making peace with the slave rulers, but the rich merchants predicted it wouldn't last.
Fergox executed the officers who had been in charge on the day when the palace fell as a
reminder to the others what was at stake. He then ordered his troops to form up in their ranks,
ready for the onslaught.
"We're facing a rabble army that has been fortunate enough to meet with general incompetence
from those whose blood now stains the crossroads,"
Fergox said, gesturing to the headless officers thrown ignominiously to one side. "We'll pass
through the city like a cleaver through a carcass and retake the palace. Any civilian on the streets
may be counted an enemy and treated accordingly. When we have attained our objective, you
may teach the citizens of Tigral a lesson and reward yourselves for your loyal service to me."
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The soldiers thumped their shields. It was rare that Fergox gave them free rein to take plunder
after a victory.
"Now ride out!"
The army jingled into action: the infantry marching in tight squares of fifty men, the cavalry
sweeping along behind. Fergox had no interest in retaking his capital street by street. His plan
was to capture the center of power and then assert his authority over the rest. The slaves would
probably crumble at the first sign of real soldiers. They could not possibly have any experience
or training to match. He wouldn't be surprised if he was able to stroll in and win just by the
terror of his presence.
His views seemed to be confirmed by finding the city gates wide open to receive him. There
appeared to be no one mounting a defense--surprising because at the very least he expected the
most hardened slaves to try to prevent him from entering. He sent a division of his elite cavalry
troops ahead. They clattered over the cobbles, through the gate and into the square beyond. All
the shutters on the houses edging the plaza were closed, apparently abandoned. Normally this
area was dominated by an equestrian statue of Holin, which looked uncannily like Fergox sitting
upon his stolen blue roan warhorse. Today the god had been dismounted, leaving the rearing
horse riderless.
Cautiously the cavalry rode on, alert for any sign of resistance. The commander sent outriders
ahead to tell them what lay around the bend in the road. They didn't
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come back. He was about to send word of this to Fergox when a sound behind him made him
turn in his saddle. The old portcullis, unused for years, crashed down, dividing the cavalry from
the main body of the army. A huge man stood by the gate holding an axe, having just severed
the portcullis rope with one mighty stroke. Before the commander could give an order, the
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shutters on the houses flew open and missiles rained down on the riders.
They were caught in an ambush.
"Ride on!" shouted the commander, knowing he had to get his men out of this deadly valley. The horses clattered along the street, men falling from their saddles sprouting arrows from their
backs. They rounded the corner to come face to face with a barricade bristling with pikes and
sharpened sticks.
The commander tried to force his way through but his mount perished, driven onto a spike, and
the commander was trampled where he lay.
The massacre was soon over. Melletin grimaced as he surveyed the results of his plan: it had
worked perfectly but the aftermath was ugly. Horses scattered in riderless panic until caught by
rebels and quickly led away. The bodies of the men with scarlet threads in their beards and the
mounts that had perished were dragged off the streets to be buried later.
"First win to us, I think," Melletin said to Gordoc. "Take word to Ramil. Tell him Fergox is going to be really mad now."
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Fergox had no commander to punish for the fiasco as not one of his elite troops returned. He'd
underestimated the slaves, he admitted to himself.
Someone knew what he was doing. This put Fergox on his mettle. He still had nearly two
thousand men and knew the city well. He was not really concerned.
"Commanders Horg and Finuil, take your men and enter by the East Gate; Minol and Kay, yours
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is the West Gate. I will lead the rest by the North Gate, making straight for the palace. It appears
this rebellion has a thinking head; we have to cut that off before it can be crushed."
Fergox gazed up at his beautiful palace, home of his wives and younger children. The slaves had
probably killed them already as they had made no attempt to bargain with the lives of their
hostages. He had already decided that he would not treat with the rebels. He had grown-up sons
in his army--
enough to ensure his succession. Though it angered him to lose any child of his blood, he knew
they were a weak point if he allowed himself to become sentimental. As for wives, they were
replaceable.
Fergox crushed his reins in his fists. I'm angry, he thought in surprise. He had been in command
so long, used to people doing his wil without question; he had not been defied for years and
now it had happened twice since Midwinter. The strength of feeling reminded him of the early
days when his reckless passion for conquest had driven him to turn himself from small bandit
lord to ruler of the known world. He relished
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the merciless rage for a moment, like a rider enjoying the speed of a galloping horse, before
giving his commanders a chilling smile.
"What are you waiting for? I want the heads of all the rebels at my feet by nightfall, but make
sure you save the Dark Prince for me."
King Lagan watched from outside the walls of his city as Fergox's sister, the Inkar Yellowtooth,
led her troops from under the cover of the trees. His spies had reported their numbers, but
seeing the rank upon rank of men march onto the green meadows of his land, he felt his heart
constrict in his chest.
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He had delayed them as long as he could, sacrilicing many of his wardens in desperate
skirmishes in the forest, but now the invaders were here.
Lord Taris with his son behind him, both in full battle armor, rode up to the King.
"We are ready, Your Majesty," Taris said.
"It's going to be tough," Lagan replied, wiping his brow with his leather gauntlet.
"Yes, sir. But without Fergox's cool head to guide them, we have a chance."
"Not much of one."
"No, but stil ."
Lagan smiled.
A helmeted man on horseback, followed by twenty others, trotted forward from the city. His
armor was in the old style, embellished with swirls of bronze inlay.
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He paused before the King and bowed, then flipped his visor up, revealing an old face with fierce
blue eyes.
"Lord Egret and the Brigardian exiles reporting for duty, Your Majesty."
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"Ah, so you're Lord Egret," said the King, touching swords with the man in greeting. "May I say that your wife is a treasure?"
"You may, sir. And I'm here to defend her and all those of our nations who cannot fight."
Lagan thought the old man looked as if his fighting days should be over too, but there was a
steely glint in Lord Egret's eye that forestalled such comments.