Chapter 6

Tahngarth coughed and spat a gobbet of dust-blackened spit into the parched earth. The beads in his hair rattled in the dry wind. The minotaur reached up behind his neck and adjusted the straps of the pack riding high on his muscular shoulders. He twisted his other arm, reaching inside the heavy fabric of his brocaded jacket. His thick fingers scrabbled against his chest, reached his armpit, and gave a long, satisfying scratch.

Around him soldiers of the Mercadian Imperial Guard

Fifth Regiment groaned in the unrelenting heat. A stench rose from their sweating bodies, almost palpable in the dusty air. Around them, the broad plain before the city stretched away into nothingness. Far to the west, a thick brown eddy of dust swirled, spitting out long tendrils of dun-colored grit.

A thudding of claws nearby made the minotaur look up. Astride a nettled Jhovall rode a familiar green form.

"Speed it up, men!" trumpeted Squee shrilly. "Keep dat line straight! Dress da front of the rear! Wheel behind da right of flank left!"

Since facing down a cateran enforcer a moonturning ago, Squee had pressed every advantage of his species. Goblins were accorded strange honors in Mercadia. It had taken Gerrard a whole week to convince his soldiers they did not need to listen to the "little commander"-that Squee in fact wanted them not to listen. After a month of training, the soldiers dutifully ignored Squee's commands. They marched steadily forward, looking neither left nor right.

With some difficulty, the goblin turned his large steed until he caught sight of the minotaur. "Hallo, Tahngarth. Didn't see you. Squee's having fun. How 'bout you?"

The minotaur's enhanced muscles bulged and swelled, and he bent his head without saying a word. He thought a good many words, though, and muttered a few under his breath.

Squee rode to the rear of the procession, where he found Gerrard, similarly mounted. The Benalian was sweating copiously. Near him, a group of young Mercadian nobles, dressed in the uniforms of brigadiers and generals, were being carried in litters by slaves. Other slaves walked alongside, waving large wood and parchment fans to create a continuous breeze upon the noble companions.

"Hoy, Squee! Everything going well up in front?" Gerrard asked, not expecting to get any real information from the goblin's answer.

"Oh, yeah. Great. Gerrard?"

"What?" The Benalian spoke through dry, cracked lips.

"Ain't you supposed to salute Squee when yer talking to Squee?"

Gerrard's lips moved, forming some of the same words Tahngarth spoke fifty yards away. Next, the Benalian thought sourly, the little goblin will expect to take Sisay's place as captain of Weatherlight.

That thought jolted Gerrard's mind back to the present. With a quick command he brought the party around in a right turn and then headed them back in the direction in which they'd come. Every day, every foray, the Mercadians improved a bit. He held up a finger, marking wind direction, and then rode up beside Tahngarth. "Well, what do you think? Are they ready?"

"No," the minotaur growled. "Their discipline is poor, and too many have not yet mastered fighting skills. If they were to confront properly trained soldiers, they would be slaughtered."

"I agree. From what Takara reports, the Cho-Arrim are more than trained soldiers. They're bloodthirsty head-hunters. It would be murder to march into Rushwood with unseasoned troops." Gerrard shook his head. "But from now on, we drive these enlistees harder… Who knows what those inhuman monsters have done with Orim?"

The shrill voice of Squee broke into the conversation. "Play dead! Everybody, roll over 'n' play dead!"

In unison, Tahngarth and Gerrard spoke a curse.

The vendor ran a hand lovingly over his display. It was hard to imagine that anywhere in the lands ruled by Mercadia was a farm that could best these farfhallen melons: firm, ripe, an edge of green showing along the creases in the rind. He drew the morning air into his lungs and let loose a bellow heard across the entire marketplace. "Fresh scarlet melons! Beautiful farfhallen melons! Ripe for the taking! Who'll take some nice, ripe farfhallen melons?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a long, thin arm reach for the fruit and pull one off the stand. Visions of adolescent boys, the bane of his existence, filled his mind, and he spun around, slapping down hard. An outraged squeal was heard, and the merchant found himself facing a small, green figure whose face showed surprise, anguish, and anger.

It was a goblin.

Yet this one was different. The merchant looked at the small green figure carefully. Like everyone else, he was well acquainted with Kyren, but this goblin was smaller than most. His eyes were dull and lacked the malicious glint of those who daily ascended the steps of the Tower of the Magistrate.

The farmer snatched back his hand as if it had been burned, his voice switching to a pleasant tenor. "I do beg your pardon, my good sir. I'm pleased my melons have found favor with you."

The thin, green face looked inquisitively at him. Behind the thief loomed an enormous brown figure, twisted horns brushing the top of the stall. The farmer gave a whimper of fear and stepped back away from his wares.

"Come, Squee. It's only a melon. Give it back and come along."

"But, Tahngarth, Squee's terrible hungry."

"You are always terribly hungry."

"Not always!" The goblin's face wore an injured expression. "But Squee ain't had a decent meal since we got ta this place." He looked disdainfully at the melon. "This place ain't got no proper goblin food. What 'bout bugs? What 'bout slugs? Squee ain't seen none around nowhere anyhow."

The farmer found his voice. "Pardon me, but the melons are scarce this season. There has been little rainfall in the lowlands, and Cho-Arrim raiders plague the caravans."

The minotaur gave a sour grunt. "Put it back and come."

"Sir, wait!" The merchant ignored the enormous brown creature and deferentially addressed Squee. "Allow me to offer you this melon-as a gift."

A young blonde woman, who had materialized by the minotaur's side, said to the merchant, "We apologize for our friend's behavior. We're a bit new to the city. We thank you for your generosity."

The fruit seller performed an obsequious obeisance. "Whatever our scaly friends desire."

The blonde woman wore an unsettled expression. "Yes, we've noticed."

"1 can't believe they already sent a contingent after Weatherlight.'" Gerrard growled, whirling his sword. The blade struck the practice dummy, shearing off its head. "I can't believe they didn't wait until our troops were trained!"

Takara took a deep breath of the dusty afternoon air. Gazing at the decapitated dummy, she said with dark humor, "If it is any consolation, the force they sent was slaughtered."

"Of course they were slaughtered!" Gerrard said. He kicked the post and snapped the thing in half. His troops on the practice grounds beyond stared with bald fear at their angry commander. "Of course they were slaughtered. Our fighters are the only fighters Mercadia has. It's taken us six weeks to turn these lazy sausages into fighting men. Anybody else would have been killed."

The Mercadians' eyes grew wider still. They stared down into the dust, practice swords hanging limp in their hands.

In six weeks, every last one had dropped in weight and bulked their muscles. They had learned to fight hard and bathe afterward. They were even beginning to be impressive with trident and sword, but still they feared their vitriolic commander.