The History of Krynn

The Age of Dreams

Volume 2

All stories © 1984 TSR, Inc.

© 2012 Wizards of the Coast LLC

The Dragons – First published October 1996

The Kagonesti – First published January 1995

The Forest King – First published June 2009

A Warrior’s Journey – First published May 2003

The Wizard’s Fate – First published February 2004

A Hero’s Justice – First published December 2004

Cover and ebook design by Dead^Man

Cover pictures used for this collection are from various sources around the net. Sorry, most sites do not credit the original artists. Thank you for the wonderful art, whomever you all may be.

These ePub  and Mobi/K8  editions v1.0 by Dead^Man December 2012

First release December 2012

Table of Contents

Copyright

The Dragons

Part I (continued)

The Kagonesti

PART I

The Dragons

Part I (continued)

PART II

The Forest King

A Warrior’s Journey

The Wizard’s Fate

A Hero’s Justice

The Dragons

Part I (continued)

CHAPTER 11

SILVER DEATH

(3488 – 3480 PC)

The ogre’s face was lined with sweat, and be wiped a burly paw across his forehead, casting a spray of salty drops into the dense bushes beside the winding pathway. Behind him, a file of similar brutes, panting and dust-covered warriors clearly weary from a long march, plodded listlessly along the trail. Frustration and fatigue pervaded the air, rising like a stench from the mute, shuffling ogres.

This was the spearhead of a vast army, but for many weeks, the weary brutes had been embarked on a fruitless campaign against an invisible woodland foe. They had found one elven camp, long abandoned, but had encountered none of the sylvan warriors who were their quarry. Now, bored and apathetic, the brutish troops plodded listlessly through the summer heat.

A braying cry rang through the woods, like the sudden call of some trumpet-billed bird. Then the sound was repeated, and again, with a force that made clear this was no winged creature of the forest. The ogre halted, growling suspiciously as his eyes peered into the shadows. Movement slashed across his vision, too quick for the brute to recognize, but then he looked down and grunted in surprise.

A short arrow jutted from his chest. Another of the shafts struck him in the belly, and two more in the neck. With a gurgling, choking cry, the lead ogre fell face first onto the path.

Other ogres charged past the corpse of their comrade, bronze swords upraised. Three of the monsters advanced abreast, growling and snapping at the dense foliage, until a hailstorm of arrows greeted them. Death showered silently from the woods, slaying the trio, more arrows striking the brutes that were farther back in the file.

Then the wild elves were everywhere, attacking in answer to the sound of the ram’s horn. Axes chopped and spears jabbed as the painted braves swarmed from the woods on both sides of the trail, striking ogres in their sagging gullets or muscled backs, slashing necks and hamstrings with quick, deadly blows. Shouts and cries from ogre and elf mingled with the clatter of blows, the deadly din of battle.

In seconds, the veteran ogre company dissolved into chaos. Those brutes still alive and unwounded turned toward the rear, stampeding down the path in a bellowing mass of terror. The wild elves killed those who fled too slowly, but showed little eagerness to press the pursuit. Soon the ogres who led the rout – those who had been at the rear of the marching column – slowed their pace to a shambling trot. The immediate threat was past, they sensed.

Until they came around a bend and found a massive, silver serpent coiled in their path. The lumbering ogres came to an abrupt halt, but before they could reverse their course, a blast of frost swirled from the gaping jaws. Icy air wilted the trees and slew the monstrous troops in a gusty wave of frigid death.

When the last of the ogres had been slain, the silver form shifted as Darlantan assumed the white-bearded body of the sage. Wild elves emerged from the brush and gathered around, looking at the frozen corpses littering the forest floor.

“It was a good trap,” Kagonos announced approvingly as the wild elves gathered around the dragon in the depths of the forest clearing. “My braves counted more than a hundred slain, versus none of our own warriors.”

“That is indeed good news,” Darlantan said, momentarily wearied by the weight of wartime memories.

For many winters since the departure of Aurican, the elves had remained in the deepest woods, harassing the ogres who dared to penetrate into those forest homes, hiding from the chromatic dragons beneath the overwhelming canopy of trees. A long period of wet seasons prevented the drying that would have allowed the ogres to burn entire forests away, and the elves continued to take their toll among the enemy invaders. Kagonos himself led many sudden strikes, his painted Elderwild warriors appeared from the woods like apparitions, slaying ogres, pillaging treasure and supplies, then vanishing into the forest pathways.

Sometimes Darlantan joined in these strikes in the guise of a lean elven warrior. He fought using his hands or elven weapons, killing ogres with the stab of a spear or the twist of his powerful fingers. Often he employed a great, jagged-edged longsword that he had claimed from a slain enemy. There was no counting the number of brutish ogres who had been fatally gashed by that implacable blade.

During these years, Darlantan camped with Kagonos and his braves, stalking under the trees, using his sensitive nostrils and hearing to aid the wild elves in their seeking of prey and enemies. Of course, the keen senses of the elves were nearly as fine as his own, and Darlantan had grown used to young Elderwild braves calling his attention to a nearby doe or alerting him to the surreptitious movement of an enemy column.

Still, the elves accepted this strange warrior, followed him as he killed on his relentless quest for vengeance. Darlantan devised intricate ambushes, attacks that inflicted great damage on the foe while protecting the braves of the tribe. Leading these assaults with reckless abandon, the silver dragon in elven guise would strike hard, kill many ogres, then vanish before the brutish warriors could organize a counterattack.

At other times, Darlantan assumed his natural form and took his war to the dragons of the Dark Queen. He prepared ambushes of his own, and since Aurican’s departure he had killed serpents of blue and black, of green and white. He became a mighty dragonslayer, vengeful and swift, attacking with power, speed, and implacable determination to surprise and confound the enemy serpents. He remained always alert, ready to foil even a teleporting dragon from making a surprise attack, and word of his deadly presence spread rapidly through the ranks of the Dark Queen’s wyrms.

Always he hoped to strike at red Crematia, but that wily and hateful serpent consistently avoided the silver dragon’s traps. Instead, she left for Darlantan many signs of her destruction, cities and villages and towns of elvenkind laid to waste. She delighted in the slaughter of whole herds of livestock. After selecting a few morsels for her own feast, she inevitably incinerated the rest of the hapless beasts with an expulsion of her hellish breath.

Still, in return, Darlantan laid waste to many an ogre’s lair, becoming a scourge of the clans, viewed with every bit as much abhorrence by his enemies as the elves regarded Crematia and her villainous kin-dragons. He blasted marching columns of the brutes with his frosty breath, collapsed the caves and dens of their lairs with his brute strength.

Too, he aided the army of Silvanos – now under the command of the fierce and vengeful Quithas Griffontamer and the diminutive but resolute Balif – when it took to the field against the ogres. Though the elves fought under divided command, their tactics were effective. Quithas led his flying archers, mounted on fleet griffons, through a series of fast raids, while Balif led the troops on the ground, appearing when they were least expected, fighting solidly when the ogres expected them to run, and vanishing when the ogre chieftain Blacktusk, scion of Ironfist, drew up his legions for an offensive.

After the successful ambush, the elves once again scattered to the deep forest, and Darlantan took flight over the Plain of Vingaard. On the third day after the battle, he came upon a skirmish raging around a small, isolated farmstead. Hundreds of ogres had the place surrounded, while a small band of defenders had raised wooden barricades and sealed themselves into a compound of stone-walled courtyards and wooden barns.

The silver dragon flew low, blasting the attacking ogres with repeated explosions of lethal frost. The warriors within the makeshift fortress counterattacked, driving the rest of the brutes away as the silver serpent settled onto the muddy, trampled field.

One of the defenders approached the silver dragon without visible fear. The warrior was not, as Dar had first suspected, an elf. Instead, this leader had a thick beard and was wearing a costume of crudely tanned furs. The silver dragon knew that this was a human.

“I am called Tarn Iceblade,” said the warrior. “We thank you for killing the ogres.” He bowed quickly, then regarded Darlantan with sparkling, ice-blue eyes.

The silver dragon nodded in return, noting that the man was missing several fingers from his left hand. “And I am Darlantan. The ogres are my enemies as well. It pleases me to kill them when I can. But how did they catch you here on the open plain?”

“These are my people. We sought to defend this place, but it seemed as though we were going to be overwhelmed.”

“You fight well. But the ogres were many, and they fight well also.”

“We try to kill the bastards when we can – that’s all. But thanks for your help. We owe you our lives.”

“We share an enemy. But why are you here, on this plain?”

“We’re going to try to grow a crop. Only thus can the next winter be more prosperous than the last. Many are the elders and wee ones we buried in the high valleys with the spring thaw.”

“But out here … surely the dragons will find you, if the ogres don’t.”

“My people must eat,” Tarn replied, with a shrug of resignation that Darlantan found strangely moving. “But as I said, we thank you for your help in our fight.”

The silver dragon took to the air again, impressed by this human. The Darlantan was pleased to scatter an entire legion of ogres that was apparently marching to reinforce the doomed attackers, and he returned to the forests with a sincere hope that Tarn Iceblade’s tribe would have a successful harvest.

Then, finally, came a time when Darlantan and Kagonos met again upon the council knoll, the place where Aurican had departed from on his journey to the gods. The pair of venerable warriors sat in pensive silence around a fading fire, the dragon in his bearded human form. They had talked of strategies and battle plans, for Blacktusk was embarking on a new and implacable drive against the south. Yet their thoughts and hopes were elsewhere.

A rustling in the greenery silenced the two warriors’ discussion, and they stared in taut anticipation as Silvanos emerged into view. He was somber, but stepped forward to embrace his kinsman with a hug of desperate, almost frenzied affection.

“They will come … tonight,” murmured the elven patriarch.

Darlantan had sensed this as well, and now his eyes turned with intuitive direction toward the sky, knowing that they didn’t have long to wait. He saw the winged form almost immediately, outlined against the stars, and his heart surged with a pulse of hope.

Aurican landed, and his change of shape was such a smooth transition that by the time the golden wings had brushed down to the ground, four figures stood before the trio and their small campfire.

“Greetings, kin-dragon,” said Auri in the voice of his elven body. Darlantan looked for some sign of his news, but the serene face was impassive.

