Both kender seemed amazingly untroubled by the terrible events they were relating. They stood side by side, hands clasped behind their backs, rocking lightly from heels to toes.
“If nothing’s done, all of western Hylo may be depopulated,” Lanza said, frowning.
“An alarming prospect,” murmured the marshal, though he was suddenly smiling. The kender stopped rocking.
Kastel’s face was serious. “My lord,” he said, “the empire has trading rights in Hylo town, and in the ports of Windee and Far-to-go. Something must be done to protect life and property.”
Odovar drained his tankard dry, and bawled for more. “You can’t have it both ways, sir! Either my warriors go to fight the foresters, or they ride to Hylo. Which do you want?”
The great hall was quiet. In the stillness, the marshal’s son started hiccuping. At a wave from Sinnady, a lady-in-waiting scooped him up and hustled him away.
“The kenders’ request is valid,” Egrin said thoughtfully, “but an imperial order takes precedence, does it not?”
“It does,” declared Lanza, patting his forehead with a small white cloth. The robes of his office were heavy, and he suffered in the summer heat. The kender seemed fascinated by the beads of moisture trickling down his bald pate.
“Then this foolishness is a waste of time!” Odovar said, glaring at the kender. “My order stands. Prepare the hordes to ride to Caergoth.”
The kender opened their mouths to protest, and the marshal added quickly, “When the campaign against the forest tribes is done, I’ll send someone to look into your monster problem. I have no warriors to spare until then.”
The courier stroked his pointed beard thoughtfully. “My lord, could you not send someone now to discover the nature of the threat? Perhaps your seneschal?”
Lanza’s eyes widened in horror. “Me? Hunt a monster?” His mellifluous voice rose to a squeak.
“You need not fight XimXim, merely stalk and observe him.”
“Do it, Lanza,” said Odovar, bored with the whole discussion.
“My lord, please! I cannot abandon my duties as priest and seneschal, and I am not a young man! Travel is so difficult. My health-”
“You eat better than I do, and little less,” snapped the marshal. “Go with the kender! Take a pair of footmen with you to ward off danger. Find out exactly where-and what-this monster is, and report back here. That is my order!”
Lanza could only bow his head and withdraw, but the expression of terrified dismay remained on his sweaty face. The kender followed him, talking rapidly to each other.
“Poor man,” Egrin said under his breath.
“You fear the monster will get him?” Tol whispered.
“I fear that after two weeks among the kender, he may prefer XimXim’s company!”
The atmosphere of the town quickly changed. Heralds were dispatched to outlying estates to call the retired gentry to arms, and everyone in Juramona set to work preparing for the campaign, each doing his or her part to serve (or exploit) the situation. Unlike Odovar’s expedition against the local Pakin rebels five years earlier, this was to be a real campaign, shoulder to shoulder with hordes from all over the empire. In command of all would be Crown Prince Amaltar, eldest son of Emperor Pakin III.
Riders of the Great Horde mustered in the square where Vakka Zan had lost his head years before. Each rider had to provide his own arms, two horses, a shilder, and provisions for ten days. There weren’t enough shilder in training to accommodate every warrior in Juramona, so servants and stableboys were pressed into service.
Foot soldiers, chiefly the guards who manned Juramona’s wall and kept the gates of the town and High House, assembled in a side street. They were not considered very important in the scheme of war-making. Their chief job on campaign was to march with the supply train and protect it from bandits or enemy raids. Commanding them was Durazen the Lame, also called One-Eyed Durazen.
Once a Rider of the Horde, Durazen had not earned his injuries in battle. Blind drunk on a boar hunt, he’d fallen from his horse into a hayberry hedge. His leg was badly broken and he’d lost an eye to a hayberry thorn. No longer fit for mounted warfare, he had been given command of Juramona’s foot soldiers.
Besides actual fighting men, hundreds of ordinary folk in town prepared to go to war as well. Sutlers, blacksmiths, and healers, as well as quacksalvers of every stripe, packed their bags and waited to follow the warriors. A ponderous civilian wagon train formed up outside the wall. It was laden with everything from spare spearshafts to barrels of brown beer.
Tol had imagined war as a grim business, with hard-faced warriors gazing at the horizon, watchful for a cunning enemy. In truth, the preparations seemed more suited to a festival or fair. He saw his friend Narren among the footmen and Crake among the sutlers. Tall and lean, his heavy scale hauberk hanging from his shoulders, Narren looked calm as he leaned on his spear and listened to Durazen, mounted on a sturdy cob, rasp out marching orders. Crake, reclining on a canvas tarp covering a wagonload of beer, played dreamy airs on his flute. Tol knew Crake’s hunting bow would be stowed in the cart as well. Although he liked his ease and his pleasures, Crake never took chances. He wouldn’t dream of going into harm’s way unarmed.
Lord Odovar appeared on the back of a black charger. Sleek and powerful as he was, the animal looked strained by the massive burden he had to bear. Rumor had it the marshal weighed twenty stone-without his arms or armor.
“Poor beast,” Egrin said tersely, echoing Tol’s thoughts. “He won’t last five leagues. Odovar will be in a wagon before we reach the river Caer.”
Tol gave his own horse an affectionate pat. He still rode Smoke, the horse left behind by Spannuth Grane at Tol’s family farm. Smoke had proved to be a strong, clever beast, and Tol valued him greatly.
The whole of the army mustered outside the walls of Juramona, covering the pastures and road. Drovers lashed at unruly bullocks, and competing carters shouted and shook fists at each other as they jockeyed for position. Children and dogs ran among the files of stolid footmen who sweated in their mail jerkins. It was a sultry morning, heavy with the promise of more heat.
Odovar made a short speech that few heard, and even fewer remembered. He rode forth with his private bodyguard to the front of the three columns of horsemen. The center column was the horde known as the Plains Panthers, veterans of the civil war between Ackal and Pakin. The left wing, the Firebrand Horde, included the landed gentry and men of rank and wealth in the province. The right wing, the honor wing, was led by Egrin. Behind him rode eight hundred twenty-seven horse, including Tol and his shilder comrades. Though not a properly constituted horde, the right wing was given the name Rooks and Eagles, signifying their mixed nature-which combined youth and vigor with age and experience.
“Ho, you men!” Manzo called. “Bring out the standard!”
Two veteran warriors pushed their way on foot to the head of the column. Between them they carried the Eagle of Juramona, carved from the trunk of an ancient oak and painted in lifelike colors. It was twice the size of a normal bird, and as the men held it, a large pole was inserted into the base between its clawed feet.
“Too bad there’s no rook to go with him,” a shilder remarked. •
Egrin waved his hand in a circle like a conjurer. Grinning, the warriors turned the eagle around. Rather than the same brown and gold coloring, the bird staring out from the reverse had been painted black. It was cleverly done. Viewed from one side, the figure was a soot-black rook; from the opposite side, a noble eagle.