“You won’t make me talk by showing me kindness,” he sneered.
“No one’s asked you to talk. Eat or not, as you please,” Tol replied, then bade Egrin continue his report.
The old warrior was marking tallies on a scrap of parchment. “With the arrival of the Silver Star Horde, our strength is now thirty thousand,” he said. “Plus two thousand, six hundred twelve foot soldiers.”
“We need more. I want fifty thousand men under arms by the time we reach Caergoth.” Tol poured himself another draught of cider and looked a question at Egrin. At his nod, Tol refilled his cup as well.
Across the folding table, Lord Argonnel said, “Why so many, my lord? Surely this campaign is winding down?”
A brown-bearded fellow of middle years, Argonnel commanded the Iron Scythe Horde, made up of gentry from the extreme northeast corner of the empire.
“This campaign has just started,” Tol replied. “Once the nomads are defeated, there will be other enemies to fight.”
The warlords made cheerfully belligerent noises. Lord Tolandruth planned to take on the lizard-men, too? So be it!
Lord Trudo, of the Oaken Shield Horde, raised another issue. “My lord, why did you leave command of the militia to that-to that elf?”
The question was not unexpected. After Tokasin’s defeat, Tol had gone with Egrin and Pagas in pursuit of the shattered nomads, leaving Tylocost in command of the Juramona Militia. The Juramonans, impressed by the Silvanesti’s skill and cool demeanor during the battle, accepted him without qualm. Veteran members of the landed hordes were not so open-minded. To lessen the conflict with the hordes (who regarded elves and infantry as equally suspicious), Tol had ordered Tylocost to bring the militia cross-country to a planned rendezvous. Tol’s hordes and Tylocost’s infantry would meet by the bluff where the eastern and western sources of the Caer came together to form the mighty river. It was at this spot, known as the Great Confluence, that Tol had found the Irda millstone decades earlier.
Tol plucked a grape from a bowl. “Tylocost is a great general,” he said. He popped the grape in his mouth. “I trust him.”
“But he’s Silvanesti!” Argonnel protested.
“So he is.” Tol turned to their captive. “Chief Mattohoc, would you let a former enemy ride in your warband?”
Mattohoc, eating awkwardly with his uninjured left hand, grunted an affirmative.
“Why?” Tol asked.
The chief swallowed and said, “Men fight for many reasons. Loot, glory, or a lust for battle. If I find an enemy who fights for other reasons, that man can stand beside me as easily as face me.”
“What other reasons?” asked Egrin.
“Honor, foremost.”
This drew a laugh from the warlords. All save Egrin and Tol scoffed at the notion of honor among such savages as the nomad tribes.
Tol asked, “Would you fight for me, Chief?”
Astonishment robbed the warlords of speech, and even Egrin was taken aback. The edges of the canvas roof flapped in the hot summer breeze, and a mockingbird’s complicated song sounded loud in the silence.
“No,” Mattohoc finally said. He wiped sweat from his shaven head. “My father was Krato, chief before me. When I was a stripling, he took the pay of the Tarsans and led our warriors in their service. They entered the land of the kender, on the way to join the army of Tylocost. By night they were ambushed and slaughtered. The commander of the grasslanders that so treacherously slew my father and kinsmen was Prince Nazramin, who you now call emperor!”
“The Battle of the Boulder Field!” Egrin exclaimed, remembering. “Nazramin’s warriors killed everyone, even those who surrendered!”
Mattohoc nodded. His father’s headless corpse had been found on the field of battle and brought home to his native range. Since then, Mattohoc had dreamed of the day he would avenge himself on the Ergothians.
“Every man in my tribe can tell a like story. You grasslanders take our land, kill our people, or make them slaves. I would rather cut off my own hands than lift a sword for you!”
Mattohoc did not accept Tol’s explanation that Ackal V, formerly Prince Nazramin, was his enemy, too.
“You fight to save him!” the nomad spat.
“We fight to save our country,” Egrin countered.
Mattohoc would not be persuaded. He clung obstinately to his hatred of all Ergothians. Reluctantly, Tol had him taken away. Even without his weapons and chiefly garb, he was still a redoubtable figure. He and Tol stared at each other for a long moment before he limped away, head held high.
Argonnel said, “He’s a forceful leader and a danger to the empire, my lord. If you set him free, he’ll organize his people again and attack!”
It was no more than the truth. Tol had hoped to make Mattohoc his ally, as he had Makaralonga and Tylocost. When he’d first met the doughty chief at the parley with Tokasin, he’d sensed in the Sand Treader a strong sense of honor. Unfortunately, Mattohoc had an even greater thirst for vengeance.
“He must be dealt with,” Egrin said. “In the name of peace and safety.”
Tol did not want to give the order. But as Egrin made to rise from the table, he knew he could not allow his old mentor to shoulder the responsibility that was, by rights, his.
“Mattohoc cannot be allowed to trouble the empire again,” he said quietly. “The order for his execution is given.”
Egrin saluted silently and took his leave. One by one the other warlords departed, until Tol sat alone. He got up from the table and left the shade of the tent. Closing his eyes, he lifted his face to the harsh sun.
A winding column of foot soldiers trailed back through the trees. They were an odd mixture: one-time farmers and town merchants, former guards and volunteers who’d never held a spear before the last time Solin’s face was new. Each man had his own reason for joining Lord Tolandruth’s cause. Some loved their homeland. Others wanted revenge against the hated invaders. More than a few, having lost their livelihoods to the war, saw a chance for loot. With Lord Tolandruth in charge, each had confidence in achieving his goal.
Leading the ragtag column were Zala and Tylocost. The half-elf still worried that Tol, without her to personally watch out for him, would get himself killed, in which case there would be nothing to protect Zala or her aged father from the empress’s wrath. Her fears had been temporarily forgotten, as she was forced to listen to Tylocost’s endless chatter.
By the gods, the elf could talk! History, politics, warfare, food, and gardening were his favorite subjects. After five days’ marching, Zala felt she knew enough to go into business as a gardener herself. At least he’d stopped calling her “half-breed,” although “girl” wasn’t much better.
They’d encountered armed nomads several times since leaving Juramona for the southward trek to the Caer River. At first, the warbands had attacked, seeing only a motley band of Ergothians on foot. However, finding themselves faced with Tol’s tactics and Tylocost’s generalship, the plainsmen quickly gave up the attacks as bad business. Horsemen now rode away as the marching men approached, and the sight of fleeing riders never failed to raise a, cheer from the foot-sore soldiery.
Their only serious contest came five days into the journey. Tylocost had kept them tramping forward after sunset that day, though they usually made camp at dusk. Stars began to dot the indigo sky and still they marched. Tylocost was certain the enemy was near, and that a fight was brewing.
Zala was startled by his calm certainty, but did not doubt him. Word was passed back through the ranks, and the marching men quieted. Helmets were donned, spears gripped a little tighter.
They were northeast of the Caer confluence, an area known locally as Riverine. It was hilly country, devoid of settlements and dotted with small, ancient woods. Several of these woodlands contained crumbling ruins, so worn by time as to be completely unidentifiable. Trees far older than even the long-lived Tylocost rose among the stones, endlessly, patiently, prying apart sandstone blocks the size of small huts. Although ruins of one kind or another dotted the land between Hylo and the Gulf of Ergoth, Riverine was particularly rich in obscure relics.