Fayal Padran, in his robe of red, stood at Aurican’s left, while white-garbed Parys Dayl advanced to his left. A fourth figure remained behind them, cloaked by the shadows, but Darlantan knew that Kayn Wytsnal was there as well.

“I am glad to see you,” said Darlantan, his emotions overwhelming any attempt to speak further.

“And I.” Auri’s elven face was suddenly creased by a tight smile, as if he had seen things that had inspired him to wonder, and perhaps awe. His posture was proud, and the light of triumph gleamed in his eyes as he looked at Darlantan.

The newcomers knelt upon the ground, and Parys Dayl opened a satchel that Aurican had carried, revealing five large, glowing gems. The colors of the stones were clear and matched the array of hues Darlantan had come to despise: red, blue, black, white, and green.

“Behold the dragongems,” said Fayal, his voice hushed with wonder. “And the means to defeat the wyrms of the Dark Queen.”

“And welcome the return of magic to Krynn,” added Aurican, eyes rising toward the distant, stormy sky.

CHAPTER 12

A TRAP

(3472 PC)

Darlantan came to rest in a sheltered valley, secure behind the rising ridges of the Khalkist foothills. Years of war had inculcated him with careful habits. No sooner had his talons touched the loam of the meadow than he changed shape. He had carried the carcass of a small deer in his claws, and now he hoisted the fresh meat easily, resting the animal over his shoulders as he looked around.

The white-bearded human figure moved easily through the trees, skirting the clearing, insuring that he was unobserved. Only then did Darlantan proceed along the narrow, winding trail through the deep ravine. Sheer walls rose far over his head, barely an arm’s length to either side, but instead of constricting him, they represented security to the transformed silver serpent. He was masked from the skies above by the overhanging walls, and any dragon that tried to pursue him would be greatly hampered by the narrow confines.

Of course, an ogre or two could squeeze in here, but then Darlantan almost hoped he would encounter a few of the brutish warriors. On another occasion some winters before, several heavily armed ogres had come upon an apparently frail, elderly human, and it had been the last mistake those particular monsters ever made.

Once he reached the cave, Darlantan sniffed the air, probing for any sign of danger. The shelter was large, with a ceiling arching high overhead. Though it was not deep, it remained dry and sheltered from the weather and was large enough that the silver dragon could have assumed his normal form if he had desired to do so. Yet he was content to remain in his two-legged guise.

The shadows were thick, but his golden eyes penetrated the darkness with ease, determining that the place was empty. Retaining his body in the shape of the bearded human elder, Darlantan advanced into the cave, shuffling through the dark recesses, insuring that nothing unsuspected lurked in concealment. Crouching beside a pile of dried wood that had apparently remained undisturbed since his last visit, the ancient dragon used his dexterous fingers to find the shard of flint and the steel knife blade that Kagonos had left here. With a few quick strikes, Dar started a fire – not because he was cold, but because he knew that Kagonos, when he came, would appreciate the warmth.

Flames crackled from the tinder, rising with cheery warmth and brightness, spreading light throughout the stone-walled shelter. For some time, Darlantan amused himself by watching his own human-shaped shadow cavort and gesture on the smooth stone of the cave wall. Finally he heard the almost silent sound of a footfall along the trail that ran along the ravine floor, and Darlantan looked up to see the wild elf jog into view. Kagonos bore the long-hafted axe that was his favored weapon, the ram’s horn on its thong of leather, and was garbed in a supple breechcloth of doeskin. Otherwise he was naked, unadorned except for the elaborate designs of ink streaked across his chest, cheeks, and forehead.

He entered the alcove with a nod, squatting before the fire and absorbing the warmth from the small bed of coals. Unlike humans or other short-lived creatures meeting again after a winter’s separation, these two long-lived beings felt no need for conversation to distill the silence of the wilderness. Instead, they sat in worldless fellowship around the heartening blaze.

After a time, the two friends shared the fresh venison Darlantan had brought, drinking water from a pure spring at the back of the cave. A feeling of kinship grew between them, rising in the air like heat radiating from the coals. With the addition of a few dry sticks, the fire became their balladeer, crackling bold lyrics, then fading into a soft postlude.

“Word comes by runner from the east.” Kagonos, with his eyes closed, leaned back and laid his head against the rock wall of the little cave. He spoke slowly, reluctant to dispel the serene aura. “The blue dragons attack toward the coast. They fight in support of a large army, so all indications are that they will remain there for some time.”

“And Crematia?” Darlantan’s calm broke with the mention of his enemy’s name. His voice quivered and his jaw clenched at the thought of the red dragon, who had eluded his best efforts over so many winters.

Kagonos only shook his head. “Perhaps she has been swallowed by Aurican’s magic gems – the same way those stones ate the souls of the white and green dragons.”

“Do you know what happened to those gems?” Darlantan asked.

“Silvanos tells me the griffons carried them deep into the mountains,” Kagonos replied. “There they were buried so they would never be found. And with them are buried two of the Dark Queen’s clans.”

“It is only to be wished that Crematia could have been trapped as well,” Dar agreed. “But I was with my brother a dozen sunrises ago, and he has seen not so much as a single crimson scale.”

Still, the wild elf’s words reminded him of something else as well, something more hopeful than he would have believed ten winters earlier. Darlantan reflected on the success that Aurican and he had with the dragongems. The stones possessed a powerful allure, the fundamental essence of magic bestowed by the gods themselves. Aurican had never explained much about the harrowing quest that had brought them to the dragongems, only hinting that the cost might prove to be high.

Yet the stones of life-trapping had proven to be potent and effective, so long as the evil dragons could be lured close enough for the magic to take effect. To this end, Darlantan and Aurican had devised an effective tactic, one that had served them well in two distinct campaigns. Darlantan had located the wyrms and goaded them into a reckless pursuit. Aurican completed the other portion of the trap, waiting somewhere in ambush, concealed in his elven guise and waiting for his kin-dragon to lead the chromatic serpents to him.

As the enraged wyrms swept past, Aurican brandished the magical gem and worked the spell of life-trapping. Powerful sorcery exploded in a cyclone of magic, pulling the dragons into the stone. Twice the plan had worked to perfection, and the dragons of white and green had been imprisoned.

“Any word as to the black dragons?” asked the wild elf.

“There is some good news,” Dar replied, heartened by the prospects for imminent battle. “They are gathered in the mountains above Blacktusk, and the ogres are already marching against Sylvanos. Aurican is ready with the black dragongem. It is my plan to fly there from here.”

“Have a care, my friend,” Kagonos urged, his gray eyes serious within the spirals of his war paint.

“I shall. I am grateful that these serpents of black seem to lack some of the mastery of magic of Crematia and the blues.”

“I will join you later. Good luck,” said the elf.

“And to you, as well, my friend.”

In silence, the white-bearded sage tottered into the darkness. By the time Kagonos had curled up for a few hours’ sleep, silver wings parted the night air, and Darlantan soared toward the foothills and the gathered armies of the ogre Blacktusk and the elvenking Silvanos.

Before dawn, he passed the low, cratered mountain where Aurican was hidden. Darlantan marked the spot well, but did not fly too closely nor make any attempt to spot the gold dragon, who would undoubtedly be concealed in the body of the elven patriarch.

By then, the great mass of the ogre army had come into view. The monstrous horde swarmed over the plain like ants crossing a vast field, and even from his lofty vantage, Darlantan was impressed by the speed of their advance. Then he saw tiny forms soaring over the treetops far below and knew that the elven griffonriders were sweeping in to attack. More antlike figures emerged from the forest, and the army of Silvanos took up positions of defense.

But Darlantan’s eyes were fixed upon higher targets. He couldn’t hear the clash of weaponry, elven steel against ogre bronze, ringing from the melee below. The screams of the wounded and dying, the hoarse bellows of Blacktusk’s subcommanders and the lyrical trumpets of Silvanos’s signalmen – all were carried away by the wind long before they rose to Darlantan’s lofty vantage.

In any event, Darlantan knew those sounds and their attending violence were only peripherally important. The success or failure of this day would not be measured by elven and ogre dead, but by the results of his and Aurican’s efforts to entrap the dragons of black.

Then he saw his targets: seven black shapes winging out of the mountains, flying high, but not quite at the lofty altitude of their silver foe. The dragons of the Dark Queen veered along the descending slopes of the foothills, intent upon the battle developing at the edge of the plains. They flew a straight course, in a gentle descent that steadily increased the speed of their approach.

Darlantan stroked the air, flying his fastest as he curled around to approach the black dragons from the side. He flew in deadly silence, wondering if these arrogant wyrms would allow him the luxury of a surprise attack. Winging onward, he closed the distance, still apparently unobserved.

Abruptly one of the black dragons looked up and spotted the swiftly diving silver, braying a warning to its six companions. Fully alerted, the formation swerved toward Darlantan, individual black dragons diverging slightly, confronting him with an array of talons and fangs, holding their searing, acidic breath ready for a deadly crossfire.

It would be death to fly into that vortex of fury. Darlantan could well imagine the corrosive cloud of acid that would rot his scales and dissolve his wings. Instead, the silver dragon dived straight down, so fast that wind whistled through his mane and battered his body. He veered away from the blacks, daring but one look back to see that they had all swept into the pursuit.

The distance separating pursuers from pursued was great, and Darlantan allowed himself to relax a little, sweeping along from the force of his momentum alone. He watched the conical mountain where Aurican was waiting grow larger in his view, looming to dominate all the lesser peaks around it. Finally the level flight began to slow him, and his silver wings once again worked through the air, reaching, propelling the shimmering dragon through the skies.

A stream of acid burned into his left wing with vicious, searing intensity, and Darlantan veered away with a bellow of pain. He strained for more speed, but each wing stroke brought another bolt of agony shooting into his side. In disbelief, he turned to see one of the black dragons curving away with startling agility and speed, whipping through a tight, curling turn to make another pass at him. While its fellows remained well back, the leading wyrm had somehow far outdistanced the others.

Darlantan noticed the quick, almost fluttering motion of the dragon’s wings as it swerved away, cautious of the now-alerted silver. When the black made a quick loop, darting in to resume the attack, he understood: The black serpent was hastened by magic. The wyrm’s speed was so great, its maneuvers so quick and nimble, that it seemed more like a bat or a bee than a great dragon.

