Another of the ponies was to be Kiya’s. Despite her protestations, she was heading to Hylo.

Egrin was still not convinced the kender would be of any use. Tol reminded him and Kiya of how few choices they had.

“You might be surprised what kender can do.”

Unpleasant thoughts of the havoc kender could wreak continued to bedevil Egrin, but he didn’t argue the point further. Instead, he asked, “Will you be all right here, alone?”

Tol smiled a little. “Not so alone. Tylocost’s loyalty is guaranteed by his oath.”

“And the huntress?”

“I’ve nothing to fear from her. She’s charged with delivering me alive to Daltigoth.”

During the journey to Juramona, Zala had tried to convince Tol to go directly to Daltigoth. He assured her it was his ultimate destination, but he had no intention of walking alone into Ackal’s capital city. He would explain no further, and she’d finally stopped hounding him, but neither man believed she’d given up.

“I don’t trust either one of them,” Egrin said quietly. “The elf lives and breathes stratagems, and the huntress is young and desperate.”

“We’re all desperate,” Tol countered. “Be of stout heart, son of Raemel! I’ll harness these two hounds, and they’ll do good service.”

They established a simple camp just outside the burned walls, but didn’t bother setting up defenses. They were too few to defend the camp if nomads attacked, so Tol felt the best defense was helplessness. He doubted the nomad host would bother a few survivors trying to eke out a spare existence in the ruins of Juramona.

The crimson flag Tol had planted did its work. People began to gather in the camp. Scores of Juramonans emerged from the ruins, certain the great Lord Tolandruth could protect them from any menace. Lean-tos and shanties sprang up, constructed from whatever could be salvaged. Despite the seemingly total devastation, much useful material was collected by the careful gleaners. Many cellars had survived intact, as Artan proved, and yielded up a bounty of food and drink.

Tol wanted Egrin and Kiya to depart the next day, at sunrise. The former marshal had readily accepted his mission, to rally the landed hordes, but Kiya was still not happy with hers.

“Kender troops?” she exclaimed. “Husband, you can’t be serious!”

“It does seem a contradiction in terms,” Tylocost put in dryly.

“Any arm that can wield a sword is welcome,” Tol said, looking at each of them. “If Hylo hasn’t yet felt the wrath of the nomads or bakali, it will. Remind King Lucklyn or Queen Casberry of that.”

Lucklyn and Casberry, married co-rulers, were never in Hylo City at the same time. While one remained at home, ruling, the other went off wandering, in the way of kender. Tol hoped Kiya would find Casberry in residence. He’d dealt with the queen before, when he and three hundred hand-picked warriors had sought out and slain the monster XimXim. Casberry was a cunning old pirate, but the kender queen knew where her best interests lay-just the sort of ally Tol needed now.

For the first time, Kiya openly regretted Miya’s absence. The younger Dom-shu sister, a haggler of fearsome reputation, would have been fully equal to bargaining with the doughty Queen Casberry.

Once she’d spoken Miya’s name, Kiya fell silent. The sisters had never before been separated for so long. Although the stoic Kiya would never admit it, Tol knew she missed Miya terribly.

After Kiya finally agreed to go to Hylo, Tol went to make a tour of the growing camp, alone. He wanted to gauge the mood of the survivors. An entourage would only draw unwanted attention. As a concession to Kiya’s concern, he promised not to go beyond the outermost ring of shelters.

Duty and love had called Tol out of the Great Green, inspired by the strange visions he’d had in the forest, but as he walked among the exhausted, frightened people squatting by campfires, he felt a surge of anger. Witnessing the brutal hand of war laid upon the land and people he knew filled him with righteous outrage. He knew who was to blame-not the nomads, nor even the mysterious bakali. The true author of this misery was the Emperor of Ergoth.

In Tol’s view, Ackal V had betrayed his people by appointing incompetent warlords to command the empire’s hordes. The emperor demanded personal obedience from his hirelings; martial skill was secondary. This valuing of loyalty over skill could bring about the downfall of the empire.

As he passed among wounded women and children, Tol recalled that he had been favored by the gods never to fight in a losing battle. He’d seen warriors maimed and killed, but had never known the harsh hand of war on his own people. This destruction was a strange new experience. Seeing the people’s suffering brought home to him that it was not only defeated soldiers who paid the price for losing, but the soldiers’ families, and the village, farm, or town each warrior claimed as home.

Shame burned through him. To have lived forty years and only realize this now!

In spite of his own fury at the emperor’s failures, Tol found no corresponding resentment among the encamped Juramonans. Stunned resignation seemed to be the prevailing mood, followed by a thirst for revenge. Most disturbing were the scavengers, like Artan, who saw in the empire’s troubles an opportunity to enrich themselves. Artan himself had managed to slip away after his cache was confiscated. Stern measures might be needed to keep his kind in line.

As Tol passed by two families huddled around a blazing fire, an old man reached out and gripped his hand. Aged eyes looked up at Tol with desperate hope. Touched, Tol patted the oldster’s gnarled hand and bade him and the others good night.

Everyone was bedded down when he returned-everyone save the huntress. She sat, fawn-colored cape draped around her shoulders, facing the dying fire. Tol knew that the age of a half-elf was notoriously hard to judge, but in this light, Zala looked almost like a child.

“Trouble sleeping?” he asked.

Zala kept her eyes on the flickering flames. “I’m wondering when we’ll get to Daltigoth.”

“So am I.” He sat down next to her. Half-joking, he said, “Worried about collecting your fee?”

She lifted the leather pouch from around her neck and poured its contents into one hand. In addition to Valaran’s ring, Tol saw that a small gold locket lay in her palm.

“Here are the reasons I worry,” she said. “Your empress and my father.”

The locket was a plain golden disk, about the size and thickness of an imperial crown coin. Tol pried it open with a fingernail. Within was a small circle of parchment, carefully cut to fit the depression in the locket. Painted on the parchment in skillful detail was a portrait of a gray-haired human with pale eyes and a pointed chin.

Tol could see the resemblance between father and daughter, around chin and nose. He closed the locket, and Zala took it back, clenching her hand around it.

“If I don’t produce you in a timely fashion, the empress will have my father killed.” Tol scoffed at this notion, but Zala hissed, “She told me so to my face!”

“Zala, we are all taking risks. And if we fail, it’s not only our own lives that are lost”-he gestured at the people sleeping around them-“but the lives of those who love us, those who depend upon us.”

“It’s a terrible land that lives by such ways!”

Tol waited until she had returned the locket and Valaran’s ring to the leather pouch around her neck, then he said, “Gods willing, I will get to Daltigoth, but the route may be long and the way dire, and I need your blade, Zala. If I guarantee your father’s life, will you stand with me?”