For two days the caravan from Juramona drove along, pushing through the thick commercial traffic streaming between the two greatest cities in the empire. Lord Enkian and his mounted escort rode straight down the center of the road, sending traders’ carts into the ditches and trampling any on foot who were slow to get out of the way. Tol’s blood boiled to see such high-handed treatment. He slowed his pace, allowing his foot guards and the supply wagons to fall farther behind the marshal’s party. He didn’t want to be identified with Enkian’s brutal progress.
On the morning of their third day out from Caergoth-about halfway to the capital-Tol and his men broke camp, took to the road, and found it deserted. After the constant activity of the previous days, the silent emptiness was unsettling.
Tol scanned the sky and horizon. The terrain was open on both sides of the road-low rolling hills and widely spaced trees. A few hawks wheeled in the bright blue sky, but there was no sign at all of other travelers.
Even the stalwart Dom-shu sisters were unnerved. For the first time since leaving Juramona, Kiya strung her bow and hung a quiver of arrows on her back. Miya armed herself with a staff, which was as thick as her wrist and as long as she was tall.
Tol divided his men into two groups, placing half on the right shoulder of the road and half on the left. Between these marching columns the ox carts proceeded. Tol and the sisters walked alongside the lead wagon.
The sun rose higher. At last they came to the place where it seemed Enkian’s troop had passed the night. They found hoofprints in the windblown sand on the north side of the road, fresh horse droppings, and trash left behind by the marshal’s escort. Though this was reassuring, they still could not account for the continuing lack of other traffic.
Before noon, Miya spotted a man on horseback ahead. He was sitting motionless in the road, watching their approach. His head was bare, and he was draped in a long, dark cape. When he didn’t move from their path, Tol held up his hand and halted the caravan. He arrayed a dozen soldiers in front of the caravan, telling them to stand fast with spears ready.
Tethered to the second supply wagon was a horse Egrin had thought to provide for Tol before their departure from Juramona. Tol mounted the animal and laid a spear on his shoulder. As he trotted toward the mysterious rider, the Dom-shu fell into place on either side, running swiftly on bare feet.
There was no point in telling them to stay with the wagons, so Tol simply rode on. Several paces from the stranger-well beyond sword reach-he reined up.
“Greetings,” he said. “I am Tol of Juramona. We’re on our way to Daltigoth. Will you give way, sir?”
The staring man said nothing. He was clean shaven, with short brown hair. Tol couldn’t tell if he was armed. Everything below his neck was covered by his voluminous brown cape.
Tol repeated his request, and the man raised a hand clear of the folds of his garment. A large golden ring shone plainly on his gloved forefinger when he extended his fist toward Tol.
There was a clatter on Tol’s left. Miya, her staff falling to the pavement, dropped like a stone. Kiya’s arm went over her head to her quiver before she too collapsed.
Tol thumped his heels into his horse’s flanks, but the poor beast shuddered and went down. Tol managed to slide off its rump so as not to be trapped beneath.
Sorcery! The man had put the sisters and his horse under some spell. But why wasn’t he affected?
The stranger was obviously wondering the same thing. He clenched his hand into a fist again, and Tol thought he saw a flicker of blue light spark from the sapphire set in the golden ring. Yet, though he braced himself, still Tol felt nothing. A quick glance over his shoulder showed him the whole of his guard, the drovers on their wagons, and the oxen too, all lay inertly on the road. They’d been felled where they stood, all affected by the strange man’s wizardry.
Gripping his spear, Tol charged the man. The fellow whipped his cloak back, revealing a mail shirt beneath, and drew a quite ordinary iron saber from his waist.
Tol caught the blade on the wide spearhead, whirled it in a small circle to disengage, then thrust at the rider’s chest. The man’s horse reared, flailing the air with its legs. Tol crouched low, wary of the heavy hooves.
Iron whistled past his ear, and Tol swung the butt of the spear in a wide arc. He caught his attacker in the ribs.
The fellow grunted under the blow, but his mail shirt protected him.
Tol fell back and assumed a spearman’s ready position. For two years, he and his foot soldiers had trained, learning by trial and error the best methods of battling mounted foes. The two things a lone man on foot had to remember were keep moving-his two feet were nimbler than a horse’s four-and get into reach. Tol had had his men’s spearshafts lengthened by four spans. With spears that long they could reach the face of an enemy mounted on the tallest horse in the world.
When the rider showed reluctance to press his attack, Tol lifted his spear to shoulder height and ran at him, shouting. The man tried to fend off the spear with his sword, but the saber was too light to turn the big spear away. Tol rammed the spear tip into the man’s chest. It snagged in his cloak and tore through, skidding off his armor. Although the point did not penetrate, the momentum of Tol’s charge knocked the man off his horse. He fell heavily to the pavement.
In the blink of an eye, Tol had a knee on the fallen man’s chest and a dagger at his throat.
“Yield!” he said, pressing the dagger’s point slightly into the man’s neck. It was the finely jeweled weapon given to him by Crown Prince Amaltar.
“Kill me, and your master will die an agonizing death!” rasped the man.
“Speak plainly, or die!” Tol declared. He dug the dagger in just below the man’s chin. Blood welled around the keen point.
“The marshal of the Eastern Hundred is our captive!”
“You lie! He rode with two hundred Riders of the Horde!”
The man’s eyes shifted toward the caravan. “How many lie insensible there?” Point well taken. “If I fail to return, your marshal and all his warriors will be slaughtered!” the man added.
Tol stood, dragging him to his feet. “You’d better pray no such thing happens,” he said coldly. “If it does, your death will be an agonizing one!”
Dagger firmly against his captive’s throat, Tol marched him along until they recovered the stranger’s horse. Tol tied his hands, shoved him onto the horse, and mounted behind him.
“Take me to Lord Enkian,” he said, pressing the dagger behind the man’s right ear. Sullenly, his prisoner complied, guiding his horse off Ackal’s Path. Tol looked over his shoulder at the Dom-shu sisters and his footmen, still slumbering, and prayed for their safety in his absence.
They rode north, into the hills. Progress was slow as Tol watched ahead, reading signs and tracks, always alert for ambush. Up a dry creek, the man pointed with his chin to a gap between two knolls.
“There. You’ll find your people there.”
Without another word, Tol used the heavy pommel of his dagger to knock the stranger senseless. Once the limp man fell to the ground, Tol traded the dagger for a saber. He wrapped the reins tightly around his left hand, took a deep breath, then thumped his heels on the horse’s flanks. The animal sprang forward.