Spewing a swath of freezing breath into the air, Darlantan forced the black to veer aside, but was unable to damage his enemy. With renewed determination, the silver dragon turned toward his mountaintop goal, wings straining, trying to build up speed against the sorcerously quickened pursuit of his foe. He ignored the pain in his scarred wing, using the injured flap to pull himself forward.

Then the rim of the high crater was approaching. Climbing gently, Darlantan pulled himself over the top, briefly spotting a tall elf who faced the pursuing dragons with a large gem of black clutched in his hands. Aurican was ready, and Dar would bring him his victims.

The silver dragon felt the pulse of magic as the first of the blacks, the magically hastened serpent, was swallowed by the powerful essence of the stone. The monster simply vanished from the air, the sound of a whirling vortex roaring through the crater of the lofty mountain. The rest of the midnight-dark dragons swept onward, bellowing in rage at the disappearance of their fellow.

A blast of magic swirled through the caldera, much stronger this time as Aurican’s spell captured the spiritual force of six black dragons. Spray rose from the wet snowfields as the wind focused, whirling, rising into a raging funnel cloud. Aurican stood, his feet firmly planted, holding up the gem as the wind curled and blustered.

Abruptly Darlantan saw a flash of crimson, like a slash of living flame in the sky, and he knew that Crematia had arrived. The red was poised above the circular crater, and the silver dragon saw her tuck her wings and arrow toward Aurican – who had his back to the scarlet horror, his full attention still riveted upon the black stone pulsing in his hands. She rushed downward, jaws gaping, foreclaws outstretched.

“Beware!” cried Darlantan, veering through a sharp turn. Aurican still took no notice; his concentration was focused upon the swirling storm and the enchanted gem.

Crematia swept lower, jaws gaping as she approached the figure of the elf, but suddenly she noticed the silver form racing toward her from the side. At the same moment, the whirlwind of sound rose to a thunder, echoing and roaring through the crater, casting a cloud of debris through the air. The red dragon banked away as the swelling crescendo of magic roared in Darlantan’s ears.

And Crematia disappeared, vanished as abruptly as the seven black dragons. The power of the dragongem was a surging wave in the bowl of the valley, a resonant force echoing with sorcery, magic potent enough to swallow the black dragons … and apparently Crematia as well.

The vortex of the cloud swept up the steep slope of the crater, finally rising to whirl around Aurican. The buffeting of the storm was tremendous, but still the elven figure didn’t budge.

And then the wind was gone, snuffed out like a small candle by the pure magic of the dragongem. Aurican held the black stone in his hands, smiling at the silver serpent who wheeled overhead. The skies were clear of chromatic dragons.

“Now,” Aurican shouted, his tone swelling with exultation, “bring me the blues!”

The Kagonesti

PART I

Kagonos

3357 PC

Khalkist Mountains

CHAPTER 1

MEETING AT THE EDGE OF THE SKY

The wooden skis rasped across the snow, barely marking the icy crust. Kagonos worked his way between frosted pines, carefully remaining below the knifelike crest of the high ridge. On the sunny northern slope the surface already grew soft and slushy, threatening a deadly avalanche, but here on the southern face the snow remained hard, crisp.

The lean, sinewy wild elf skied with steady urgency. Despite the chilly air, Kagonos wore only a pair of leather leggings and a buckskin vest. At his side he carried the three-spiraled Rams Horn, suspended by a sturdy thong. Stiff moccasins, lined with fur, protected his feet. Currently devoid of warpaint, Kagonos’s skin was a rippling surface of gleaming, almost metallic bronze, shiny with a sheen of sweat and oil. His black hair fell in a long, thick coil down his back, wrapped into a single braid with a feathered thong.

Hissing softly, the skis glided down the incline into a deep, wide ravine. With a leaping turn at the bottom, the wild elf aided his momentum with plunging stabs of his poles, smoothly coasting halfway up the opposite slope. Kicking hard, still poling, he pushed himself quickly through the last, steep stretch.

Beyond the ravine, the wild elf picked up speed. Climbing gradually, he remained near the summit of the ridge, skimming over the snow with the combined force of his kicking feet and steadily poling arms. When he reached a clump of rocks that had been blown free of snow by the steady wind, Kagonos paused. He kicked off his skis and dropped to his belly, ignoring the icy surface against his naked arms. Crawling slowly, he worked his way between the boulders, carefully raising his head just high enough to see into the broad valley beyond.

His caution may have been extreme – the nearest ogres were at least a dozen miles away. Still, there was no other way Kagonos could have approached this lofty horizon. To the wild elf, there was no such thing as “unnecessary” caution, for once one became used to taking chances, discovery and disaster were inevitable.

His hazel eyes flashed at the sight of the huge army sprawling across the plain in an irregular column. For many days the Dark Queen’s horde had followed the fringe of the Khalkist foothills, closing in on the army of Silvanos, which remained out of sight somewhere to the south. The ogres were creatures of lofty places and would have preferred to march in the heights, Kagonos knew – it was only the commands of their dragon masters that brought them down from the mountain summits.

Of those masters, it was hard to believe that only one clan of evil remained to menace the world. For more than a century and a half Kagonos and the Elderwild had been unwilling participants in the battles against the five children of Takhisis, Queen of Darkness. These dragons – of green and black, of blue and white and red – had plundered Ansalon for most of those decades, bringing death and destruction to elvenkind and humanity.

The tide of evil had been stemmed, finally, when three gods had conspired to bestow potent gifts upon the elves. These artifacts were the five dragongems – magical stones of life-trapping. During the most recent years of the war, Silvanos and his legions, aided by warriors mounted on flying griffons, had created clever traps. In their great, flying wings, evil dragons had fallen to the elven ambushes, until the greens, reds, whites, and blacks had all been ensnared, their lives trapped within the potent gemstones – the stones then buried in the depths of the Khalkist Mountains.

Finally only the blue dragons remained, and the great leader Silvanos had planned for his final victory. Before the battle could be joined, however, disaster had struck in the form of an ogre raiding party – the Bluestone was stolen! Vanishing into their mountain fastness with their priceless trophy, the ogres had taken from Silvanos his only effective means of fighting the blue dragons.

Recriminations had been many, with the House Elves of Silvanos blaming humans, and the humans – so recently escaped from ogre-bound slavery – quick to turn the blame against the elves. Word had reached the Elderwild through several routes – a trader of beads and steel arrowheads had come from Xak Tsaroth, trembling with predictions of doom, and several wild elves had come north, refugees from the House Elf compounds, carrying the tale of consternation among the Elderwild’s kin.

Kagonos believed that the ogres were more to blame than either humans or elves, for they were the ones who had actually stolen the precious artifact. He had been amused to hear the tales of bickering and blaming, none of which changed the central fact that the Bluestone was missing.

The blue serpents, in many ways the most evil and malicious of the five children of Takhisis, had plundered, raided, and ravaged all the north coast of Ansalon during the winter. Now, with summer arrived, everyone knew they were winging toward the central plains. When they arrived, the damage they might do would be beyond measure – and without the Bluestone, the forces of Silvanos had no way to stand before the potent, massive wyrms. The great elven army would be dispersed, Silvanos’s power broken, and the survivors of his legion scattered across Ansalon.

Reflecting on the potential for disaster, Kagonos wondered about his own, private knowledge – the secret he now carried to the top of the mountain. It did not seem possible that he and his braves could change the course of fate, yet he had to hope that they might do just that.

The elf squinted into the distance. Tall, billowing clouds rose into the skies over the plains, towering like mighty marble columns. Sunlight reflected from these alabaster pillars with a brightness that almost forced the wild elf to look away. But still he stared, shifting his eyes only slowly among the great cumulus.

Finally he blinked, satisfied – for the moment, at least – that the blue dragons did not soar above the marching army. They would come, he knew, and probably soon, but he drew some satisfaction from the knowledge that they had not yet arrived. The two armies on the ground were still many miles apart, so it seemed that the battle would not occur for several days.

He thought for a moment of the Elderwild tribes, gathered only a day’s march from here in a deep, sheltered valley. His people had come when Kagonos had summoned them with the Ram’s Horn. As always, even the chiefs of the different tribes turned to their Pathfinder for hope in time of danger – yet never in their history had the threat of destruction been so imminent and so complete. For the most part, since the Dragon War had raged, the Elderwild had dwelled in small bands, rarely venturing from beneath the protection of their treetop canopies. Only the command of the great horn could bring them into a large gathering, and only the secret knowledge Kagonos now possessed could have motivated him to make that summons.

Of course, the elves of Silvanos had developed another tactic during the course of the war – one that enabled them to dwell in large tribes, and even to defend themselves against the dragons. They had fortified their great cities as bastions against evil. When a dragon flew against one of these walled enclaves, it was forced to do so without the ogres who formed the other potent club of the Dark Queen’s hordes. Thus unsupported, the tough-scaled serpents proved slightly vulnerable to elven arrows – to the extent, at least, that the steel-tipped weapons fired in volley struck the dragons as a barrage of vexing stings. Ultimately, though cities had been ravaged and many elves slain within them, the evil wyrms had learned to avoid the House Elf strongholds. The great serpents were basically cowards and preferred to work their villainy in ways that brought little risk to themselves.

Looking toward the vast plain, Kagonos could not see Silvanos’s army, but he knew that his golden-haired cousins were there. All the houses had gathered for this final confrontation, and the wild elf knew that a great deal of the future history of Krynn, for good or ill, would be decided on that barren flatland sometime within the next few days.

However it came out, Kagonos thought wryly, the histories would ensure that Silvanos got most of the credit. The Pathfinder had personally met the lord of his kin on a few occasions, and always Silvanos had impressed him as an elf of wisdom, patience, and almost palpable leadership. Although, remembering his pledge to Darlantan, the wild elf had never visited any of those crystal cities, many stories reached him from those Elderwild fortunate enough to escape the bonds of House Elf servitude. The city clans hailed Silvanos as the font of all wisdom, the holder of highest elven honor. His virtues – of honor, grace, and patience – were raised as the ideal for all his subjects.

