It seemed impossible that they could overcome such a vast and imposing place. All Ackal V had to do was shut the gates, and the Army of the East would be powerless.
“They said we couldn’t get into Caergoth either,” Kiya said, reading her husband’s thoughts. She took the skin back from Tol and drank deeply.
Young Lord Quevalen muttered, “Why do we sit here alone? Where are the imperial hordes?”
It was a trenchant question. In the two days since the battle that had cost them Pagas and gravely wounded Egrin, the Army of the East had encountered no serious opposition. A handful of patrols, a few bands of hired archers was all the resistance they’d met, and all were quickly swept aside. Where were Ackal V’s vaunted ninety hordes?
Under duress, the customs officer Hathak had revealed that forces loyal to the emperor were gathering secretly behind the Army of the East. Minor crossroads north and south of the Ackal Path were the rendezvous points. Riders of the Great Horde had been sent out disguised as commoners, and only awaited word to take up hidden weapons and strike Tol’s men unawares from behind.
Hathak obviously believed what he told them, but after some rumination, Tol decided he did not. Since entering the Great Horde Hundred, they’d seen no more than two dozen farmers. Where were all these supposedly hidden warriors? Where were their horses? He felt the story had been planted by the emperor to keep them off balance, to keep them looking over their shoulders rather than straight ahead. His warlords agreed with this sensible assessment.
Since the army’s arrival at Emperor’s Knob, scouts had returned with other news. The city gates were shut tight, but there were signs that large numbers of mounted men had crossed the West Dalti River not more than two days ago-headed away from the city.
Now, as they stared at Daltigoth in the distance, Tol and his warlords were discussing this peculiar development.
“They mean to outflank us,” Mittigorn said. “With our attention fixed on the capital, the emperor’s hordes can sweep ’round behind us and catch us in a noose!”
Two Riders from Zanpolo’s horde arrived, interrupting the debate. With them was a stranger mounted on a sturdy cob and bearing a standard. The plain white disk on its top was not a horde symbol Tol or his warlords recognized.
“My lord,” said the young man. “I am come from my master, chief priest of Corij, of the great temple in Daltigoth.”
The assembled warlords muttered among themselves. Tol leaned forward on the pommel of his saddle. “Does your master have a name?”
The herald swallowed, glancing at the bored warlords at Tol’s back. “Xanderel, my lord. My master is Xanderel.”
“What word does the august Xanderel bring to us?”
“He seeks an audience, my lord, to discuss the grievances that have brought you here.”
Mittigorn and the other commanders of the landed hordes were delighted by the news; they believed the emperor was making overtures toward peace. The Caergoth lords, however, did not trust that interpretation.
“This is not Ackal V’s way,” Zanpolo said firmly. “Negotiate? This emperor only negotiates at the point of a saber!”
“This time he’s not dealing with foreigners, nomads, or lizard-men,” Trudo countered. “We’re warlords of the empire. Why not treat with us?”
Zanpolo shook his head. He was certain this was a trick.
Tol agreed. Ackal V was capable of the worst double-dealing. The whole situation smelled worse than a thief on a gibbet.
According to the herald, the parley would be attended by priests from the temples of Mishas and Draco Paladine, as well as a guard escort of one hundred Riders.
“A large retinue for a few priests,” Zanpolo remarked, as all eyes went to Tol.
He replied after only a brief hesitation. “We will meet your master Xanderel, at sunset, at our camp on the plain, a half-league north of the Dragon Gate.”
The delay plainly puzzled the herald, but he nodded assent and cantered away. As he was going, Miya arrived. She’d been helping nurse Egrin. The old marshal was conscious and improving, but had no use of his right arm.
Told of the proposed meeting, Miya sided with the landed warlords and saw the parley as a good sign. Her sister, predictably, sided with Zanpolo and the skeptics.
“It’s a trap,” Kiya said darkly. “Priests mean magic. Don’t trust them, Husband!”
Lord Quevalen, who knew Daltigoth well, disagreed. “The priesthoods are not happy with the emperor,” he said. “He taxes their holdings heavily, and it is well known that he slights the gods.”
Argument ended as work on the camp took precedence. Tol had delayed the parley for that reason. If Ackal V intended a surprise attack while Tol was talking with the delegation of priests, he’d find a fortified defense waiting.
As work progressed, Miya entered the tent she shared with her sister to find Kiya already there. She was sorting through her scant belongings and had divided everything into four small piles.
“What are you doing?” Miya asked.
Kiya pointed to the first pile, which contained two good knives, a helmet, and a ring mail shirt. “This is for Eli, when he’s old enough,” she said. “That”-a pile of doeskin shifts, leggings, belts, and such-“is for you, Sister.”
Ignoring Miya’s demand for an explanation, Kiya pointed to the third pile, comprising personal items such as her tribal fetish, a carved ivory comb, and a nicely beaded vest.
“For our father,” she said.
She pivoted to point at the final pile, which contained her sword, scale shirt, and greaves. Miya let out a horrified yell.
Kiya’s long horsetail of blonde hair was gone. Her hair now ended raggedly at the nape of her neck.
The elder Dom-shu sister laid the thick hank of hair, tied with a leather thong, atop the last pile. “This,” she said evenly, “goes to our husband.”
Dom-shu warriors only cut their hair before a battle they did not expect to survive. The hair was offered as a sacrifice to Bran, god of the forest.
Miya grabbed her sister’s hands. “What are you thinking? You’ve been gloomy ever since I found you at Caergoth!”
“You found me? Since when does a rabbit track a fox?”
Miya bit off a reply, refusing to be baited. “Why are you in such a hurry to die?”
Brown eyes finally met brown eyes, and Kiya said, “Because the final battle is near. I feel it.”
Miya felt it, too, but not for herself or Kiya. Her chief worry was Tol. “Will Husband survive, do you think?” she asked in a low voice.
Kiya frowned and said, not unkindly, “If a mountain fell from the sky, that man would survive it.”
A skirl of horns interrupted them, announcing the arrival of the delegation from Daltigoth. Kiya rose and buckled on her sword. “You watch the guards, Sister,” she said. “I’ll keep an eye on the priests. Agreed?”
For the first time in many years, Miya felt like weeping. Under her sister’s stern gaze, she struggled to swallow the lump in her throat.
Kiya spun her around to face the door flap and gave her a rude shove. “Hurry up. Ever since you became a mother, you’ve gotten so fat and slow!”
Miya forced a smile and replied, “I’m not fat. I’m only rounded. You’re sharp angles all over. No one would want to hug you!”
It was a lie. She pulled Kiya to her, and they embraced.
The delegation from Daltigoth arrived as the sun was disappearing behind the city. The priests filled four horse-drawn wagons. They were accompanied by a dual line of horsemen. Torchlight showed the escort to be a rather nondescript group, wearing indifferent armor. They looked like provincial levies. Tol’s warlords had expected to see imperial Riders, men they knew, but these horsemen were strangers.
Seven priests descended from the first wagon. All were clad in long white robes, topped by brown, hooded surcoats. All but one were quite tall. That one, the eldest judging by his yellow-gray beard, wore a golden circlet on his head. He was supported by a priest with a clipped brown beard who wore a white turban.