For the first time, Kiya openly regretted Miya’s absence. The younger Dom-shu sister, a haggler of fearsome reputation, would have been fully equal to bargaining with the doughty Queen Casberry.
Once she’d spoken Miya’s name, Kiya fell silent. The sisters had never before been separated for so long. Although the stoic Kiya would never admit it, Tol knew she missed Miya terribly.
After Kiya finally agreed to go to Hylo, Tol went to make a tour of the growing camp, alone. He wanted to gauge the mood of the survivors. An entourage would only draw unwanted attention. As a concession to Kiya’s concern, he promised not to go beyond the outermost ring of shelters.
Duty and love had called Tol out of the Great Green, inspired by the strange visions he’d had in the forest, but as he walked among the exhausted, frightened people squatting by campfires, he felt a surge of anger. Witnessing the brutal hand of war laid upon the land and people he knew filled him with righteous outrage. He knew who was to blame-not the nomads, nor even the mysterious bakali. The true author of this misery was the Emperor of Ergoth.
In Tol’s view, Ackal V had betrayed his people by appointing incompetent warlords to command the empire’s hordes. The emperor demanded personal obedience from his hirelings; martial skill was secondary. This valuing of loyalty over skill could bring about the downfall of the empire.
As he passed among wounded women and children, Tol recalled that he had been favored by the gods never to fight in a losing battle. He’d seen warriors maimed and killed, but had never known the harsh hand of war on his own people. This destruction was a strange new experience. Seeing the people’s suffering brought home to him that it was not only defeated soldiers who paid the price for losing, but the soldiers’ families, and the village, farm, or town each warrior claimed as home.
Shame burned through him. To have lived forty years and only realize this now!
In spite of his own fury at the emperor’s failures, Tol found no corresponding resentment among the encamped Juramonans. Stunned resignation seemed to be the prevailing mood, followed by a thirst for revenge. Most disturbing were the scavengers, like Artan, who saw in the empire’s troubles an opportunity to enrich themselves. Artan himself had managed to slip away after his cache was confiscated. Stern measures might be needed to keep his kind in line.
As Tol passed by two families huddled around a blazing fire, an old man reached out and gripped his hand. Aged eyes looked up at Tol with desperate hope. Touched, Tol patted the oldster’s gnarled hand and bade him and the others good night.
Everyone was bedded down when he returned-everyone save the huntress. She sat, fawn-colored cape draped around her shoulders, facing the dying fire. Tol knew that the age of a half-elf was notoriously hard to judge, but in this light, Zala looked almost like a child.
“Trouble sleeping?” he asked.
Zala kept her eyes on the flickering flames. “I’m wondering when we’ll get to Daltigoth.”
“So am I.” He sat down next to her. Half-joking, he said, “Worried about collecting your fee?”
She lifted the leather pouch from around her neck and poured its contents into one hand. In addition to Valaran’s ring, Tol saw that a small gold locket lay in her palm.
“Here are the reasons I worry,” she said. “Your empress and my father.”
The locket was a plain golden disk, about the size and thickness of an imperial crown coin. Tol pried it open with a fingernail. Within was a small circle of parchment, carefully cut to fit the depression in the locket. Painted on the parchment in skillful detail was a portrait of a gray-haired human with pale eyes and a pointed chin.
Tol could see the resemblance between father and daughter, around chin and nose. He closed the locket, and Zala took it back, clenching her hand around it.
“If I don’t produce you in a timely fashion, the empress will have my father killed.” Tol scoffed at this notion, but Zala hissed, “She told me so to my face!”
“Zala, we are all taking risks. And if we fail, it’s not only our own lives that are lost”-he gestured at the people sleeping around them-“but the lives of those who love us, those who depend upon us.”
“It’s a terrible land that lives by such ways!”
Tol waited until she had returned the locket and Valaran’s ring to the leather pouch around her neck, then he said, “Gods willing, I will get to Daltigoth, but the route may be long and the way dire, and I need your blade, Zala. If I guarantee your father’s life, will you stand with me?”
“How can you make such an offer? Caergoth is far away, and ruled by a cruel governor!”
“I’m Lord Tolandruth. I have ways.” He smiled disarmingly. “Give me your sword, and I will do everything in my power to preserve your father’s life.”
She rested her chin on her updrawn knees, considering. Could this human be trusted? No one she’d met seemed to be neutral about Lord Tolandruth. Love him, hate him, fear him-everyone had definite ideas. She knew a bit of his history, knew he was the son of a farmer, the sort that Riders of the Great Horde usually trampled on their way to battle. Yet he had become their master, a general of armies and warlord of the Great Horde. Even Tylocost-haughty, infuriating Tylocost-had vowed to follow this peasant warrior.
Kaoth. That’s what the elves called it. Fate. One was either its victim or its master. Although she’d known him only a short time, Zala had no doubt which of those applied to Tolandruth.
She made up her mind. Rising gracefully to her feet, she looked down at him.
“Safeguard my father, and I’ll stand by you until this business is done.” Dark eyes bored into his. “You have my word.”
He gave his solemn promise. She would not take his hand, but nodded once and turned away to find her bedroll.
Chapter 7
Forty horsemen galloped up to the summit of a low hill, the highest point for leagues. Dawn was not long past, and pallid strips of fog still clung to the low places. At the riders’ backs, the silver stream of the Dalti River gleamed. Golden sunlight fell about the horsemen, promising heat later in the day. Lord Breyhard removed his helmet, already sweating. His slightly paunchy frame and prematurely graying hair made him look older than his thirty years. Standing in the stirrups, he craned his neck in as wide an arc as his armor would permit. “Where are the damned lizards?” he growled. Fifty hordes were poised behind him on the rich flatlands of the Dalti’s floodplain, ready to sweep forward at his command. Three days ago they’d crossed the river after a brisk fight. Since then, no sign of the bakali army had been found. Another fifty-eight thousand warriors waited on the opposite shore. They were to cross the river and take the enemy in the flank-once the enemy was discovered.
“Send word to General Crumont,” Breyhard ordered his nearest aide. Crumont commanded the fifty-eight hordes on the other shore. “Tell him to head south to Traveler’s Cove, and begin his crossing at once. He will establish a bridgehead and remain there until I summon him.”
The aide saluted with his dagger and put spurs to his horse. Another warrior moved forward to take his place. Breyhard addressed him.
“Vintox, lead the Red Hawk and Solin Star hordes on a sweep of the countryside north and east of here. The enemy must be there. Find them.”
Breyhard had reasoned, not poorly, that the bakali would withdraw to rougher, more wooded ground. If imperial horsemen could catch the slower-moving enemy foot soldiers in the open, the bakali would find themselves at a disadvantage. He was certain the bakali had retreated to the pine hills northeast of the river bottoms.
Vintox departed, and another warrior guided his horse forward to his general’s side, but Breyhard looked around. He wanted someone else.