“Claim as well that he invented food or sleep,” Kagonos had muttered on hearing these tales, and that opinion had not shifted in the years since. Perhaps he wasn’t being entirely fair – after all, Silvanos was undeniably a leader who was wise and just. His feat in uniting the squabbling houses of elvendom – all the tribes save the Elderwild – was certainly no little accomplishment, though Kagonos still could not understand the benefits of this great melding. After all, why would any chieftain choose to subordinate himself to a greater chief?

Yet another thing about Silvanos he respected very much. The elven leader was strong, both in his own physical presence and in the use of his mighty army. Strength was a thing Kagonos understood and valued. Indeed, it seemed possible that Silvanos’s strength might be the hammer that finally smashed dragons down from their cruel mastery of the world. That was a result the Elderwild could only embrace.

Wriggling back from the ridge, the elf tucked his moccasins into the bindings of his skis and once again started along the icy crust. He continued to work his way steadily upward, poling strongly toward a steep-sided dome crowning the end of this winding elevation. A quick glance at the sun showed him that he still had plenty of time, but now there was a new urgency to Kagonos’s rhythmic strides.

Soon he reached the base of the great summit, and – still gliding smoothly among the trees – checked the encircling woods for signs of a potential trap. Not only did he see no evidence of a current trespasser, but the snow hadn’t been disturbed since long before the crust had formed. This place would work well.

At the base of the precipitous slope, the Elderwild removed his skis, lashing the boards and poles to his back – they would be of no use on the steep climb, but they would greatly speed his descent. He started upward with the same grace and fluidity that had marked his progress across the snow. Even when he was forced to grip an outcrop crusted over with glare ice, his fingers and toes were firm, his attachment to the mountainside never wavering.

In an hour, Kagonos had reached the rounded summit, and here he walked carefully across the windswept, rocky ground. To three sides the soaring peaks of the Khalkists challenged the sky. In the fourth direction sprawled the barren plains of Vingaard, where it was left to the mortal armies of elf and ogre to do the challenging.

The Elderwild circled the promontory, confirming that no marks had been made in the snow anywhere atop the mountain. On the lofty slopes overlooking the plain Kagonos moved from barren rock to patches of stony ground, ensuring that he never silhouetted himself against the snow for the benefit of a distant watcher below.

Returning to the point of his original ascent, Kagonos at last raised the horn to his lips. Closing his eyes, turning the mouth of the instrument toward the highest peaks of the range, he blew a long, clamorous blast. The wind took his song, carried it upward and away – but only to those ears sensitive enough to hear it. Patiently the elf stared eastward, visually tracing the long, twisting valley leading toward the heights.

The Pathfinder’s hazel eyes darkened as he squinted across the miles. Raising a hand to his forehead, he shaded his vision against the bright sunlight, his focus extending far, far into the distance.

Minutes passed, and then silver glinted, blinking the reflection of sunlight with each powerful stroke. Darlantan’s mighty wingspan stretched outward in a broad embrace of the air, shimmering even across a score of miles. The silver dragon flew low, ensuring that he was not visible to anyone beyond the confines of this high valley.

Kagonos smiled tightly as he watched the gleaming serpent glide along the curve of the descending vale. Flying, he thought, must be the only type of movement more serene, more fluid than skiing. As always, the majesty of the airborne serpent all but took his breath away. The elf’s throat tightened with the familiar, warm emotion as Darlantan drew nearer to the mountain and gained speed.

Finally those wings hooked outward, rigid sails in the wind, as the momentum of the dragon’s flight swept him upward. Always Darlantan kept the bulk of the mountain between himself and the ogre army – the monstrous troops would not observe his presence on their flank.

Nearly stalled in the air, the dragon reached out with huge paws, driving his wings powerfully downward for one last stroke as he settled gently to the rocks of the domed mountaintop. He shook his head and snorted a blast of frigid air, as if clearing the reverie of flight from his ancient, wise brain.

“Greetings, Pathfinder.” Darlantan nodded elegantly, dipping his head as the silver scales rippled along his serpentine neck. “I am glad that you summon me.”

Darlantan’s body shimmered and twisted, shrinking more quickly than the elven eye could follow, and in a blink Kagonos was looking at a long-bearded, spry old human, who wore a bright cotton tunic that matched the pure white of his flowing beard. His eyebrows and the thick mane of his hair were tinted with silver, and his eyes – gleaming from deep-set sockets – were a vibrant, fiery yellow. Though the wrinkles across his forehead showed a visage that could be stern, now Darlantan’s face beamed as he reached out to clasp his friend’s hand.

“Tell me,” Kagonos asked. “Why do you take the shape of a man when you could be something so much more handsome – an elf, perhaps?” He was used to Darlantan’s shapeshifting by now – during previous meetings the silver dragon had appeared as a man, an ogre, an elf, a bear, an eagle, and a host of other creatures. Still, the Elderwild knew that Darlantan favored the shape of this human sage, and had never figured out why.

Darlantan laughed, a sound that was kind and compassionate as well as heartily amused. “I am whichever serves me best at the time,” he replied – his typical evasion. “As to this body, there may come a time when your people develop an appreciation of human wizardry!”

“The House Elves, perhaps – but the Elderwild have no need of humans, nor any desire to learn from them.”

Darlantan nodded, a noncommittal glitter in his eye.

“Have you flown over the plains?” asked Kagonos, with a look toward the flatland and the distant ogre horde.

“Aye – in the guise of an eagle, so as not to alarm the ogres. The two armies vie for position on the field. If Talonian is not careful, he will find that Silvanos has him trapped against the Vingaard.”

“Good. Perhaps the House Elves can win their victory, even without the power of the Bluestone.”

“That is the hope of us all,” the human sage replied. “But I fear that the blue dragons will arrive any day – and when they do, it will take more than an army to defend Silvanos and the elven houses.” He looked shrewdly at the wild elf, as if he had a premonition of Kagonos’s secret news.

“There is a reason I asked you here,” said the Pathfinder slowly. He continued, as Darlantan made no reply. “I believe I have located the Bluestone.”

“This is very good news – if you are right. You have not seen the stone itself?”

“No – but I have discovered an encampment of ogres near here. They have selected a defensible hilltop, but it is not a place they would normally choose to make a camp. I believe they guard something there.”

“That makes a great deal of sense. The Bluestone is the last of the Five Talismans – they will go to every length to ensure that it remains in their hands. The entire army of Talonian, on the plains before us, maneuvers only to divert attention from the real object.”

“And what word of the blue dragons?”

“They departed inland several days ago. Even if they do not fly at top speed, they will reach the central plain within the next three days. Unless Silvanos has the stone by then, his army is doomed.” Darlantan looked to the north, as if he sought a sign of those serpents against the horizon. Then he turned back to the elf.

“Where is this ogre camp?”

“Not far from here, though it will be difficult for my warriors to reach. The camp is on an island in a lake, secured within the crater of a high peak. Now, of course, the place is surrounded by snow and ice. I imagine they think it will take any attack a long time to develop.”

“But you will try this attack?”

“Yes. I have gathered the tribes in the mountains and shall ask all the braves to join me. Can Silvanos prepare to face Talonian and the dragons in time?”

“I will carry word to him. He has been contemplating dividing his force, seeking shelter in the southern forests – but I’m certain that, with this hope before him, he will stand firm. How long will it take?”

“Our attack will be made the day after tomorrow – it will take that long to gather the warriors, to climb the outer mountain. It will take another day, perhaps a day and a half, to carry the stone to the plains.”

“It may be that we can reduce that latter delay. I depart at once, for I know that Silvanos will be elated by this news.”

“Will we have time?” Kagonos asked.

“Only the gods know. If the blues come too soon, I shall try to hold them at bay until the stone arrives – but it will have to be soon, for I cannot stop them all.”

“Then we should go quickly from here and meet again on the field of victory. Thank you for coming to the summons of the Ram’s Horn.”

“I could do nothing else – but hold a moment. There is another thing you should know.”

Kagonos waited.

“Silvanos wants you, wants all your tribe, to join him in the south after the war is won. He would raise you to the status of a house, and bring you into his new nation.”

The Elderwild shrugged. “He can ask – but I shall not go.”

“That is as it should be.” Darlantan was pleased. “Now, go to the dragongem – and may this accursed business be put behind us! Do you know – even the gods themselves have paid a price in this war?”

“What do you mean?”

“Three children of Paladine – Solinari, Lunitari, and Nuitari – stole the power of magic, that the dragongems might be made. Those gods have been punished for their theft, in a manner that will soon be made apparent to all.”

“What punishment is of avail against a god?”

“Look to the night sky, after the last battle – whether the result be for good or ill. There you will see the proof, outlined against the stars.”

Darlantan explained with a slow nod. Long tendrils of silvery whiskers curled outward from his jaw, and now that fringe flickered slightly in the growing wind. That same breeze brought the sounds of a distant pulsation.

“The drums have begun,” Kagonos observed.

“In three days at the most, Talonian’s ogres will be ready to attack. The blue dragons will be near, and the time of resolution falls upon us,” agreed the elderly human. Though his body seemed frail, he stood firmly against the force of the wind, and in his yellow eyes glowed a glint of very youthful determination.

“Good luck, my friend,” Kagonos offered, placing an affectionate hand on the man’s shoulder. Already the human shape began to change, shifting and expanding into the form of the great serpent.

“And you,” replied the dragon, with a serene dip of his head. “May victory soon be ours.”

The Elderwild turned back to the slope and jammed his feet into the bindings of his skis while Darlantan spread his broad silver wings. In moments, they were flying – one through the air, the other over the snow – as they swept downward from the mountains, toward a battle that would shape the future of the world.

CHAPTER 2

THE MOUNTAIN

Three wild elves leaned into the wind, climbing steadily along the knifelike crest of ridge. Sweeping onward in a graceful arc, the mountains rose ever more steeply toward the curve of barren, windswept summit. The tracks of the three climbers dwindled into the distance below, trailing all the way down the ridgeline to the forested foundation of the massif.

A week earlier, Kagonos had climbed the other side of this mountain to discover the ogre camp within. Today, the Pathfinder chose this route for the second exploratory climb to the top. He remained aware of the mountain as a whole, though from this angle on the shoulder he could neither detect the full sweep of the circular summit, nor see the snow and ice-filled caldron within. A singular, crumbling notch broke that encircling crest at one point, allowing a tiny stream to flow through a narrow gorge, giving outlet to the lake within the mountain’s crater.

