When the shilder fell onto their bedrolls at last, they slept like dead men. So tired was Tol, he forgot to show his strange artifact to Egrin, or to ask Felryn if he could divine its purpose.
Chapter 7
East of the river, the Rooks and Eagles found clear signs they were not alone. They crossed wide areas of grass trampled flat by scores of cart wheels and hundreds of horses. Once they turned south, the evening sky ahead was illuminated by massed campfires; by day, stragglers and coveys of camp followers dotted the countryside.
Before noon on the fourth day out from Juramona, Egrin halted the horde and called in all his outriders. He climbed a convenient stump and addressed the youthful contingent among his soldiers.
“Lads, we’ll soon be joining up with warriors of the Great Horde. There are things you should know. The empire is wide, and those who serve the emperor come in all shapes, sizes, and colors. You’ll see many who dress differently, and bear strange arms. Don’t be distracted! Listen to your orders, don’t converse with strangers. You’ll be offered every sort of vice you can think of, and many more you haven’t yet imagined. No one expects you to behave like priests, but beware! Nothing is free. If an offer sounds too good to be believed, then believe it not. Pay up front for what you want, or you’ll pay a far higher price later.”
“Sir, what about the enemy?” called out a youth in the rear ranks.
“Your commanders will have an audience with the prince and his advisers, and we’ll know more after that. All I know myself is the enemy is said to be forest tribes, living in the Great Green. They’ve raided imperial lands around Caergoth, looting, pillaging, and carrying off captives.”
“Are they men?” asked Tol.
“Can’t say. We’re near enough Silvanesti land, there might be wild elves, Kagonesti, among our foes.”
Egrin got down from the stump and mounted Old Acorn. The Rooks and Eagles formed into a compact column and resumed their southern course.
Evidence of movement was all around them. Tol saw so many dust clouds he stopped counting them. Trampled grass became common, and the thickening stands of trees shielded sight but not sounds. All around them they heard the creak of harness leather, the fall of horses’ hooves, and the thump of wagon wheels. On ridges, the silhouettes of riders, all heading south, could be seen. One band in particular caught the attention of the shilder-a group of dark-skinned men in breech-cloths and wicker breastplates. Each carried a short bow and a sheaf of throwing spears-javelins, Manzo called them. They never overtook the Juramona horde, but merely dogged their heels. Their ghostly presence got on Relfas’s nerves, and he asked permission to chase them off.
“Think you can?” asked Egrin.
“Give me twelve horse, and I’ll banish them!” Relfas vowed.
“Take your choice, but no bloodshed, mind you.” To Tol, riding near him, Egrin said, “Will you go?”
Tol thought for a moment, then said, “No, I’ll stay with the column.”
Relfas picked twelve of the best riders among the shilder and led them off to chase the lightly clad riders away. Waving their sabers, they charged across the dusty plain. In a markedly unhurried manner, their quarry cantered behind a nearby hill. Relfas divided his eager group, sending four shilder out wide to cut the riders off, and leading the remainder behind the hill.
Tol twisted in the saddle, straining to see what was happening. Dust rose from behind the hill, but no horsemen appeared. A short while later, Relfas returned, his puzzled and dejected troop behind him.
“What happened?” Tol demanded.
“They vanished!”
Egrin, Manzo, and the other veterans laughed.
“Of course they vanished! Those are men of Alkel!” Manzo exclaimed, naming a province far to the west, on the shores of the sea. “They’re called Wind Riders, and it’s said they can disappear from sight-man and horse-in broad daylight.”
“You might have told us,” Relfas grumbled.
“Lessons are best learned by doing,” Egrin told the youth. “The Wind Riders serve the emperor as we do. They trail us for sport.”
Under the glaring noonday sun, the Rooks and Eagles emerged from a grove of hardwood trees onto a broad ridge. The air shook with the sound of hoofbeats, a ceaseless, rolling thunder. From the top of the ridge, they saw an awesome panorama spread out beneath them. Egrin halted the column and let the shield-bearers take it in.
The plain below was filled by a huge city of tents-hundreds and hundreds of them-tall, wedge-shaped tents in the southern style; conical canvas huts common to the Eastern Hundred; and vast, flat-roofed beehives called Daltigoth tents. Temporary corrals were sprinkled throughout the tent city. Most were filled with milling horses, but more than a few contained fat bullocks to feed the multitude. There was no fence of sharpened stakes around the camp. The site was so vast, there wasn’t enough timber available to surround it.
Smoke ascended from a thousand fires, and brightly colored banners hung limply from their poles in the hot, still air. Red was the dominant color, with gold a close second. In addition to the banners, horde standards were thick as daisies in an upland meadow. Egrin pointed out some famous ones: the crossed iron thunderbolts of the Red Thunders, the gap-toothed brass skull of the Deathriders, and the white onyx ox head representing the Bulls of Ergoth. Standards of nine different hordes encircled a huge tent in the center of the camp. With the addition of Lord Odovar’s three hordes, some twelve thousand warriors would be assembled to enforce the emperor’s will on the foresters.
“Raise our standard!” Egrin commanded. Men and boys cheered as the pole was lifted.
Egrin ordered them forward and called for another concerted cheer. “Let them know the men from Juramona have arrived!” he cried.
Chanting Jur-ra-mo-na! the newest horde in the emperor’s service descended the ridge to the camp. At the time, amid the noise and chaos of the vast assemblage, their entry was barely noticed. Only much later would many claim to have seen the Rooks and Eagles arrive.
Lord Odovar reached the encampment just after dawn on the next day with the balance of his army, completing the force poised to invade the forest known as the Great Green. Egrin, accompanied by his lieutenants and Tol, sought out his commander. They found Odovar reclining in the back of an ox-drawn wagon. The marshal’s breathing was labored, his right leg propped on a roll of canvas.
“My lord, are you ill?” asked Egrin.
“Ill enough,” the marshal groaned. “That cursed horse collapsed on me two days ago. Threw me to the road and sprained my right knee. Useless beast! I had his throat cut.”
An empty flagon dangled from Odovar’s fingers. Without being asked, a dusty servant filled it with beer from a wooden bucket.
“Can you walk, my lord? Prince Amaltar will expect us to present ourselves soon.”
“Damn the protocol,” Odovar grumbled, but he knew Egrin was correct. He called for help. Two sturdy footmen dragged him off the back of the wagon. Wincing, he tried to put weight on his right leg. It crumpled, and only with considerable struggle did the soldiers prevent the marshal from landing on his cherry-red nose.
Felryn ordered a crutch made from a pair of spearshafts. While the men saw to the erection of the tents, Odovar and the commanders of his three hordes prepared for their audience with the Crown Prince of Ergoth. Durazen the One-Eyed would not be going. As captain of the footmen, his position was too lowly.