“The city’s full of wizards,” said one soldier warily. “I hear they fly around the streets, casting spells on unwary folk!”
Another gave a disgusted snort, saying, “The emperor wouldn’t allow that! I heard tell they got houses faced with pure gold, and towers of stone so high eagles nest in the rafters.”
They wrangled about the supposed wonders of Daltigoth until Tol called for quiet. Those who wanted to go drew lots, and soon he had his hundred. Narren, he was pleased to note, was among those who made the cut.
The soldiers staying behind packed the supplies for the trip while those who were going fell into their beds to catch what little sleep they could before departure. When dawn finally broke, Tol was shaken awake not by one of the Dom-shu sisters, but by Egrin himself.
“Come, Tol,” the warden said. “Walk with me.”
In the next room, Kiya and Miya were stirring. An awful smell assailed Tol’s nostrils, probably Kiya’s breakfast. He pulled on a rough woolen cloak and followed Egrin outside. The warden led him around the corner of the house to a deserted alley, then turned suddenly and laid a scarred, strong hand on Tol’s shoulder.
“I want you to be careful!” he admonished with unusual verve. “There are many dangers, many vices in Daltigoth for a young man. Swear to me you’ll be careful!”
Tol smiled, scratching his bearded chin. “You said the very same to us before we entered the prince’s camp in Caergoth two years ago. And I’m not a child, you know.”
“It doesn’t matter if you’re twice as old as Zabanath! The temptations of an army camp-even an imperial one-are nothing compared to what you’ll face in the capital. And you not only have to avoid them yourself, but lead your men away from them, too.”
More curious than afraid, Tol asked, “What sort of temptations?”
Egrin looked away, obviously remembering some past adventure. “All the usual ones-drink and debauchery are there in mortal abundance. More subtle are the dangers from the young nobles of Daltigoth. They consider it vital to their reputation at court to fight duels and kill as many opponents as they can. Any excuse will do, so beware! And there are foreigners of every race, and thieves, footpads, procurers, cheats, liars, and killers for hire. Sorcerers abound, both licit and illicit, and they can ensnare the unwary in all sorts of dangerous schemes.”
It all sounded very interesting to Tol, but the concern in his mentor’s voice led him to say, “Aren’t you going with us, Egrin?”
“No. Lord Enkian must make the journey, so I am appointed to govern the Eastern Hundred in his place.”
That cast a damper on Tol’s enthusiasm. Egrin was his second father. Not in seven years had he been separated from the warden by such distance.
“I will be on my guard,” Tol said earnestly. “Besides, the giant sisters won’t let me come to harm.”
“You’ll take them?” asked Egrin, not displeased.
“We’re supposed to awe them with the might of the empire, aren’t we? What better place for that than the capital?”
Despite the young man’s assurances, Egrin fell into a melancholy mood. He knew no one came away from Daltigoth unchanged. The idea consumed him so thoroughly he could not bring himself to see the caravan off.
The sun had cleared the nearby hills and flooded the valley with golden light when Lord Enkian and an escort of two hundred horse rode out of Juramona. Behind them came the train of twenty-two wagons, guarded by the foot soldiers.
Tol marched his contingent through streets filled with well-wishers. His men were ah commoners, well known to the ordinary inhabitants who turned out to see them on their way. Traders in the crowd were no doubt pleased to see Miya among the departing contingent. Along the way, Tol spotted healer Felryn and his disciples from the temple of Mishas, Lord Wanthred and his retainers, and many familiar faces of former shilder who had not become full-fledged Riders of the Horde. He felt a twinge of sadness at not seeing Egrin, however.
Outside the walls of Juramona, Enkian reined up, hearing, behind him, the crowd’s cheers for the lowly foot soldiers. No such display had accompanied his departure. He did not care whether the peasants he governed approved of him, only that they obeyed as was proper, but their obvious affection for Tol still sparked a flame of jealousy in his cold heart. Lord Enkian’s lean, dark face set in hard lines, and he spurred his mount to a brisker pace. It would be a long way to Daltigoth, especially for those on foot.
The spring weather was fine as the marshal’s caravan wended its way down the high road south to Caergoth. Red bud and dogwood trees bloomed in purple and white profusion, and goldenrod covered the hillsides in drifts of yellow.
When they reached Caergoth’s stone walls, Tol’s soldiers and the wagons remained outside while Enkian and his mounted escort spent the night within. The evening was unusually warm, and traders hurried out from the city to peddle luxuries to the soldiers. Miya snared a wine merchant and wrung a cask of pale Silvanesti wine from him at a bargain price. Tol had his first taste of “nectar, “ as the elves called it, and decided he should stick to beer. The expensive and potent drink went down with deceptive ease.
Gossiping with traders, he learned more about their precipitous trip to Daltigoth than Enkian had revealed. A guild of powerful sorcerers had long desired to erect a great tower in the capital. The tower (and the buildings surrounding it) would constitute a kind of school of magic, where wizards of various orders could gather in safety and discourse with their fellows on the practice of their art. Several construction attempts had failed due to the Ackal-Pakin wars, but the time had finally come to lay the cornerstone of the Tower of Sorcery in Daltigoth.
To maintain his prestige before the great assembly of wizards, the emperor had summoned his principal vassals to the capital to attend the ceremony. Pakin III was determined to stand at the head of an imposing array of nobles, each of whom had hordes of trained warriors backing him. The message to the magicians would be plain: Tower of Sorcery or no, true power resided in the hands of the emperor of Ergoth.
No one could refuse the emperor’s call and keep his position. As head of one of the provinces farthest from the capital, the marshal of the Eastern Hundred had one of the longest journeys to make, but that made his timely presence all the more imperative.
That night, lying in the shadow of the wall of Caergoth, Tol gazed at the heavens, wondering what Daltigoth would be like. Kiya and Miya slept peacefully, one on either side of him, each in her own bedroll. So far they seemed neither excited nor anxious about the trip, taking every development in stride. On their arrival at Caergoth, the sisters spared the encircling walls and jutting towers a moment’s look, then went back to arguing with a sutler over a length of soft doeskin they wanted for gloves. Tol tried to impress them by telling them Daltigoth was much larger than Caergoth.
Miya asked, “Is it as big as the Great Green?”
He had to admit it was not. The forest covered an expanse one-third the size of the whole empire. So the sisters had shrugged, Kiya saying, “Daltigoth is not so big, then.”
Tol glanced at the sleeping women. He wished he could be so serene. His thoughts churned for the remainder of the night, spoiling his rest and making the next day’s march a long and weary chore.
Southwest of Caergoth, they reached the great imperial road, Ackal’s Path. Unlike the dirt track from Juramona, this road was broad enough for three wagons to drive abreast. Slightly higher in the center than on the sides, it was paved with stones pounded into a bed of sand. The Path, begun under Ackal Ergot, had been completed almost a century later under Ackal III. It was a magnificent feat, but legend held that when it rained, the paving stones turned red from the blood of the thousands of prisoners who’d died building the road.