Instead of looking over the great slope before him, Kagonos allowed his eyes to sweep outward, inevitably drawn to the descending sweep of the mountains and the dusty plains beyond.

In the lead of the climbing trio, the Pathfinder paused to catch his breath while he looked under his shoulder at his brothers, who climbed steadily behind and below him.

Dall looked back, his dark face split by a fierce grin of elation, the circles of his war paint exaggerating the smile into a fierce leer. Behind Dall, Kyrill frowned with intense concentration. Like their elder brother, the two wild elves wore leather breeches and thick, deerskin cloaks to protect them from the biting wind. Still, their hands and heads were bare, except for the whorls of black paint with which the Elderwild warriors had marked their skin.

The other warriors of the tribe waited, concealed beneath an overhanging cliff in the valley at the mountain’s foot while the Pathfinder, aided by his two younger brothers, sought this second route to the summit. Kagonos pushed forward with urgency, knowing that two of them would have to descend with the summons to attack before the rest of the braves ventured onto the slopes.

After a pause while each elf caught his breath, Kagonos again rose and turned his face toward the crest. One foot after the other, he started upward, following a line that angled toward the right, where the Elderwild had seen a shadow along the mountain’s surface. True to his suspicions, he located a narrow ravine there and led Dall and Kyrill into the scant shelter offered by its cracked and jagged walls. Here they were protected from the wind and more secure from observation by any ogres that might be posted on the heights above. Even though Kagonos had seen no such scouts on his first climb, the Pathfinder wasn’t inclined to take any chances.

“Why don’t we just sneak in through the stream outlet?” Dall asked as he joined his brother beside a snow-streaked boulder. Once more the three climbers halted to catch their breath, Kyrill sweeping the snow off a rock and sitting down, while Dall and Kagonos leaned easily against the rough walls of the narrow ravine.

“That’s the obvious route – so it’s the only one we can’t take,” Kagonos replied. “It’s essential to approach an enemy from a direction he does not expect you to come.”

“Besides,” said Kyrill with a sly grin, propping one foot on a craggy rock as he leaned against the ravine wall, “the view’s a lot better from up here!”

“No city can offer a vista like that,” Kagonos agreed, reverently allowing his eyes to sweep across the expanse of mountains and distant plain. From this height, the silver ribbon of the Vingaard River was barely visible, many miles from the foothills.

“Why is it that Silvanos and the House Elves seek to hide themselves within walls?” Dall asked, showing the naivete of his youthful eighty-four years. “Are they all cowards?”

“Most likely,” said Kyrill. At two hundred, he had seen enough of life to make him, in his own eyes, an expert on most topics. “Either that, or they’re afraid that if they wander into the forest, all their women will come running to us!”

Suddenly Kagonos felt very tired – tired of war, tired of climbing, tired of watching out for the lives of the brothers who, since the death of his parents early in the war, were the only family he had on all of Krynn. Other warriors, by the time they had earned the right to paint the spirals of paint on their chests, had taken wives. Some even had children, a legacy to extend into future centuries. But for Kagonos there was none of that, not for the centuries since he had become the Pathfinder, the hope of his people.

“Many geese flew over this spring,” Dall said quietly. “The hunting in the fall will be rich, don’t you think?”

“Aye,” Kyrill agreed, grateful for the change of subjects. “If the war’s over, we’ll have our pick of the marshes – and I intend to find the one where they’re packed so close that each arrow will bring down two geese!”

“Wishful thinking, my keen-eyed brother,” Kagonos said, forcing a chuckle. “Though if there is an archer among the Elderwild who could do it, it is you.”

“Do you really think the war will end soon?” Dall asked, shaking his head in wonder. “The shamans say that it might – that the gods will so decree. And for years Balif’s legions have pounded Talonian, with the cavalry and griffons of General Quithas riding all across Ansalon – but still Silvanos has not been able to win ultimate victory over the ogres.”

Kagonos spat at the mention of Silvanos’s commander of cavalry, the renowned griffon-rider himself. “Quithas is not as great as they say. Even he would bleed red blood if cut.”

“But all the tales … I’ve heard that his legion can ride a hundred miles in a day and then attack an enemy army during the night. And still he wins the battle! Are these exaggerations?”

“Perhaps, or perhaps not. But no single general, no one army, can stem a tide of evil that has flowed for a hundred and fifty years. And, for all his arrogance, Quithas is but a single elf – even if he does augment his speed by riding a horse, or a griffon!”

Kyrill could not miss the bitterness in his older brother’s tone. “This Quithas … he is the same you met in the mountains, before I was born. The hunter?”

“Quithas sought to kill the Grandfather Ram – he whose horn I keep at my side. But I took the Griffontamer’s weapon – this axe I still carry – and he fled from the valley.”

Eyes wide, Dall looked at Kagonos. “You challenged the mighty general – and he fled?” he asked, awestruck.

“Like the wretched cur he is,” the Pathfinder replied grimly, his jaws tightening at the memory. “Though he was not Silvanos’s general at the time – indeed, that was before the war. Though even then, Quithas seemed hungry for strife. He told me that he would one day lead many elves in battle.”

“And so he does – and will, until we can end the war,” Kyrill noted.

“Which might be today!” Dall exclaimed.

“If we can capture the Bluestone and take it to Silvanos – or to Darlantan,” Kagonos agreed cautiously.

“Are you certain the stone lies beyond this summit?” Kyrill inquired.

“As certain as I can be. Darlantan thought that my intuition was correct,” Kagonos snapped.

“That’s good enough for me,” Kyrill said with a shrug.

“But what if the blue dragons or the army of Talonian destroys Silvanos on the plain? Then what will happen?” Dall pressed.

“What if the face of Krynn splits apart and we all fall into the hole?” demanded Kagonos. He knew that such questions were part of elven nature, but why could such elves not remain silent? Roughly he forced his temper down. “Then we die, and evil holds sway across the world! Darlantan says that the blue dragons will not be here for two days, at least. Furthermore, I do not think Talonian can defeat Silvanos. Apparently, the ogre chief has his own doubts – else why would he conceal the dragon talisman so far from the main body of his army?”

“Perhaps because he doesn’t fear the Elderwild,” Kyrill said.

“Then let us make him pay for his mistake,” Kagonos replied as he climbed to his feet and turned once more toward the ascent.

The gorge continued steeply upward, and the three nimble elves leapt over the snow-covered boulders that littered its floor, moving quickly after their brief rest.

Kagonos, still in the lead, felt a growing sense of disquiet. He wanted to protect his brothers – for many decades he had protected them – from the terrible violence of war. The tribe had dwelled in the forest, moving often, never camping under the open sky, and it had been years since the Elderwild of his or any other band had been swept into a major battle.

The chieftain’s thoughts returned to the present as he saw blue sky yawning beyond the next curve of the gorge. “Careful,” he whispered. “We’re almost to the top – don’t reveal yourself over the horizon.”

Ignoring the chill of the snow, Kagonos dropped to his hands and knees, creeping forward to the crest of the mountainside. At the top, he very slowly lifted his forehead until his keen eyes could see into the vale beyond.

It was as he remembered. The circular crater in the center of the summit was steep-sided and broad, a dazzling bowl of snow-lined whiteness. A wide expanse of flatness formed the bottom, several hundred feet below. Though it was featureless now beneath winter’s blanket, that flat area could only be the frozen surface of a lake. The island rose as a cone in the center, barely two hundred paces from the shore, and atop that rise he clearly saw ogres. In the week since his first discovery, the brutes had cleared away the snow from their camp and had spent some time piling rocks around the perimeter to form an improvised wall. Kagonos saw no sign of any lookouts on the mountain’s rim, or even of any organized attempt to keep watch beyond the makeshift wall.

“They’re still here,” he told his brothers, before fixing his eyes on Kyrill. His plan, which had begun to form with his first reconnaissance, now fell into place. “Get the warriors and bring them to the top. Dall, bring Chief Barcalla and the warriors of the Silvertrouts, Whitetails, and Bluelake here. This is where we will make our attack.

“Kyrill, I want you to take forty braves and circle around the mountain. Go with Chief Felltree and some of his Black Feather braves. When you get to that notch over there, wave your sword – let the sun flicker off the blade. I want you to start the attack, to divert the ogres toward the west. Then the bulk of the tribe will come down from this side, gaining some measure of surprise.”

Kagonos took his brother’s arm and stared into his eyes. Kyrill’s face was flushed with excitement, and his hands tensed around the hilt of his weapon. Once again the Elderwild Pathfinder felt that stab of regret and apprehension, but with action so close he had no choice but to force it away.

“Kyrill, listen,” he ordered tautly. “When you draw close to that island, bring your warriors around the lake and join the attack from this side. I don’t want the forty of you trying to climb that hill in the face of all the ogres in the camp. Do you understand?”

For a moment the younger elf looked as though he wanted to argue. Abruptly he nodded, and with a last look at the ogre hilltop, Kyrill turned back toward the gorge and started down the mountain.

CHAPTER 3

CONTEST IN BLOOD

The ogres continued their disorganized attempts to fortify their hilltop camp, piling boulders into a ring around the periphery of the crest to form a barrier of irregular height and loose, haphazard construction. The makeshift wall had numerous gaps, and nowhere was it higher than the top of an elf’s head. Kagonos saw that most of the ogres already grew bored with their labors, and dozens of the brutes lolled about their camp or engaged in listless bickering and brawling. This lassitude served to reassure the Elderwild that the monsters were unaware of the imminent menace to their camp – and to the Bluestone.

What if he was wrong – what if the stolen artifact was not kept there? Kagonos could only dismiss the thought, unwilling even to consider the prospect, knowing that if it was true, all hope was lost.

While waiting for his warriors, Kagonos had spent hours scouring, with his eyes, the hilltop camp, seeking some sign of that powerful talisman of dragonkind. He knew that the stone cast a powerful illumination, so that even if he couldn’t see the magical gem itself he hoped to catch a glimpse of its emanations. His search had proved fruitless, but that did not change his mind. Very likely, he told himself, the Bluestone was concealed in a cave, or had perhaps been buried somewhere.

