From a league away, Juramona was a heap of ashes. Ribbons of smoke rose from debris that had once been houses, halls, and places of commerce. As Tol’s party of five approached, still on foot (no horses having been found to speed their journey), frightened survivors fled. Kiya tried calling out reassurances, but no one listened.

Closer, the town’s charred ruins revealed worse sights. The smoldering piles contained not only burnt wood, shattered crockery, and twisted metal, but broken skulls and blackened bones. Not a dwelling was left standing.

Atop the motte, the highest point in town, stood the remains of the High House, the marshal’s home. Tol led his group up this hill. The going was slow and treacherous, as the way was impeded by heaps of charred timbers and broken masonry. The air shimmered with heat still rising from the ruins. They were forced to tear apart some obstacles and clamber over others. A slab of bricks gave way under Egrin, and only Kiya’s quick hands saved him from a nasty fall.

As they ascended, Tylocost held back from the labor. However, sharp words from Tol caused the elf to fall in beside Zala and help pull down a soot-stained length of Wall that barred their way.

The marshal’s dwelling had been reduced by fire to a great pile of blackened wreckage. Several chimneys still stood, silent sentinels above rubble too chaotic to cross. Backs aching, all of them stained head to toe with ash, Tol and his companions turned to look out over the gutted town.

Egrin’s face was pale beneath its smears of soot, and he fought to control his feelings. At his side, Kiya laid an unusually gentle hand on his shoulder. The forester woman did not share the same deep connection to Juramona, but it had been the site of her first home with Tol and Miya.

Zala dropped wearily onto a cracked slab of slate, once part of the hall floor in the High House, Tylocost tried to clean his hands in a small puddle of muddy water. Giving up, he sat down to rest near the half-elf.

Tol rooted in the debris until he found a long wooden pole, reasonably intact. From his bedroll he withdrew a large piece of scarlet cloth, the mantle he’d once worn as an imperial general.

None of the others could fathom his purpose, so they watched in exhausted silence as Tol tied the corners of his mantle to the pole and furled it tight. He shouldered it and entered the precarious jumble that had been the High House. Burned timbers snapped under his feet, and gouts of ash flew up every time something gave way. As he broke through the outer crust of cinders, fresh plumes of smoke poured out. When one pile shifted, throwing him dangerously off-balance, Egrin shouted a warning, but Tol kept going.

“For a lord and general, this Tolandruth seems careless,” Zala remarked. She’d tied a length of cloth around her head to hold her sweaty hair out of her eyes.

Tylocost shaded his close-set eyes from the morning sun. “Spoken like a hireling,” he said. “I believe he means to send a message.”

That was indeed Tol’s plan. He planted the pole on the highest point in the ruins. The breeze caught his mantle, setting its red folds to flapping. With a cape from the empire that had dishonored him, Tol had created a flag of Ergothian crimson. Anyone passing within sight of Juramona would know the empire still held sway.

When Tol was back with his comrades again, Kiya warned, “Your flag may draw a swarm of nomads.”

He shrugged, “If so, all they’ll find are a few humble peasants, who know nothing about warriors or flags.”

The trip back down to level ground was accomplished more quickly since they’d already cleared a path. When they arrived, they found a small group gathered to greet them. Eight Juramonans-three men, four women, and a small child-covered in soot and ashes, hailed them. All but one sported crude bandages on their heads or limbs.

The sight of Tol drew a shriek from one of the women. “It’s him!” she shouted. “It’s Lord Tolandruth! Praise Mishas, it’s Lord Tolandruth!”

One of the men, a middle-aged fellow with saber cuts on his shoulders, flung himself at Tol’s feet.

“My lord!” he gasped. “We prayed, and you have come!”

Tol raised the injured man to his feet. “Far too late, my friend.”

The woman who’d recognized him pushed forward. “It matters little, my lord! You’re here. Now the savages will learn what retribution truly means!” Her lust for revenge was reflected on the faces of the other survivors.

Tol and his comrades shared what food and water they had with the destitute townsfolk. The lone uninjured man, a young fellow with sharp features and darting eyes, sidled up to Zala.

“Water’s for horses. Care for wine?” he whispered.

“Where are you going to get wine in these ruins?” she demanded, keeping her voice low, too.

He laid a finger aside his nose and assumed a knowing expression. “Things below ground survived. May I show you?”

She accepted his offer. Leering, he took her hand and led her away. Kiya saw them going and would have spoken, but Zala warned her off with a brief shake of her head and a lift of her dark brows. The Dom-shu woman shrugged and said nothing.

The sharp fellow’s name was Artan. With many blandishments about her beauty and wit, and hints at the concealed riches of Juramona, he led Zala through the ruins. After several twists and turns (designed mainly to confuse her, she decided), they passed a makeshift corral containing three horses. Zala planted her feet, yanking him to a halt, and asked about the animals.

“They belonged to nomads who lost their way in the ruins.” He drew a finger across his throat. “They won’t be claiming them.”

Next thing he knew, Zala’s sword point was at his chin. He sputtered and demanded an explanation.

Zala’s smile was deceptively sweet. “We’re going back to the others. I’m sure Lord Tolandruth will want to thank you for your patriotic donation of horses to his cause.”

Artan found himself marched back to the others. He went sprawling when Zala kicked his feet out from under him. Sheathing her sword, she explained what she’d found.

While Artan was forced to lead Tylocost, Kiya, and Zala to his cache of food, Tol and Egrin went to fetch the horses.

Typical plains ponies, the three animals had short legs, thick bodies, and could run all day without tiring. Egrin pronounced them sound.

“We were due for a piece of luck,” Tol said, stroking one horse’s shaggy brown flank.

Soon they heard Kiya’s shrill whistle. Their comrades were returning, laden with casks of wine. Artan bore a pair of smoked hams. The others carried packets of dried beef, small kegs of flour, and baskets of dried fruit. As much as the discovery of the horses, the sight of the food lifted Tol’s heart. Food was a vital ingredient in his plan. Townsmen and farm folk would be wandering the countryside, searching for victuals. He meant to draw them to the ruined town by feeding them, then enlist them to defend the empire.

Now they were all together again, Tol revealed the plan he’d been formulating.

“It’s plain that we cannot rely on the emperor to save the eastern provinces. We must save ourselves, but we need fighting men, warriors.”

Kiya noted they were a little short on such just now, and Tol said, “That’s why you and Egrin are going to go and find some.”

Egrin knew the rural warlords of the Eastern Hundred well. He had served with them on many campaigns under emperors Pakin II, Pakin III, and Ackal IV. All had sworn fealty to him when he was installed as marshal of the province. He would take one horse and ride east, visiting the large estates and smaller holdings, rallying the gentry. These landed hordes so mistrusted by Emperor Ackal V would form the backbone of Tol’s new army.