The exercise swiftly became a free-for-all, all notion of organization lost, every boy battling every other. Disgusted, Egrin was about to put a stop to the fight when a low, bleating note echoed from the nearby walls of Juramona.
“An alarm?” asked Felryn.
Egrin shook his head. “A recall.” He stood in his stirrups and shouted. “Form column of fours! We return to Juramona! Everyone keep your place-I’ll be watching!”
Two guardsmen led the column of boys back to town. Egrin frowned at the passing youths.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“They’re good boys,” the healer said. “They’ll find the knack-”
“No, the recall. Can you sense anything?”
With his long, strong fingers, Felryn grasped the image of the goddess Mishas he wore around his neck. Creases appeared in his forehead.
“You’re right… trouble,” he muttered. “Conflict. The source is not clear, but it comes from afar.”
Egrin grunted. “Well, Tarsis has been quiet too long, I guess.”
The tail of the column passed, and he and Felryn fell in behind the last four boys.
Juramona had grown along with Tol. It now boasted four thousand inhabitants, the largest imperial town between Caergoth and Hylo. Prosperity had come with the end of the civil war between Ackal and Pakin factions.
After Lord Morthur Dermount, alias Spannuth Grane, had disappeared, the Pakin Pretender was hunted down and slain while to trying to escape across the sea to Sancrist Isle. Lord Morthur was proscribed by the crown, and a bounty was placed on his head. Rumor had it he’d fled south, to find shelter in the city of Tarsis, Ergoth’s trade rival and sometime enemy.
A messenger awaited Egrin at the Householders’ Hall. The lord marshal commanded his presence. Egrin, his two lieutenants, and Tol, his shilder, went at once to the High House.
Entering the audience hall, Egrin saluted Odovar. “My lord,” he said. “I am here. What is your will?”
Five years of peace had not been good to Odovar. From a burly, impetuous warrior he’d become a fat, sluggish ruler, with either a mutton joint or a tall tankard always in one hand. Dark whispers said the crack on the skull he’d received from Grane had changed him. Once he’d been harsh, but fair. Now he was cruel. Known before as a man of rough good humor, he had become suspicious and bitter.
Belly bulging over his thighs, he sat in his marshal’s chair, his children at his feet. Emea was a pampered nine year old who conducted herself as though she were empress of all Ergoth. Four-year-old Varinz was a good-natured boy, but overfed and lazy. On either side of Odovar were his two principal advisers-his consort Sinnady, and bald Lanza, priest of Manthus.
“Eh? Egrin? Took your time getting here, didn’t you?” Odovar said, gasping slightly.
“I was in the field, training the shilder,” replied the warden evenly. “I came as soon as I heard the horn.”
The marshal gave a grunt and reached down beside his chair for his tankard. He swallowed a long pull of beer, then burped loudly. Varinz giggled.
“Looks like we shall have some action at last,” Odovar proclaimed. “Too much peace has dulled our swords and widened our backsides!”
Egrin remained prudently silent, as did the rest of the assembly.
With another grunt, Odovar returned the tankard to its place by his chair. When he was upright once more, he said, “Call in the visitor-no, not the kender! The imperial courier!”
A lackey bobbed his head and hurried away. He returned shortly with a distinguished though travel-stained noble who wore the red livery of the imperial court. A mature man, he had a magnificent mane of iron-gray hair and a long, pointed beard. He saluted by striking his metal shod heels together.
Odovar waved a flabby, beringed hand. “Repeat your message for my warden.”
The courier turned and repeated his heel-clanging greeting.
“Are you Egrin, Raemel’s son?” he asked. At Egrin’s nod, the courier smiled slightly. “I served with you in the late Emperor Dermount III’s campaign on the north dales.”
Recognition flickered across Egrin’s face. “Yes! You’re-Karil-Kanel?”
“Kastel, son of Furngar.” The two men clasped arms as comrades and the courier said, “The years have treated you very well, son of Raemel. You seem unchanged.”
“Get on with it!” Odovar rumbled petulantly.
Kastel stiffened, resuming his formal manner, and said to Egrin, “There is to be war, my lord. His Imperial Majesty requires the high marshal of the Eastern Hundred to raise a force of four hordes, to be sent at once to join the army of Crown Prince Amaltar, now encamped at Caergoth.”
“Are we riding to Tarsis?” Egrin asked.
“No, warden. Our foes are the forest tribesmen of the Great Green. For many days they’ve been raiding the countryside south of Caergoth, stealing cattle, burning farms, and carrying off imperial subjects as captives. Worse outrages followed. Sixteen days ago, they attacked a hunting party and killed an imperial cousin, Hynor Ergothas. The emperor means to teach them a sanguinary lesson.”
The courier turned to Lord Odovar. “What is the fighting strength of your garrison, my lord?”
Odovar plainly didn’t know, and referred the question to Egrin.
“Two thousand, two hundred horse, plus six hundred ninety foot,” the warden said.
Kastel shook his head. “Not enough. His Majesty expects four thousand horse.”
Odovar laughed, his swollen belly bouncing. “Well, shall I put peasant spearmen on horses and call them Riders of the Great Horde?” He glanced at Tol, who stood a pace behind the warden. Tol kept his eyes down and his expression blank.
“If we recall retired warriors from their estates in the country, we might make up another two hundred horse, my lord,” suggested Lanza.
“Fine. Order it so,” said Odovar.
Onlookers in the assembled crowd murmured; such a move would be highly unpopular. One of the wise policies of long-ago Emperor Ergothas II had granted large tracts of virgin land to warriors of the Great Horde who had served the throne long and well. These retired soldiers had carved out enclaves, built fortified manor houses, and put the land to work, adding greatly to the wealth and prosperity of the empire.
In a louder voice meant to override the muttering, the marshal added, “How many shilder have you, warden?”
“One hundred six, my lord, but they’re barely half-trained.”
“They can finish their training on campaign. Nothing like real war to harden boys into men.” Again he laughed.
Lanza did the figures. “Three thousand, one hundred ninety… and six.”
“Best I can do,” Odovar said to the courier. “Convey my compliments to the crown prince and inform him three hordes will join him at his camp.”
“Yes, my lord.” Kastel bowed, unhappy. He would have to relate the unwelcome message to the emperor.
“Begin the preparations at once,” said Odovar with a wave of his hand. He groped for his tankard again.
“What about the other petitioners, my lord?” asked Lanza carefully.
The marshal snorted in his brew. “Fool kender! Run them out of Juramona!”
Kastel frowned at this casual dismissal. “My lord,” he said, “the kender of Hylo are the emperor’s vassals too. As they owe him their allegiance, so does he owe them protection. May I not hear what concerns them?”
Odovar’s face-always slightly flushed-grew even redder, quickly acquiring a near-purple hue. Lady Sinnady recognized the unhealthy rage that was now so quick to build in him. She leaned toward him, patting his hand and murmuring soothingly Following her example, the marshal’s children hugged his knees and did their best to jolly him out of his anger.