Thus far, however, the Pathfinder had been unable to locate a cave mouth. The hilltop was fairly smooth, and though, because of the crude wall, he couldn’t see all of the enclosed area, Kagonos had begun to form a suspicion. In the center of the fortified clearing rose a small cairn of boulders, no taller than an ogre. The top of the pile had been smoothed into a platform, suitable for a lookout to see over the walls, but during the time the elf watched, no ogre had climbed onto that cairn for so much as a glance at their surroundings. It seemed to him, then, that the boulders had been piled there for some other purpose.

A purpose such as concealing the mouth of an underground hiding place. The more he thought about it, the more convinced Kagonos became that this cairn marked the place where he would find the Bluestone – after, of course, the Elderwild entered the crater, crossed the lake, climbed the hill, and breached the ogres’ impromptu wall.

He heard the sounds of climbers only as Dall came into sight below. Quickly the young elf rejoined his brother, creeping to the edge of the crater, while a file of warriors advanced behind him. Another wild elf crept forward, and Kagonos nodded to Barcalla, chief of the Silvertrout tribe. Each of the Elderwild warriors bore a pair of skis strapped to his back, with both hands free to hold weapons. Kyrill would take longer to reach his position across the crater, but he, too, should soon be getting into position.

“They don’t look like they’re expecting trouble,” Dall whispered. The young elf’s voice trembled with excitement, and his hand shook as it clutched the slender steel sword that, today, he would use for the first time in anger.

Dall’s face, like his brother’s, was painted in the charcoal black stain favored by the tribe as war paint. Since this was his first battle, the younger elf’s skin was marked by circles of black, instead of the winding, spiraled ram’s horns that denoted the more experienced braves. Dall, like Kagonos, bore the insignia of an oak leaf design enclosing his left eye. This was their family sign, unrelated to any of the tribal symbols.

“Ogres never look alert,” Kagonos replied, “but they react very quickly when trouble shows its face.”

“I know,” replied the younger elf, eager to demonstrate his readiness for this battle.

Kagonos sighed, wishing there were another way – futilely cursing the necessity that brought even the youngest males of the tribe into the battle. But there was no alternative. If they won this battle, the Elderwild could live in peace and flourish. If they lost, and the blue dragons remained free to terrorize Krynn, the end of the wild elves would be an inevitable and probably imminent development.

“Is Kyrill over there? Is he ready yet?”

“Patience, my brother. Kyrill will signal us when he’s in position.”

Kagonos allowed his eyes to drift upward, away from the snowswept island in its vast bowl of snow, until his gaze swept across the rock-fanged ridge on the opposite side of the frozen lake. Though the Pathfinder could see no sign of movement, he knew that Kyrill must by now be leading his detachment of warriors through those rocks. Moving invisibly among the snow-draped crags, the Elderwild across the mountain would be nearing their starting positions. Kagonos studied the small saddle, marked by a distinct pillar of rock, where Kyrill was to signal his readiness. He saw no sign of the elf yet, but Kagonos forced himself to be patient. He knew that his brother wouldn’t make him wait much longer.

The high, steep ridges encircled the lake almost completely – only the narrow notch broke the crest at one point, plunging into a canyon where the stream of the lake’s outflow passed toward the plains. Now that waterway, like the lake itself, was frozen. Several ogres stood sentry duty in the foot of the gorge, diligently observed by Elderwild warriors who remained out of sight among the rocks above.

The snow on the rugged heights, on the other hand, showed no sign of drawing ogre curiosity. Many trees dotted the crater’s slopes, and deep drifts of powder rendered the ground into a deceptively smooth incline. Hopefully, the snow would provide the means for a quick and startling attack by the elven braves. Certainly the soft powder made it difficult for the lumbering monsters to get around, but their carelessness still astounded Kagonos. Surely they were aware that the Elderwild could travel here?

Perhaps they were too busy worrying about Silvanos, he reflected. That must be it: why would they worry about a few hundred savage elves – elves who didn’t wear armor of metal, who shunned horses and lances and the steel-coiled longbows of their city-dwelling kin – when faced with the threat of an entire, well-disciplined army marching along the fringe of the mountains? The wild elves would take grim satisfaction in proving them wrong.

Kagonos’s eyes swept back to the camp, where the work on the wall had ceased altogether, though the barrier remained irregular and slipshod. Most of the ogres relaxed under the afternoon sun or bickered and gambled in small groups.

“There it is!” hissed Dall. The younger elf pointed across the basin to the opposite ridge, and Kagonos saw it, too: a glimmer of silver, as Kyrill reached the saddle on the opposite rim and flashed his blade in the sun.

Kagonos threw back his head, lips taut as he put the spiraling horn to his mouth. He blew a harsh, strident blast that carried clearly to the ears of all the elves – yet was virtually inaudible to the ogres, who heard merely a fresh ripple of mountain wind.

To the hundreds of Elderwild warriors waiting among the trees, the Ram’s Horn sounded a clarion call to battle. Garbed in fur cloaks, wearing skis, the elves turned their feet downhill and began to move.

Kagonos led the warriors attacking from the south. Here the trees were dense, and he cut back and forth between them, rapidly gaining speed. The snow had melted even in the shade, making the initial maneuvering slow and clumsy. Soon, however, he slashed downward, the wind burning his face and stinging tears from his eyes while his increased speed allowed him to turn smoothly, gracefully to avoid the trees.

Silent except for the hissing passage of their skis, the elves glided down from the highest forests. The Pathfinder could hear them behind, knew that his warriors used every ounce of their skill as the descending onslaught continued to gain speed.

Kagonos stole a glance across the valley and saw a rank of Elderwild come into view – Kyrill’s northern attack swept downward precisely on time. The tree line was higher over there, but those elves had the shortest stretch of lake to cross before the ogre encampment.

The shriek of the eagle split the air, then resounded dozens of times over as the Elderwild of the northern rank raised their voices in the shrill war cry of their people. Kagonos held his breath – would the ogres react as he had hoped?

One of the brutish warriors roared an alarm, spotting Kyrill’s elves sweeping downward. That small band of elves continued to shriek like furious birds of prey, crowing crude insults at their enemies or shouting valiant boasts of their own prowess. Ogres raced toward the sounds, quickly gathering at the north wall of their camp to await the attack.

Now, however, skiing warriors came into view to the south as Kagonos led his own shrieking party – much larger than Kyrill’s forty braves – toward the base of the steep slope. On the open snow he crouched for speed and balance, dimly aware that he had never traveled so fast. In the corner of his eye he saw an Elderwild break a ski on a hidden obstruction – the wild elf went down in a tumble of snow and flailing limbs. Risking a quick look behind, the Pathfinder saw that his warrior lay motionless at the end of his fall.

Now the skiers raced onto the frozen surface of the lake, rasping across the crusted snow at high speed. A few ogres scrambled back to the unprotected walls on the south, but most of the brutes still stood ready to face Kyrill’s onslaught. The rising bulk of the island blocked Kagonos’s view of his brother’s band, but he knew that the northern attack must already be sweeping around the sloping hill. Kagonos quietly repeated his command, hoping Kyrill remembered – come here to join us! Don’t storm the wall alone!

His own momentum held all the way across the lake, propelling him halfway to the crest of the island’s slope. As soon as Kagonos ceased moving, he kicked his feet free of the skis and sprinted up the hill, driving his moccasins into the crust of the snow with each bounding footstep. The eagle’s shriek rang all around him, echoed by his own lips without accompanying thought.

The Elderwild Pathfinder bore two weapons: in his right hand the long-hafted axe with its steel blade, sharp as a razor, in his left a thrusting javelin with a head of sharpened flint. Both had served as ski poles during the descent, but now he shifted his grip, brandishing the axe upraised while he held the spear ready for jabbing. The Ram’s Horn was as safe as he could make it, tied snugly against the small of his back.

Worry tightened a grip on his heart as he looked around – there was still no sign of Kyrill. Clearly the young brave led his warriors in a valiant attack on the north, continuing the diversion at the risk of their lives.

Unwilling to wait for Kagonos’s braves, a lone ogre scrambled over the ramshackle wall, raising a club and bellowing in fury. The monster charged forward, heavy boots immediately breaking through the crust of the snow. Sunk to its thighs, the monster flailed madly at the charging Pathfinder.

Kagonos paused for a fraction of a second, allowing the club to whoosh harmlessly past his face. Then he stabbed with the spear, driving the tip into the shoulder of the monster’s weapon arm. The ogre bellowed in pain, dropping its club and twisting away from the elf. Kagonos charged past, slashing a blow with his axe that elicited another groan of pain. Knowing other warriors would finish the monster, the chieftain sprinted onward, leaping up the piled boulders of the wall.

Atop the ring of rocks, Kagonos cried out with savage delight. He saw pandemonium in the ogre camp as the brutes ran toward the unprotected sections of their wall. Many Elderwild warriors scrambled over the granite rampart, adding their own triumphant cries to the din.

Only across the compound, where Kyrill’s courageous band had indeed made the initial attack, did the enemy meet the onslaught with a firm defense. There ogres massed behind the wall, while several of the monsters lunged over the top, charging into the press of the attackers. None of the elves on that side had yet made it onto the wall.

Another ogre charged, roaring, toward Kagonos. With one leaping bound, the elf jumped from the top of the wall, landing lightly in the monster’s path. Startled, the ogre skidded to a halt, but when it blocked the steel head of Kagonos’s axe with a stout club, the Elderwild jabbed the monster’s bulging gut with the javelin. Groaning, the ogre collapsed.

“To the Bluestone! Find the stone!” cried the Pathfinder as more and more of his warriors sprang from atop the wall. Dozens of clashes whirled around the camp as elves in ones, twos, and threes turned their weapons against the disjointed ogre resistance.

More bird-cries came from the right as cawing Elderwild surrounded a hamstrung ogre, stabbing the hapless creature with their weapons. Other monsters charged to their companion’s rescue and the elves turned with shocking speed to meet the new attack – but not before one of them sliced the throat of the unfortunate brute who had spurred the rescuers.

Two ogres rushed at Kagonos, and he fell back, parrying the blows of a club and a huge, bronze-bladed sword. Abruptly the sword-wielder shrieked and twisted. In the gap of a second the chieftain saw Dall there, jerking back on the short-bladed sword he had stabbed into the monster’s thigh.

