There was no better news from the College of Wizards. Helbin’s successor as chief of the Red Robes, the wizard Eremin, reported they had at last broken through the veil that so long shrouded events in the east. They had seen imperial forces driving the nomads from the empire.
Eremin did not know the horde names, and so described the standards they’d seen. As Ackal V identified each one-the Plains Panthers, the Firebrands, the Corij Rangers, the Black Viper Horde-he grew more angry. All were landed hordes, the provincial gentlemen he loathed and had refused to call to duty.
Eremin was astonished by the emperor’s furious reaction to what he believed would be welcome news. With nomads raging throughout the Eastern and Riverland hundreds, surely it was better that the local hordes raise themselves, rather than allow savages to rampage unchecked.
The Red Robe could not tell his liege who led the landed hordes. The visions had not been that precise. He promised to work hard to improve them, but it was plain Ackal V already knew who was responsible for the uprising.
All this Valaran remembered as she watched the warriors in the plaza await the arrival of their supreme commander. Beset with doubts and fears, she held on to Tol as her lifeline. His love for her and his hatred of Ackal V were the greatest assets she had left.
In her mind she saw him, not as he’d been when they parted, beaten and lying in the back of a creaking cart, but as he had been when they first met, a vibrant young warrior, newly come to Daltigoth for the dedication of the Tower of High Sorcery. It wasn’t his broad shoulders or rough-hewn looks that had ignited her love, but his open mind and good heart. Too good, really. Born far from the fount of power, the peasant’s son was ill equipped to match wits with Prince Nazramin. Time and bitter exile should have cured Tol of his naivete, but she hoped the goodness remained.
Valaran’s thoughts were interrupted by the concerted roar from ten thousand throats, which silenced the pounding drums. The emperor had appeared.
Ackal V wore armor enameled in crimson and inlaid with gold. His head was bare, displaying thick red hair untouched by gray. The roaring cheer continued, grew even louder, and Valaran winced against the painful volume. Tyrant though he was, Ackal V was revered by the many Riders of the Great Horde. The emperor descended the palace steps to his waiting troops, revealing the tiny figure who followed behind him. Valaran caught her breath.
Dalar, dressed in a breastplate and helmet made just for him, moved hesitantly. The roar of the fighting men frightened him. Valaran’s hands ached to snatch her child back, for his sake and hers. All she could do was grip the ledge of the window before her, until the stone cut her palms.
Ackal’s horse waited at the foot of the palace steps. Sirrion, named for the god of passion and fire, stood sixteen hands. He was one of the special royal breed whose hide was a striking shade of ruby red. His mane and tail were a darker oxblood, and his broad, black hooves had been polished until they gleamed. Only those of imperial blood could ride horses of the Ackal Breed.
The senior warlord of the Warblade Horde stood by Sirrion, a position of great honor. Bending forward, the warlord cupped his hands. The emperor placed a booted foot in them and swung onto the magnificent horse. Another soldier hoisted young Dalar onto the pillion behind him. Alarmed at finding himself so high off the ground, the little boy clutched his father’s back.
Ackal V drew his saber. The chanting of the warriors ceased. The abrupt silence left Valaran’s ears ringing.
“Forward, Ergoth!” commanded Ackal.
The ten thousand horsemen took quite some time to funnel out of the Inner City gate, but Valaran remained at the window until all were gone.
Where in Chaos’s name was Helbin? She had to know what was happening in the east. More importantly, where was Tol?
The nomads clung stubbornly to their green bulwark, fending off sortie after sortie by the Ergothians. By this time the hordes had encircled the Isle of Elms completely, but every attempt to storm the forest stronghold, on foot or horse, was bloodily repulsed.
Night fell. A steer was roasted. Over beef and beer, the Ergothian commanders debated what to do next. There were two camps: those who wanted to attack again immediately, and those who thought it better to besiege the nomads and starve them out.
Egrin, to Tol’s surprise, was in the attack faction. Usually a cautious tactician, Egrin was not given to fire-eating. When he counseled immediate attack, Tol wanted to know why.
Firelight played on Egrin’s features. His half-elven heritage, carefully concealed from all but Tol, had kept him a vigorous warrior some three decades after their first meeting. In spite of their closeness, Tol knew almost nothing of Egrin’s life before that time. The former marshal was as taciturn as a Dom-shu.
“We don’t know what resources the nomads may have,” Egrin said, “but Lord Argonnel says there’s a spring in the grove, so they do have water.” Argonnel nodded. He owned large tracts of this land and knew it well.
Egrin went on. “Our men can’t sustain themselves unless we move and forage. If we besiege the nomads, we may end up being hungrier and thirstier than they are.” He spat into the fire. “Worse, while we delay here, the treasure caravan is making its way to Caergoth. I, for one, do not want to leave the caravan too long in the hands of a renegade elf and hundreds of kender.”
The other warlords agreed. Tol turned to Hanira, seated on his left and asked her opinion. She’d been silent through the entire council, eating little but imbibing quite a lot.
Face rosy from wine, she said flatly, “They’re savages. They should be slain to the last man.”
“If that means attack, then I agree,” said Kiya, on Tol’s right.
Tol also agreed. However, they needed a practical means for forcing their way into the Isle of Elms. They had no way of knowing how many nomads were there. Best guess was five or six thousand, but not all were fighters. Nomads traveled with their entire tribe, so a goodly number hidden in the elms would be old folks, children, and the wounded of earlier battles. Trapped as they were, the nomads could be expected to resist to the bitter end.
They wrangled, as old soldiers will, over the best way to assault the Isle. Simultaneous attack on multiple points was best, said some. Others were positive that quiet infiltration under cover of darkness would bring victory. Disguise a small group as nomads and send them in to confuse the defenders.
As they argued, Hanira left. Lord Mittigorn, returning from a trip beyond the circle of firelight, saw her heading in the direction of her pavilion in the Free Company’s camp.
“Just as well,” said Trudo. “Women and foreigners have no place at a council of war.” Kiya glared, but the callous old Rider did not apologize.
Egrin’s plan of infiltration was close to winning the day-fifty warriors would dress as nomads and sneak into the woods-when Pagas lifted his head suddenly.
“Something burns,” he announced, sniffing the wind.
The scent was stronger and greener than the dying campfire before them, which had been laid with dry wood. A freshening breeze brought more smoke. Mittigorn Cried out and pointed to the distant Isle of Elms. The formerly dark wall of trees stood out starkly against a dull red sky.
Fire. The night wind was driving flames toward the trees.
Tol took off at a dead run, Kiya at his heels. The warlords followed.
The source of the fire was soon discovered. Tarsans in brass breastplates were jogging through the waist-high grass, setting the scrub alight with torches. Tol grabbed one and spun him around, demanding an explanation.