From one of his many pockets, Curly pulled out a bandanna to wipe his nose. Assorted trinkets-^-bracelets, rings, coins, and even a tiny silver cup-cascaded to the ground. Quite unabashed, he stuffed these back in his pockets and followed his fellows over the hill, angling north by northwest.
“The treasure’s that way, you know,” Tylocost said.
Tol sighed. “I know.”
The pursuing Riders, once more arranged in two neat lines, trotted through the high grass to within bowshot of the militia. One, bearing the emblem of a herald on his helm, detached from the rest and rode directly to the two mounted men. He hailed them, asking who they were.
Tol responded in ringing tones: “I am Tolandruth of Juramona! In command of the Army of the East!”
Although disconcerted by Tol’s name, the herald looked askance at the men ranged behind him. “Army of the East? This, uh, rabble?” he said.
“This is only the vanguard. We’ve come from the Isle of Elms, where we defeated the Firepath nomads and slew their chief, Tokasin.”
“Huh! What do you want here?”
Tol had been pondering that very question. He wanted his people back alive-Miya, Zala, Queen Casberry, and the rest of the Dom-shu. However, his men expected more. So did the landed hordes who had given their sabers to his service. The nomad menace was over. Although the bakali were still a threat, the true danger to the empire, he admitted to himself, was Ackal V.
“I have come to accept the surrender of Caergoth,” he said after a long pause.
Decades of experience allowed Tylocost to mask his astonishment. The herald had no such reserves to call upon. His jaw dropped open.
“You have taken up arms against the rightful emperor of Ergoth!” he sputtered. His horse pranced nervously, and he jerked on the reins. “You dare to threaten rebellion against His Majesty Ackal V?”
Slowly, Tol drew Number Six and rested the blade across his thighs. His voice once more boomed out, rolling across the quiet field.
“The rest of the army, thirty thousand Riders, is coming. I have no wish to shed the blood of loyal warriors, so all those who wish to may leave the city. The governor and his councilors will remain to face the justice of the people they have wronged. I give you two marks to comply, then I will take Caergoth by force.”
The herald could scarcely credit his ears. Was the man before him insane? He stared at Tol’s grim face, finding no answer there, nor in the annoyingly superior expression on the face of the ugly Silvanesti who rode at his side. The men at his back wore equally determined looks.
The messenger shut his mouth with a snap. “I regret your coming death, my lord. I served with Lord Urakan in Hylo, seventeen years ago.” Directing an angry look at Tylocost, he added, “Your choice of allies these days shows how grievously you have lost your way.”
He yanked his mount’s head around and cantered back to the waiting Riders. Even across the distance it was plain they were astonished to learn Tol’s identity and message. At length they formed up and returned to the city.
When they had gone, an odd ripple in the grass presaged the arrival of Queen Casberry. The green stems were taller than she.
“Your Majesty! Are you alone?” Tol said, looking anxiously behind her for signs of Miya and the rest.
“No kender is ever alone,” she said. Casting a glance over her shoulder, she added, “The rest of the party is coming along shortly, but they’re not alone either-if you know what I mean.”
Tylocost drew Tol’s attention to traces of dust rising in the air. It appeared Miya and company were being pursued.
“You enjoy this sword stuff so much, I leave the rest to you.” Casberry strode past, head held high.
At Tol’s order, a hundred men formed in close order before him. He dismounted and handed his reins to Tylocost.
“Stay here. If the garrison comes out, call up the Riders, and stand and fight.”
Although plainly unhappy with the decision, the elf nodded grimly.
Tol and the company of soldiers jogged away. They descended the slope of the knoll and veered northward, eyes fixed on the plumes of dust moving toward them. On their left, along the wall of Caergoth, the flapping of signal flags tracked their progress.
All of a sudden they found what they sought. Some forty people were struggling through the grass, hampered by the elderly and wounded comrades. Zala carried an aged, unkempt man on her back. Her father, Tol reckoned. The man whose life he’d guaranteed.
Taller than the rest was Voyarunta. On his thigh a hastily arranged bandage was soaked with blood. He was supported by his younger daughter.
Relief flooded through Tol and he shouted Miya’s name.
“Husband!” she cried, her strained, sweating face breaking into a smile. “Make yourself useful!”
When the pursuers came galloping over the rise, they were surprised to find, not unarmed, ragged prisoners, but armed infantry ready to meet them. Tol’s men had formed a hollow square with the escapees inside. The leading Riders hesitated, and the whole troop milled about for a moment. Re-forming, they charged, waving sabers and shouting. The Juramonans, hardened by screaming nomad attacks, stood firm, and the Riders pulled up when they saw the militia wasn’t going to break.
Taking advantage of their indecision, Tol ordered, “By section, close ranks and advance!”
The men on the far side of the ring moved in to fill the gaps between the men on the engaged side. Then, with spears ported under their arms, the whole troop advanced on the horsemen.
The startled Riders stood their ground, hacking at the spearpoints with their sabers, but the compact band of foot soldiers kept coming. Horses lost their footing in the confused press and toppled, throwing their noble riders. Alarmed, the captain of the Riders called for retreat.
Tol let them go. Eight Riders had fallen, either wounded or unconscious, but the Juramonans hadn’t lost a man. The militia backed away as the escaped prisoners scurried to safety.
