So it was with Valaran. She’d severed Tol from her life over ten years ago, but he was still there, a part of her soul. The missing part ached.
There was a cure, but she feared it would be worse than the pain.
Every day, more and more of the empire’s warlords arrived in Daltigoth, assembling from all parts of Ergoth. Some were battle hardened and trailworn, others softened by years of idle luxury. The first high lords from the armies at Tarsis reached the capital five days after Tol’s arrival. They brought news of the city’s final capitulation. The princes and syndics had submitted to all the empire’s demands, ceding coastal territory in Kharland, agreeing to remove the high tariffs on Ergothian trade goods and to use their navy to curb piracy, and allowing the establishment of an Ergothian garrison just two leagues from Tarsis.
Daltigoth went wild with joy at the news. The name credited with this considerable victory over a wily foe was Lord Tolandruth’s. Men who had served in Tol’s army came to his rented villa to pay their respects. As it would have been inhospitable to send well-wishers away without refreshment, Tol soon found his larder depleted and the Dom-shu sisters in revolt. Tol hired a cook and kitchen crew. To mollify Miya, who refused to allow anyone else to take over the marketing yet complained about the amount of food she had to purchase and organize daily, he himself agreed to help with the shopping. It would give him an excuse to get outside, moving among the people without ceremony.
On a gray morning four days after Tol’s vigil, he and the sisters wheeled an empty cart out of the villa gates, headed to market; that is to say, Tol pushed the two-wheeled cart, and Kiya and Miya walked ahead of him. The dawn sky was low and threatening. The smell of rain was in the air.
It took considerable muscle to manhandle the pushcart through and up the twisty, uneven streets of the Quarry district. When they finally reached the level of the city proper, Tol was sweating. He wore no armor, only a light linen shirt and leather trews. His heavy saber hung from his left hip.
The nearest market square was in the Old City. It was a long, rather narrow square, lined with temporary stalls and stands. The food sellers inhabited the south end; the north was populated by potters, tanners, cobblers-those who peddled items other than food.
Tol and the sisters, were at the south end, and Miya had already acquired a side of bacon from a butcher at a startlingly low price, when a commotion broke out at the other end of the square.
A gang of men erupted into the market, their faces concealed beneath blue scarves. They assaulted anyone within reach and tipped over sellers’ stands. From all around came screams and the cracking of wood. The noisy, crowded market fell silent as everyone looked up from their business toward the disturbance.
“Who wears blue?” Tol demanded, incensed. “Not some followers of the Pakin clan, are they?”
“I’ve heard talk about this band,” Miya said in a low voice. “Skylanders, they call ’em. They’re said to owe allegiance to a secret group of provincial landowners opposed to the new emperor.”
“Who do they prefer?” asked Kiya. “Prince Nazramin?”
Tol shook his head. “Nazramin’s followers wear black.”
The politics of Ergoth, like its war-making, was brutal. Factions formed gangs to intimidate their rivals; by committing outrages, they made their opponents look and feel powerless.
Tol knew nothing about these Skylanders or their beliefs, but he wasn’t going to allow vandals to wreak destruction. The square was crowded with more than enough people to subdue the criminals, if only the folk would band together and fight.
Tol drew his saber. “Are we going to stand here and let thugs ruin our city?” he shouted. “Fill your hands, and we’ll send these dogs back to their masters whipped! Who’s with me?”
He started forward a few steps but stopped, suddenly aware he was charging alone. Even the Dom-shu sisters seemed reluctant to mix in. The blue-masked gang continued to overturn carts and pummel helpless onlookers. Anyone slow to flee was dragged aside and beaten with cudgels, the gang’s only weapon.
“What’s the matter with you?” Tol raged, as traders and customers alike stood wide-eyed and unmoving. Those closest to him seemed more frightened of his bared blade than of the rampaging rioters fifty paces away.
Rabbits, he thought suddenly. They were like rabbits frozen in place by the baying of the hunting pack; they think they can hide simply by remaining immobile. Ordinary city folk, diligent and hardworking, they had grown dependent on the Riders of the Horde for protection.
Tol sheathed his sword. Going to a trestle laden with summer cabbages, he handed the seller two silver coins and yanked one of the folding legs loose from the table. Cabbages tumbled around Tol’s feet, and he now had a stout stick. Tapping it against his palm, he started toward the trouble.
Their indifference broken, the Dom-shu yelled for him to wait. They grabbed the first things to hand which could be used as weapons-the wooden poles from their pushcart. Removed from the sockets, these made handy staves.
As the ruffians ploughed through the crowded square, a swell of panicked people rushed to get away. Tol found himself breasting this human tide. He grabbed an able-bodied young man as the fellow rushed by and shook him until his teeth rattled.
“Listen to me!” he barked. He pressed a gold coin into the man’s hand. “Find the City Guards! Have them send a detachment here to quell the riot!”
The terrified man jerked away from Tol and resumed his panicked dash. Two heartbeats later, the stampede thinned before the oncoming Skylanders, and Tol found himself facing seven toughs. More were working their way through the frightened crowd.
Surprised to see someone standing up to them, they halted in a body, but the lull lasted only a moment.
“Him!” exclaimed one of the masked men, pointing at Tol with his stick. “Pound him into the cobbles!”
Yelling, six men charged. Tol sidestepped the first, whacking him across the shoulders in passing. The man pitched onto his face. Tol parried an overhand blow from the second, dropped his shoulder to avoid a hit from the third, and thrust the end of his bludgeon into the face of the fourth attacker. He received a whack on his left thigh from the fifth man. He punched that one in the throat, cursing himself even as he struck home. He knew better than to hit someone with his fist. It was an instinctual reaction, but also a good way to break every bone in your hand.
Ducking a sideways swing from the sixth man, Tol now found himself ringed by masked enemies. He wasn’t overly worried. Although they were rough and brutal, they weren’t trained warriors. He had faced any number of more seasoned and dangerous foes than these street toughs.
Unconsciously, Tol smiled, giving a snort. The contemptuous sound caused the blue-masked gangsters to hesitate; this was not the reaction they usually encountered. Tol immediately used the advantage. He hurled himself at the farthest one, the fellow least expecting an attack. The borrowed table leg connected with the thug’s jaw. Bone yielded, and the man went down.