Tol caught up with Miya, still supporting her injured father. He asked why she and the other Dom-shu were so far from their forest home.
Frowning at his gruff tone, Miya looked up at her father. “See? He is an ungrateful wretch! How’s Sister?”
He said she was fine, and coming with Egrin and the main body of the army. Relief flooded Miya’s face.
“Praise Zivilyn! She left the village with her burial beads, you know.”
Tol stopped in his tracks. He hadn’t known. When a Dom-shu warrior came of age, he or she was required to weave a headband that would be worn only when the warrior expected to die in battle. When Kiya had left her people to become Tol’s hostage and wife, her beads had remained with Voyarunta, To have brought her death raiment with her on this journey was an ominous sign.
Drums clattered and horns blared from the distant city. The southwestern gate-called the Centaur Gate for its representation of a tribe of galloping centaurs wrought in fine bronze-swung open. Horsemen six abreast trotted forth. Soon two hordes had deployed across the paved road leading southwest to Daltigoth.
More horns proclaimed the emergence of a third horde, and a fourth could be seen mustering inside the barbican. The presence of four thousand Riders meant Wornoth was no longer concerned about a handful of fleeing prisoners. He intended to kill Tol. Militia and escapees alike quickened their pace.
Tol finally noted the absence of Helbin, and Zala said he’d been captured. This likely meant the wizard was dead.
The group was moving as fast as they could. A flight of arrows arced up from the battlements of Caergoth and descended. The missiles fell far short, but the Ergothian hordes started forward in pursuit formation. On foot, and burdened with weak and wounded people, Tol’s band couldn’t outpace horsemen. The first Riders caught up with them, then passed by on either side.
There was no choice but stand and fight. He pushed his group hard until they reached a spreading oak, the largest tree in sight. The militiamen deployed in a circle around the tree. The escapees clustered around its base. Zala, Miya, Chief Voyarunta, and the Dom-shu warriors borrowed swords from the spear-armed militiamen and formed a tight group around Tol.
Without preamble or any call to surrender, the Ergothians attacked. They came straight in, and ran onto a wall of spears. Recoiling, they left a dozen dead and dying. Again they surged forward, on two fronts, trying to pinch the small band in two.
One Ergothian pushed his horse through the melee, thinking to come up on Tol’s blind side. Miya shouted a warning. Tol whirled, and his attacker’s blade met Number Six with a clang of iron on steel. Disengaging quickly, Tol sliced the saddle girth. Rider and saddle crashed to the ground. Tol thrust home through the armpit gap in the Rider’s breastplate.
After more furious fighting, the Riders withdrew. The reason quickly became clear-Tylocost was coming. The remainder of the militia was marching in two compact blocks, bristling with spearpoints. Behind them, cantering quickly, was the demi-horde of Riders Tol had left in reserve. The Caergoth hordes circled the slow-moving militia, looking for a weak spot to exploit. Doggedly, the two phalanxes came on. As Tol’s mounted men drew near, the Caergoth hordes pulled back.
“Their hearts aren’t in it,” Miya observed. Sweat plastered her short hair to her face, and she was breathing hard. There were no soft Dom-shu, but six years as a village mother had ill-prepared her for fierce combat.
As he watched the Caergoth Riders withdraw a short distance, Tol suddenly frowned. Riders of the Great Horde retreating after only a brief engagement with foot soldiers? And withdrawing in the face of a force of Riders only a quarter their strength? Understanding struck him.
“You’re right!” he declared. “Their hearts aren’t in it!”
Tol called for his cornet. A young fellow, once a journeyman brewer from Juramona, arrived and was told to blow “Parley.” The brewer didn’t know how, so Tol sang the four notes for him. The cornet repeated the notes properly and Tol slapped him on the back. “Get up that tree and blow until I tell you to stop!”
The lad clambered up the oak, assisted by the strong arms of several Dom-shu. After lodging himself in the high branches, he put the brass horn to his lips.
