Ten paces from the temple steps, the first wagon stopped. A dozen brawny Riders of the Great Horde braced themselves under its side and heaved upward. Iron helmets, ring mail tunics, bronze cuirasses, and axes clattered to the ground. The empty wagon was hauled away and another took its place. Wagon after wagon discharged their cargo, until the noisome heap was as high as the emperor on horseback.
The high priest of Corij, a solemn, long-bearded oldster named Hycontas, descended the steps. Once a Rider of the Great Horde, he was a provincial from the empire’s western reaches. His family were minor nobles, not particularly distinguished and only modestly well off. In Ackal V’s eyes he was little better than a peasant.
“Greetings to you, Great Majesty, and to your honored son,” Hycontas said. “It is a mighty gift you bring. The God of War has been well served.”
“Yes, at last. I sent too many fools to do what I should have done myself.” The emperor gave a tight-lipped, faintly mocking smile. “My apologies for the messy state of the offering, but time was short, and there’s much still to do.”
Hycontas bowed, his blue eyes sharp as icicles. “As Your Majesty says, but word has reached us the nomads have been defeated and dispersed back to their homelands.”
Surprise showed briefly on Ackal V’s proud face; he obviously wondered how word had reached the priesthood of the nomads’ defeat. His usual sneer returned quickly and he said, “Those country hordes had better toe the line! I won’t stand for any backcountry heroics!”
Hycontas bowed again. “Your Majesty rules with justice.”
Ackal V studied him for any hint of sarcasm, but Hycontas’s face showed only bland sincerity. The emperor wheeled his horse, turning Sirrion so tightly the horse’s long, dark red tail whipped past the high priest’s face. Hycontas did not react. For his part, Dalar had learned well his father’s abrupt ways and was holding tight to the pommel.
“When the dedication to Corij is complete, send word to the Arsenal, and the tribute will be removed,” Ackal V said over one shoulder, as Sirrion cantered back to the procession outside the temple wall.
Flies were gathering around the pile of gory trophies, and the sun’s heat only strengthened the rank odor of bakali blood. Hycontas ascended the steps to escape the stench. As he did, a shadow fell across him, cast by a single, large black vulture circling overhead.
Messengers come in all shapes, the old priest mused.
Chapter 22
Once Governor Wornoth’s capture became known, resistance to the Army of the East ended quickly. Only a small body of troops, the governor’s private guard, was imprisoned in the citadel. The streets grew calm. People seemed dazed, like sleepers awakened from a deep but troubled slumber. Refugees streamed out of Caergoth, leaving by every gate to every point on the horizon.
Tol and Egrin, standing on a balcony of Caergoth’s Riders’ Hall, watched the lines of ordinary folk leaving the city. The view was of the Centaur Gate and, beyond, the road running southwest toward Daltigoth. It was late afternoon, and Tol could hardly credit all that had happened since sunrise, when Zanpolo had escorted them through the city gate.
“It’s not wise to let everyone go,” Egrin was saying. “Those leaving should be questioned. There could be deserters hidden among them-loyalists who’ll carry word to Daltigoth about what happened here.”
“Good. Saves me the trouble of sending word to Ackal V of our coming.”
Egrin started to say more, but loud laughter erupted from the open doorway behind them. Tol smiled. “Sounds like the party is well underway.”
“Something else we must keep an eye on,” the old marshal said gloomily.
They went inside, entering the feasting hall that took up the entire second floor of the Riders’ sanctuary. As he had no intention of ruling Caergoth, Tol had set up his headquarters not in the governor’s palace, but in the Riders’ Hall outside the citadel.
A hasty banquet had been laid out, provided from Wornoth’s impressive larder. The scene within was a merry one. Around the huge table were gathered Zanpolo, Pagas, Argonnel, Mittigorn, Trudo, and the other warlords who’d joined Tol; Casberry and her bearers; the Tarsans, Captain Anovenax and Syndic Hanira; Tylocost; Chief Voyarunta; and the Dom-shu sisters.
The reunion of Kiya and Miya had been memorable. Kiya, riding beside Egrin, had spotted her sister in the mob surrounding Tol at the citadel gate. She dismounted and shouldered her way through the happy throng of Juramonans and city folk, and came up on her younger sibling’s blind side. Gripping Miya’s shoulder, she whirled her around.
“Sister!” Miya exclaimed joyously.
Kiya slapped her hard across the cheek. The people immediately around them fell silent, stunned by the sudden violence.
“How dare you come here! Why did you abandon your child?” Kiya demanded.
Miya planted her fists on her hips. “Abandoned? Eli has more aunts than an anthill!”
So saying, Miya slapped her sister back, knocking the blonde warrior woman sideways.
A handful of militiamen stepped forward to stop what they were sure would be a fierce fight, but Tol waved them off. The sisters, each with the red imprint of a hand on her face, glared at each other, until Kiya finally spoke.
“Not bad-for a mother.”
“Ha! You know our mother had a harder hand than the chief ever did!”
Voyarunta, standing only a few steps away, protested. The sisters simultaneously turned on him and said, “Quiet!” The Chief of the Dom-shu wisely obeyed.
The sisters embraced abruptly, each vigorously pounding the other on the back.
“By Corij, you stink!” Miya chortled happily.
“And you feel fat as a pig!” Kiya countered, laughing.
Now, when Tol and Egrin re-entered the feasting hall, shouts of greeting rose to meet them. The Dom-shu sisters, seated together, saluted them with a wave, and Pagas pressed a cup of foaming beer into Tol’s hand.
Hanira, looking cool and elegant in a gown of pale green silk, called for quiet. From her place at the end of the long table she lifted her goblet and pronounced, “To the conqueror of Caergoth!”
Casberry and the Dom-shu raised their cups and drank, but the Ergothians present looked embarrassed.
Egrin spoke up quickly. “Begging your pardon, Syndic, but we’re not conquerors. Liberators, yes, but Caergoth was and still is an imperial city.”
“And anyone who uses the word ‘rebel’ had better be prepared to draw iron,” growled Zanpolo.
Casberry snorted loudly. She now sported a multitude of gold bracelets and necklaces. These flashed brightly against her tunic of midnight black shot through with strands of crimson and gold.
“For victorious warriors you certainly know how to mince words,” she piped.
Tol shook his head. “No, Your Majesty. Lords Egrin and Zanpolo speak the truth. We have freed Caergoth, not conquered it.” He raised his own cup and amended Hanira’s toast: “To success, and good friends!”
He sat at the head of the table, facing Hanira. Egrin took the chair on his left, and the Dom-shu sisters were arrayed on his right, as befit his wives. By precedence, Queen Casberry should have had Hanira’s place of honor, but the diminutive monarch had chosen her location herself, the seat nearest the keg of lager.
They ate and drank heartily, and conversation remained jocular and light until mention was made of Wornoth, a subject Tol had been hoping to avoid. It was Hanira who broached the delicate subject.
“My lord, what do you intend to do with Governor Wornoth?”
Wornoth deserved swift justice for his many crimes against the people of his city and for his gross negligence in defending the empire. But the man was such a weakling Tol found it somehow shameful to order his death. Others obviously did not share his ambivalence.
“Hang ’im,” said Pagas. The other warlords agreed.