It was a painful wound, but not crippling, Kagonos saw with dismay – obviously the young warrior had underestimated the monster’s speed of response. Dall tripped and sprawled on his back, but when Kagonos leapt to his brother’s aid, the club-bearing ogre smashed his weapon straight toward the Pathfinder’s head.

Barely raising his axe in time, Kagonos blocked the attack, the force of the blow staggering him. Quickly recovering, he drove in hard and fast, underneath the ogre’s clumsy backswing. The bloody tip of the javelin drove upward through the gristle of the monster’s neck, slicing through its mouth and finally lodging in the hateful brain. Slain instantly, the ogre toppled backward, pulling the javelin from Kagonos’s fingers as it fell.

“Look out!” cried the Pathfinder, leaping past the corpse. Dall rolled across the ground as the second ogre raised the huge bronze blade for another blow. Gashed deeply on his arm, the young warrior clawed for purchase on the slippery rocks as the wound spurted blood.

Kagonos swung, all the supple force of his long arm packed into one powerful blow. The gory axe head slashed through the air, toward the thick, muscle-bound neck – a blow that would cut through bone, slice the spine, kill with ultimate and undeniable authority.

But as he knew all this, Kagonos also understood that his kill would come too late.

Dall’s eyes widened in terror and comprehension as the bronze blade plunged earthward. The barbed edges of the heavy weapon tore a cruel hole in his chest, and the weight of the metal did the rest.

Howling furiously, his voice more like a wildcat’s snarl than an eagle’s shriek, Kagonos chopped the head from the ogre’s shoulders. The sounds emerging from the Elderwild’s mouth twisted and wailed in the air, a rising song of unspeakable grief, as the headless monster tumbled to the side.

His brother’s eyes dimmed as Kagonos knelt at Dall’s side. The younger elf stared desperately at the Pathfinder, and for a brief moment his gaze seemed to hold the wisdom, the serenity of countless ages. Then Dall relaxed, slumping backward, eyes half-closing. Knowing death, Kagonos gently reached out and closed his brother’s eyes fully. Despite the gaping hole in his chest, the younger elf looked oddly peaceful, as if he’d grown tired and simply lain down for a few minutes.

Vaguely Kagonos remembered that battle still raged. He blinked and looked around, thankful that several warriors had held a pair of nearby ogres at bay during his brief moment of grief. Now the Pathfinder sprang to his feet, axe held high.

As if they sensed his grim purpose, the two ogres stepped backward, but too slowly. Kagonos leapt like a striking snake, his slender axe head lashing out to cut the throat of one ogre while the other was borne to ground by two leaping Elderwild, eager to avenge the death of their Pathfinder’s brother.

“The Bluestone – it must be here!” shouted Kagonos, staring across the battle-scarred hilltop, trying again to divine a hiding place. The mound of boulders still seemed the most likely location, though the monsters made no particular attempt to defend that locale – at least, no greater effort than they made everywhere else. Yet Kagonos had to believe that the rocks mounded into a flat-topped cairn concealed the hiding place of the Bluestone.

Howls of wounded ogres mingled with the shrieks of attacking Elderwild. Those elves who suffered hurt, conversely, bore injury in stoic silence – indeed, many wounded elves limped in the rear of the attack, ruthlessly finishing off any ogre stragglers that had survived the first rush.

“Follow me!” Kagonos rushed forward, amid the chaos of the shattered camp. Many ogres – and nearly as many elves – lay bleeding and motionless across the expanse of rocks and snow. A band of the monsters still stood clustered at the north wall, though now it seemed as though the ogres sought to flee, no longer interested in defending their mountaintop retreat.

The potent gemstone was large, the elven Pathfinder knew, but it could possibly be concealed in an ogre belt-pouch or satchel. “None may escape!” cried Kagonos. “Surround them – cut them all down!”

Whooping in fury, the elves closed in. Ogres trampled each other in their haste to escape, darting this way and that in a futile effort to avoid the stone and metal weapons of the Elderwild warriors.

Kagonos reached the large cairn and quickly scrambled to the top. There, among the piled rocks, he saw the outlines of a shadowy niche. He began to kick stones free, sending the boulders tumbling down the pyramidal sides of the rock pile. A quick look across the hilltop showed him that Kyrill’s band still massed at the wall, blocking the ogres who so desperately tried to flee.

Then rocks shifted beneath his feet, and Kagonos tumbled backward as a huge, yellow-tusked ogre burst upward from a suddenly revealed cave mouth. Spittle flew from the monster’s roaring jowls, and in its burly paw it clutched a huge, hook-bladed sword. The weapon flashed, and a lightning blow whistled toward the Pathfinder’s head.

CHAPTER 4

THE GUARDIAN AND THE STONE

Kagonos jumped back, feeling the swish of air as the mighty weapon slashed past his torso. The blade clanged against a rock, bouncing back in a lightning-fast parry – even before the wild elf could raise his axe for an attack. The huge ogre lunged forward to block the cave entrance, and the Elderwild had no choice but to fall back another step, though his eyes probed beyond the brute’s shoulder, looking for some telltale gleam of blue. For now Kagonos saw only blackness, though he got an impression of shadowy alcoves and twisting passages. Certainly there was more to this shelter than first met his eye – but he wouldn’t be able to explore it unless he disposed of the menacing ogre.

The monster roared, fetid breath washing over the elf as Kagonos ducked into a fighting crouch. His axe, normally such a potent and deadly weapon, seemed a frail counter to the ogre’s crushing blade – one solid parry, he knew, and the wooden haft would splinter like kindling.

The ogre’s face twisted into a mask of hatred, bloodshot eyes glittering wickedly as it sensed the elf’s weakness. The brute took another step forward, pushing rocks out of the way with its shoulders as it forced its way through the narrow cave mouth. A grotesque tongue licked across the ogre’s sagging lips, while its twin, yellowed tusks gleamed with drool.

Kagonos retreated again, forced backward by a slashing blow. The monster sensed an advantage and lunged outward, shaking dust from its shoulders and roaring in fury and anticipated triumph. The sword slashed again, and the Pathfinder used his axe in a parry – fortunately the steel head deflected the great bronzed blade, the shaft holding firm.

This time the ogre overreached and the elf hacked a return stroke, carving a bloody gouge in the monster’s shoulder. Howling furiously, the beast whipped around with a savage backswing. Kagonos ducked, knowing that the blow had enough force to hack his head from his shoulders. Springing upright again the elf chopped with the spiked reverse side of his axe head, driving the sharp steel tip into the ogre’s knee and drawing a shrill bellow of pain and outrage.

Shaking free of the enclosing boulders, the ogre climbed out of the narrow cave entrance, stabbing its sword at the dodging, dancing elf. Kagonos chopped, bashing away the thrusts of the off-balance ogre, while the beast limped on the weakened knee, fury undiminished.

Once on the open ground of the hilltop, the ogre stood tall, seizing the hilt of the sword in both its mighty hands. Kagonos realized with a jolt of surprise that he had never seen such a huge specimen of the brutal warriors – the monster loomed half again as high as the elf, and the Elderwild’s arms could not have come close to encircling the girth of the mighty beast’s muscular shoulders.

The ogre, too, seemed to sense its immense physical advantage. The thick lips curled upward in a cruel sneer, while the yellow tusks gleamed – as if anticipating the taste of its victim’s blood. With a grunting curse, the brute raised the sword over its head, bringing the weapon down in a crashing blow.

Feinting to the right and then rolling left, Kagonos saw a boulder crushed to gravel as the monstrous blade smashed into the ground to the elf’s side. Bouncing to his feet, the Pathfinder slashed at the ogre’s unprotected flank. The monster spun with surprising agility, however, and Kagonos tumbled backward, barely avoiding a wicked sideways slash as he landed heavily on the rocks.

The ogre lunged closer as Kagonos frantically rolled to the side again, then reversed his evasion as the monster once more chopped savagely in the direction of the elf’s feint. The diversion gave him enough time to leap to his feet, though the wild elf was again forced to dance sideways to avoid the brute’s pressing attack.

For a moment, the two combatants circled each other. Countless savage melees raged around the hilltop as individual ogres and elves remained locked in mortal combat, while the cries of wounded ogres and the clash of steel against bronze rang through the air. Kagonos knew that none of his tribesmen could come to his aid. The ogre sensed this and lunged eagerly after the light-footed elf.

Kagonos feinted left, this time following with a tip of his head to the right and then a full-fledged dive back to the left. The ogre was shrewd enough to anticipate the first fake, committing all of its force to a crushing blow against the rocks where it expected the elf to go.

The warrior’s evasion was so successful that Kagonos bounced to his feet behind the monster’s right shoulder. Sensing disaster, the ogre tried to spin, but it was no match for the wild elf’s speed. Kagonos hacked with the blade of his axe, chopping into the monster’s neck. With a groan, it stumbled to one knee, struggling to rise as blood spilled down its chest in a growing apron of gore.

The Pathfinder chopped again, reversing his weapon to drive the spike of his axe head into the base of the ogre’s skull. The monster stiffened soundlessly, twisting away from the blow to sprawl, dead, on the rocks of the hilltop.

Kagonos didn’t waste time looking around the perimeter, where he could hear that numerous individual battles still raged. Instead he all but dove through the mouth of the unconcealed cave, tripping on the loose rock in the entryway and then crouching in sudden caution. He realized belatedly that, had a second ogre been hiding in the shadowy interior, the sun-blinded elf would have been an easy kill.

The only sounds came to him from the desperate skirmish outside. Though the cave’s interior was shrouded in shadow, Kagonos trusted the sensitivity of his ears in assuming that he was alone within the darkened interior. Besides, any lurking ogre would have been shrewd enough to attack him immediately, not giving him the time to adjust to the darkness.

Probing with his left hand and feeling cautiously along the floor with his feet, Kagonos worked his way along a shadowy passage. Elven eyesight is keen in the dark, and he quickly discerned additional details about his surroundings. Several small passages branched to either side, but all of these would have been a tight fit for even a slender ogre. The wild elf, assuming that the brutes would have spurned these tight squeezes in favor of the more spacious central corridor, continued to advance.

