Silence reigned in the assembly. At last, the prince smiled and waved a hand at Chamberlain Valdid.
“Put that in the scrolls too,” Amaltar said. “I give the task of executing the captured Dom-shu chief to Master Tol, in token of his service to the empire.”
And so it was that six days later Tol found himself standing alone before the fighting men of Juramona, dressed in new leather armor and a brilliant white mantle. The three hordes-Firebrands, Panthers, and Eagles-and the shilder company, the Rooks, were drawn up on a hillside outside the imperial camp at Caergoth. They were awaiting the arrival of Crown Prince Amaltar. A south wind blew, piling clouds into gray pinnacles, promising much rain. Tol wore his empty saber scabbard, and an equally empty sheath for his war dagger. Even here, in the open air, the crown prince would allow no weapons near his person.
An honor guard two hundred strong thundered out of the camp. All rode white horses with bright crimson trappings. In their wake came more than a hundred mounted courtiers in their finery of velvet and silk, polished leather and thick brocade. Behind the courtiers were eight richly bedecked young women, each in her own chariot drawn by a pair of horses. The open, two-wheeled carts, the preferred mode of travel in the capital, were ill-suited to rough ground, and the women clung to their drivers as they bounced along. The eight women were Amaltar’s wives-polygamy was another custom reserved to persons of the highest rank.
The honor guard split into two sections, drawing up on each side of Tol. Courtiers formed a living avenue for the imperial party, and the chariots bearing Amaltar’s wives rattled down the line. They drove past Tol, pivoted, and stopped on the slope between him and his comrades.
At last, with the stately deliberation acquired by long practice, Prince Amaltar cantered up on his black horse. He rode well, and looked at ease in the saddle. That, like the crown of Ergoth, was his birthright. His ancestors, back to the great and terrible Ackal Ergot, had lived and died on horseback. In the words of the poet, the first conquest an Ergothian warrior had to make was “the kingdom of the saddle.”
Amaltar reined up. His personal entourage, including Lord Urakan and Chamberlain Valdid, fell into place behind him. All looked solemn and serious, save for Urakan. His beetling black brows met over his nose in a deep scowl aimed directly at Tol. The youth realized that although he might have won the gratitude of the prince, his deeds had annoyed the noble general in some unfathomable way.
“Tol of Juramona!” Valdid’s voice rang out over the whipping wind. “Advance to your sovereign lord, His Royal Highness Amaltar Ackal of Ergoth!”
Tol stepped forward smartly, striking his heels together as Egrin had taught him.
“Kneel,” Valdid told him. Tol did so, and the chamberlain intoned the ritual questions: “Are you a free-born man, bound to no other lord or state? Do you swear allegiance to the House of Ackal in the person of His Imperial Majesty Pakin III and his son, Prince Amaltar?”
Tol recited the answers he’d learned from Egrin. “I am a free-born man. I renounce all loyalties to any lord but His Majesty Pakin III, and his duly anointed heir, Prince Amaltar.”
“Arise, Tol of Juramona!”
Tol stood. The prince held out an empty brass scabbard, chased with the red ribbons signifying the House of Ackal. “My eye is on you, Master Tol,” Amaltar said, placing the scabbard across Tol’s upraised palms.
“I shall strive to prove worthy, Your Highness.” Tol hung the new scabbard from his baldric.
That should have concluded the ceremony, but Amaltar broke tradition. He drew his own dagger and presented it hilt-first to Tol.
“A personal token of my gratitude,” he said in a low, friendly tone.
Breathless with surprise, Tol took the weapon. It was magnificent-a chilled iron blade filigreed with gold, set in a cross-shaped hilt of burnished brass with a ruby adorning each tip. The handle was wrapped in silver wire. The pommel was a golden dragon’s claw grasping another ruby the size of a hen’s egg.
Courtiers and imperial wives strained to see what had passed from the prince’s hand to Tol. More disciplined, the honor guard and the Juramona hordes kept their faces front, but their eyes were full of curiosity.
Prince Amaltar turned his horse and trotted away, his entourage trailing behind him in strict order of precedence. The last man in the party was Amaltar’s valet, who gave Tol two heavy suede bags. Tol grunted under the weight of five hundred crowns.
The imposing array of chariots, horsemen, and soldiers departed in a swirl of hooves and flashing jewels. Once they were gone, a roar rose behind Tol. Grinning, he turned to see Narren leading the footmen in a hearty cheer of approval. They broke ranks and engulfed him, shouting, shaking him, and pummeling his back with painfully vigorous enthusiasm.
Tol pressed the bags of gold on Narren. “A crown to every footman in the guard,” he shouted in his friend’s ear. “And don’t forget Crake and Felryn!”
Word of this generosity spread through the crowd like oil on a fire. The cheers became louder, and two stout soldiers hoisted Tol on their shoulders. They paraded him around in a circle until Egrin and the mounted commanders broke up the celebration.
“Well done, lad,” said Wanthred. “A coup worthy of my own youth!”
Pagas, laconic as always, contented himself with clasping Tol’s arm and nodding his approval.
“We owe our lives to you twice over, Tol,” Egrin said. His remark plainly puzzled the youth, and he added, “If you hadn’t come to rescue us, we might all have been slaughtered. And if you hadn’t captured the elf and the forester chief, we would have been disgraced before the whole of the empire.”
Egrin added, “And now we’ve been ordered home.”
Pagas and Wanthred were surprised, so much so that Pagas broke his silence and piped, “By whose command?”
“The new marshal of the Eastern Hundred. By Prince Amaltar’s order, subject to the emperor’s approval, our new marshal is Enkian Tumult, lord of the house of Mordirin.”
The name meant nothing to Tol, but Pagas’s and Wanthred’s faces hardened with concern. Wanthred fell to stroking his silver beard, which he did only when deeply troubled.
There was much celebrating in the Juramona camp that night. Tol’s elevation and his sharing of the crown prince’s bounty did much to lift the spirits of the men demoralized by their losses in the forest.
The only group not happy were Tol’s own comrades, the shilder. Because they had elected to obey orders and stay behind at Zivilyn’s Carpet, they had done no fighting and so shared none of the glory. The success of the lowly foot soldiers who had accompanied Tol added further gall to their cup. Tol’s rival Relfas was bitterest of all.
Tol did not revel late into the night with the rest. He slipped away from the bonfire where the footmen were drinking and singing. His mind was not on the celebration but on the unpleasant task he faced at sunrise-the execution of Chief Makaralonga.
He walked slowly through the darkened periphery of the camp, deep in thought. Whatever happened, he was determined to spare Makaralonga’s life. Since the brutal death of Vakka Zan years ago, he’d had a horror of executions. Moreover, he’d given his word to Makaralonga that the chief would be spared if he surrendered. Imperial law or not, Tol intended to keep his word, but he couldn’t simply let the tribesman go. Lord Urakan was expecting Makaralonga’s head, and if it wasn’t forthcoming, Tol’s own head could easily take its place on the roof of the Imperial Palace.
“Your thoughts are loud.”
Tol flinched. Deep in the shadows stood Felryn, leaning against a wagon. The healer added, “You’re pondering how to spare the life of the forester.”