Flies were gathering around the pile of gory trophies, and the sun’s heat only strengthened the rank odor of bakali blood. Hycontas ascended the steps to escape the stench. As he did, a shadow fell across him, cast by a single, large black vulture circling overhead.

Messengers come in all shapes, the old priest mused.

Chapter 22

Once Governor Wornoth’s capture became known, resistance to the Army of the East ended quickly. Only a small body of troops, the governor’s private guard, was imprisoned in the citadel. The streets grew calm. People seemed dazed, like sleepers awakened from a deep but troubled slumber. Refugees streamed out of Caergoth, leaving by every gate to every point on the horizon.

Tol and Egrin, standing on a balcony of Caergoth’s Riders’ Hall, watched the lines of ordinary folk leaving the city. The view was of the Centaur Gate and, beyond, the road running southwest toward Daltigoth. It was late afternoon, and Tol could hardly credit all that had happened since sunrise, when Zanpolo had escorted them through the city gate.

“It’s not wise to let everyone go,” Egrin was saying. “Those leaving should be questioned. There could be deserters hidden among them-loyalists who’ll carry word to Daltigoth about what happened here.”

“Good. Saves me the trouble of sending word to Ackal V of our coming.”

Egrin started to say more, but loud laughter erupted from the open doorway behind them. Tol smiled. “Sounds like the party is well underway.”

“Something else we must keep an eye on,” the old marshal said gloomily.

They went inside, entering the feasting hall that took up the entire second floor of the Riders’ sanctuary. As he had no intention of ruling Caergoth, Tol had set up his headquarters not in the governor’s palace, but in the Riders’ Hall outside the citadel.

A hasty banquet had been laid out, provided from Wornoth’s impressive larder. The scene within was a merry one. Around the huge table were gathered Zanpolo, Pagas, Argonnel, Mittigorn, Trudo, and the other warlords who’d joined Tol; Casberry and her bearers; the Tarsans, Captain Anovenax and Syndic Hanira; Tylocost; Chief Voyarunta; and the Dom-shu sisters.

The reunion of Kiya and Miya had been memorable. Kiya, riding beside Egrin, had spotted her sister in the mob surrounding Tol at the citadel gate. She dismounted and shouldered her way through the happy throng of Juramonans and city folk, and came up on her younger sibling’s blind side. Gripping Miya’s shoulder, she whirled her around.

“Sister!” Miya exclaimed joyously.

Kiya slapped her hard across the cheek. The people immediately around them fell silent, stunned by the sudden violence.

“How dare you come here! Why did you abandon your child?” Kiya demanded.

Miya planted her fists on her hips. “Abandoned? Eli has more aunts than an anthill!”

So saying, Miya slapped her sister back, knocking the blonde warrior woman sideways.

A handful of militiamen stepped forward to stop what they were sure would be a fierce fight, but Tol waved them off. The sisters, each with the red imprint of a hand on her face, glared at each other, until Kiya finally spoke.

“Not bad-for a mother.”

“Ha! You know our mother had a harder hand than the chief ever did!”

Voyarunta, standing only a few steps away, protested. The sisters simultaneously turned on him and said, “Quiet!” The Chief of the Dom-shu wisely obeyed.

The sisters embraced abruptly, each vigorously pounding the other on the back.

“By Corij, you stink!” Miya chortled happily.

“And you feel fat as a pig!” Kiya countered, laughing.

Now, when Tol and Egrin re-entered the feasting hall, shouts of greeting rose to meet them. The Dom-shu sisters, seated together, saluted them with a wave, and Pagas pressed a cup of foaming beer into Tol’s hand.

Hanira, looking cool and elegant in a gown of pale green silk, called for quiet. From her place at the end of the long table she lifted her goblet and pronounced, “To the conqueror of Caergoth!”

Casberry and the Dom-shu raised their cups and drank, but the Ergothians present looked embarrassed.

Egrin spoke up quickly. “Begging your pardon, Syndic, but we’re not conquerors. Liberators, yes, but Caergoth was and still is an imperial city.”

“And anyone who uses the word ‘rebel’ had better be prepared to draw iron,” growled Zanpolo.

Casberry snorted loudly. She now sported a multitude of gold bracelets and necklaces. These flashed brightly against her tunic of midnight black shot through with strands of crimson and gold.

“For victorious warriors you certainly know how to mince words,” she piped.

Tol shook his head. “No, Your Majesty. Lords Egrin and Zanpolo speak the truth. We have freed Caergoth, not conquered it.” He raised his own cup and amended Hanira’s toast: “To success, and good friends!”

He sat at the head of the table, facing Hanira. Egrin took the chair on his left, and the Dom-shu sisters were arrayed on his right, as befit his wives. By precedence, Queen Casberry should have had Hanira’s place of honor, but the diminutive monarch had chosen her location herself, the seat nearest the keg of lager.

They ate and drank heartily, and conversation remained jocular and light until mention was made of Wornoth, a subject Tol had been hoping to avoid. It was Hanira who broached the delicate subject.

“My lord, what do you intend to do with Governor Wornoth?”

Wornoth deserved swift justice for his many crimes against the people of his city and for his gross negligence in defending the empire. But the man was such a weakling Tol found it somehow shameful to order his death. Others obviously did not share his ambivalence.

“Hang ’im,” said Pagas. The other warlords agreed.

“A dog like him doesn’t deserve honorable death by blade,” Trudo said.

“Wornoth will meet justice,” Tol promised, hoping that would be the end of the discussion.

He should have known better. Like a ropesnake, Hanira preferred to surround and strangle her victim slowly, rather than grant a swift death from venom.

She tilted her head. Sunlight streaming through the windows lent a sapphire sheen to her black hair, piled high on her head for this occasion.

“What does that mean, my lord?” she asked, smiling sweetly.

“Gotta execute him,” Casberry said, before he could respond. “He’s a murderous toad, and everybody wants his blood. If you spare him, you’ll look weak, my lord.”

The warlords began enumerating the evils of leniency. Angered, Tol smote the tabletop with his fist.

“Have I said I would spare Wornoth?”

The diners fell silent, and Voyarunta said, “You are chief here, Son of My Life. Do as you think right.”

Hanira sipped wine, preferring this to the beer the others drank. Her honey-colored eyes regarded Tol with amusement over the rim of her goblet. She said no more.

Tol firmly turned the discussion to other matters. “The time has come for some of us to part company,” he said. To Casberry: “Your Majesty, I thank you for your help. Without you and your people, we wouldn’t be in Caergoth right now.”

“If your neighbor’s house is on fire, better to grab a bucket than close the shutters.” She cocked a knowing eye at him, adding, “But Daltigoth is a different proposition, eh? No place for kender in the capital?”

The shrewd little queen had put her bony finger on the heart of the matter. The march on Daltigoth would be extremely dangerous. They had reached the gates of Caergoth unhindered by imperial forces because of Wornoth’s timidity, and his unshakable belief that his garrison, in truth quite powerful, was not sufficient both to defend the city and defeat Tol. Ackal V would have no such worries. Once he realized Tol’s army was coming, he would send the Great Horde to stop them.