He had sounded “Parley” several times before the imperial horsemen took note. Silence fell as the hordes re- formed their lines. A delegation of eight horsemen advanced from the Caergoth contingent: four horde commanders, each with his standard bearer. Tol recognized those standards. The Lightning Riders, the Bronzehearts, the Caer Blades, and the Iron Falcons had served under him in the war with Tarsis.
The leader of this delegation also was known to Tol. A barrel-chested warrior with a forked black beard, Geddrig Zanpolo, commander of the Iron Falcons, was a formidable fighter and widely hailed as a brave warrior. His famous beard had been grown, it was said, to hide the deep notch cut in his chin by a wild centaur. Disarmed, grievously wounded, Zanpolo had slain the centaur bandit with his bare hands.
Tol decided to go out alone to meet the delegation. Such veteran warriors of the Great Horde would not talk to him were he accompanied by women, foot soldiers, or foreigners. He reckoned he could trust the honor of the warlord of the Iron Falcons.
He left the shade of the oak tree and walked out into the midday sun. He headed uphill through the trampled grass to a small ledge of weathered sandstone. This put him at the same height as the approaching mounted men, so there he waited.
Eight riders drew up in a line before him.
“My lord,” Zanpolo greeted him. “I was told you led this motley army. I am sorry to see it!”
“Save your sorrow. You see before you the advance guard of the Army of the East.”
“I know of no such army. Who created it? Not the emperor.”
“We created it ourselves. Nomads had burned and looted half the eastern provinces. Were we to sit idle simply because the emperor could not be bothered to defend his own people?”
“I wouldn’t,” Zanpolo admitted.
“This parley is illegal! We cannot treat with a proscribed man!”
This outburst came from a younger warrior at Zanpolo’s left, the commander of the Caer Blades. He added, “By rights, we should take his head and present it to the governor!”
The young warlord’s hand moved to rest on his sword hilt, but Zanpolo growled, “This is a parley, Hallack. I’ll cut down the first man who dares draw a blade!”
Tol relaxed. With this proof of Zanpolo’s honor, he decided to make the appeal he’d been rehearsing in his mind.
“Warriors of Ergoth,” he said loudly, for all to hear, “you know me. Some of you fought with me against the Tarsans. Ten years we fought together, hoot to boot, shoulder to shoulder. We were not city soldiers then, living in warm barracks and eating in taverns. For a decade we rode together, sleeping on the ground, eating from the same pot.
“After the war was won,^our late emperor, Pakin III, died and I was recalled to Daltigoth. So were many of you. There, while serving the new emperor, Ackal IV, I became involved in the machinations of the rogue wizard Mandes, who had done me much wrong. He was driven into exile and began a campaign of evil against the empire. I convinced His Majesty Ackal IV to let me bring Mandes to justice. This I did.”
The Riders, except for Zanpolo, showed signs of impatience. They knew this story. Tol’s next words erased their boredom.
“It was the worst mistake of my life. While I was away from Daltigoth, Prince Nazramin usurped the throne.” Anger bloomed on Lord Hallack’s face. Tol pinned him with a glare. “Yes, usurped,” he repeated. “Through the use of evil magic, Nazramin drove his brother mad, then had him deposed and murdered.
“When I returned from dealing with Mandes, the new emperor stripped me of my titles and authority, and had me beaten nearly to death. He could hardly allow the champion of his late, unhappy brother to go free, so he had me proscribed.
“For six years I have dwelt among the foresters, my friends the Dom-shu. There I learned again how decent and honest people behaved. We’ve long despised the tribes of the east as savages, but they treated me with fairness and generosity.”
Tol’s expression grew hard again. “Then the bakali and the nomads invaded the empire. Ackal V made only half-hearted attempts to defend the east, preferring to hold back the Great Horde to defend Daltigoth. With what result? Murder, pillage, fire, and waste! Juramona and a score of lesser towns are in ruins. Farms have been