Heart pounding, Kagonos darted around a corner, seeing nothing but the continuance of the winding passage. Where was the Bluestone? He scarcely dared to breathe, so intent was he on the search – and so acutely conscious of the importance of the potent artifact.

Abruptly a flash of azure light caught his eye, and Kagonos knelt among the rubble within a narrow alcove. Desperately he clawed at the stones, pulling large rocks free with sharp tugs, excavating a steadily growing hole. The faint but noticeable illumination grew stronger, clearly blue. There was no doubt in his mind that he had found it: the thing that had made this attack necessary, and whose recovery would provide the means to win the Dragon War.

Grunting from the strain, he pulled a large boulder out of the way, and finally the treasure lay revealed. Kagonos paused, vaguely surprised – and disappointed. He had expected to find a magnificent jewel, smooth and bright, gleaming from a multitude of facets like the gems he had seen cut and polished by the jewelers among the House Elves.

Instead, he found himself looking at a stone of irregular shape, dirty and scuffed – an oblong rock that was nevertheless as large as his head. Though the azure illumination glowed from within the rock, the surface itself was dull, stained, and pockmarked. The Bluestone was a jagged, knobby stone that lacked the polish and glimmer of the carefully sculpted jewels used by elves and ogres for ornamentation. No jeweler had touched tool to this stone, and in places dirt and a crust of lichen tried to obscure its inner heart.

Yet in this they could not succeed, for the Bluestone pulsed with a light that would not be quenched. Carefully, reverently, Kagonos reached down and took the stone, surprised by its unnatural warmth. The hair on his scalp prickled upward as the stone’s aura seemed to crackle in the air around him.

How many elves of his tribe had died that he might now hold this stone in his hands? He thought, with a bitter pang, of Dall, of his own inability to save his brother’s life. It was a failure that would haunt him, he knew, for the rest of his years. Had it been worth the price – of Dall, and of all the other wild elves who would never descend, alive, from this bloodstained hilltop?

Countless ogres had died, too, in the fight. Would those monstrous warriors feel as though their lives had been wasted? The Elderwild shrugged away the question, telling himself that the thoughts of his enemies were of no concern to him. Still the wonder remained, tugging at his thoughts.

Cradling the precious artifact in his arms, Kagonos emerged from the narrow cave mouth.

Vaguely he heard the cries of battle still ringing around the camp and realized that the ogres had been prepared to flee and leave this precious artifact behind.

“Let them go,” he said quietly, waving his hand dismissively toward the knot of terrified survivors. Scowling in perplexity, but not questioning their Pathfinder’s command, the Elderwild warriors fell back. Like creatures of one mind, the ogres stampeded away from the cairn, scrambling over the crude wall and plunging through the deep snow.

Kagonos held the heavy gemstone, awestruck at its reputed power. Would they get it to Silvanos in time? He didn’t know how the power of the stone was invoked, but he felt certain that the stone had to be nearby when the blue dragons arrived. If such an ambush could be arranged, the artifact would imprison the souls of the dragons within the stone – and the last wing of the Dark Queen’s serpents would be vanquished. But it would take the rest of the day to march down from this mountain, and another day or more to reach the elven army on the plain.

Unless a faster means could be found.

Instinctively the elf raised his eyes to the sky. A speck appeared, soaring closer with powerful wing strokes, and with bittersweet satisfaction Kagonos saw that the transportation of the gem, at least, would be taken care of by an emissary of Silvanos.

The flying creature was a griffon, and the trailing golden hair of the rider clearly marked him as an elf. The great eagle wings spread into a soaring dive, while the beaked mouth of the griffon opened in a wide, shrieking cry. The animal’s hindquarters, muscular and feline, covered with sleek brown fur, absorbed the shock of the landing as easily as a pouncing lion’s. The griffon’s forelegs, feathered and taloned like the limbs of a great eagle, came lightly to rest on the rocks. The creature pranced back and forth between these avian feet, allowing its powerful hind legs to absorb most of its weight.

Even before Kagonos saw the rider, he knew who it was. The wild elf struggled to swallow the hatred that had lingered from centuries before, though his emotions surged as strongly as if the enchanted arrow had pierced Darlantan’s body only a week ago.

“Greetings, Quithas,” Kagonos said stiffly. He did not bow.

The elven warrior, his golden hair flying in the breeze, his golden breastplate sparkling in the sun, dismounted and swept his eyes over the bloody hilltop. With loathing, the Pathfinder recognized the crossed claws of the griffon emblazoned on the gilded shield.

“Silvanos placed his army in considerable danger, based on the word of the dragon Darlantan. I hope that you have made the risk worthwhile.”

“We did – if you can get him this gemstone before it’s too late.”

“You killed many ogres, I see – somewhat surprising, given your primitive weapons and tactics,” Quithas remarked, as if he hadn’t heard the wild elf.

“We regained the Bluestone – the gem that was lost by the House Elves. Now, take it to Silvanos before it is too late.”

“The timing is good,” Quithas allowed, reaching out and taking the gem. He barely looked at it before tucking it into a deep saddlebag. “The blue dragons winged into sight this morning, but that silver wyrm – Darlantan – went aloft to fight them. I should think he would be able to delay their attack until my return.”

Abruptly the golden-haired elf spun around to face Kagonos. Face flushed, Quithas dropped his eyes to the silver axe, now cleaned, that swung at the wild elf’s hip. The Pathfinder was strangely unsettled by the dramatic alteration in the House Elf’s mood.

“I see that you taunt me with my axe. One day we will not be allies, Wild Elf. Then I shall kill you and take it back.”

Without a backward glance the elven commander leapt again into the saddle of his proud flying steed. Sensing its master’s tension, the griffon sprang upward, and the eagle wings quickly caught the wind and carried it aloft. Watching him shrink into the distance, Kagonos cursed Quithas for his arrogance, yet wished him all the speed in the world on his mission. Darlantan was powerful, but how long could he do battle with a host of blues, the immortal children of Takhisis?

“My Pathfinder …” The voice belonged to Felltree, the young chieftain of the Black Feather tribe. Kagonos knew that he had displayed a great deal of courage in the past. Now Felltree’s voice was tight, his eyes wet with unshed tears.

Then, in a withering storm of despair, Kagonos knew why. The warrior bore a bleeding, lifeless form in his arms. The Pathfinder didn’t need to look closely to recognize the body of his brother Kyrill.

CHAPTER 5

COUNCIL ON THE HIGH PLAINS

More than two hundred of the tribe’s braves had fallen during the battle. The slain Elderwild were buried collectively in a large cairn atop the hill, individual stones standing on end to mark each warrior. The surviving elves tumbled the dead ogres down the hill, then dragged them across the lake so that their rotting corpses wouldn’t pollute the water with the coming of spring.

Afterward, Kagonos led the surviving warriors down the frozen stream, through the deep cut in the side of the mountain. The band of warriors moved quickly, in several long files, following the course of high, barren valleys until they reached the lower vale where the tribes had gathered. At the outskirts of the pastoral valley the Pathfinder met several white-haired archers – braves too old to march to war, but who stood ready to guard their loved ones in the absence of the main body of Elderwild warriors. The older elves watched their tribemates’ return, and tears streamed from their eyes as they saw the ragged gaps in the long columns.

Still, the survivors stood tall, marching proudly as the sentries fell into ranks behind them. They returned to the encampment, where hundreds of tents and huts had been erected along the shore of a deep lake. The warriors came to tell of a victory – but also with a toll that tonight would bring grief to many families.

Barcalla, Felltree, and the other chiefs went to their sections of the camp, while Kagonos sat alone before a small fire. Cries – hopeless, keening songs – began to rise from many of the lodges, as the names of the dead were tolled.

Kahanna, a young elfmaiden who had been sweetly, innocently in love with Dall, brought the Pathfinder cakes of corn and venison wrapped in crispy leaves, then hurried away as if she didn’t want to intrude on his mourning. Kahanna had served Kagonos for many decades, tending to most of his household needs. Now he felt a sting of guilt – surely the young maid must grieve for the loss of her lover. Yet, because Kagonos was the Pathfinder, she bit her tongue and held back her own tears.

Dimly he heard the sounds of the shamans chanting, working the healing magic that might save a limb, or prevent a deep wound from festering. The worst of the wounded received the benefit of these merciful spells, and many lives were saved. But the tribal priests were too few, their powers too limited, to hold against the tide of suffering and death.

For the first time since the battle, he unlashed the Ram’s Horn, raising the trumpet to his lips. For the hours of sunset and twilight he played a song of mourning. The notes carried clearly through the camps of the four tribes and rose through the forests into the mountain heights as well. In that music was comfort for all who grieved, and a measure of hope for those Elderwild who tumbled toward despair.

Finally the chiefs joined Kagonos at his fire, and they shared a silent pipe. Only after the last of the tobacco smoke had wafted into the wind did the Pathfinder look around the gathered elves. A part of him saw them as strangers, unknown to him. They needed him, he knew – but did he need them?

The answer to the unspoken question didn’t matter. Kagonos must decide what to do now, and he knew this was a decision he could not make by himself.

Abruptly the Pathfinder remembered something that Darlantan had told him. He stood and turned his back to the fire, eyes seeking the eastern horizon. Then he raised a finger and pointed. The chiefs gasped collectively as a crimson orb climbed slowly into view, rising above the ridge and ascending into the darkening sky. Another moon, this one of brilliant, crystal white, followed the first. The third moon, the black one, was invisible when it came after – but the Pathfinder sensed its stark and ominous presence. And now he understood Darlantan’s truth: even gods could be punished.

“The war is finished. The gods have banished their own kin, those who gave the dragongems to Silvanos. We see them entombed before us.”

“The dragons – even the blues – have gone?” Barcalla asked hesitantly. “You know this from these moons?”

“Yes – but we must be certain. Tomorrow the tribes shall march from here.”

“Where do we go?” asked Feldree.

“We shall march to the camp of Silvanos. There we will see what the future holds.”

*

From the top of a foothill ridge the wild elves could see the ogre army streaming toward the north – a ragged, panicked mob, leaving chariots, foodstuffs, and weapons strewn in its wake. The midday sky was clear, free of clouds – and of dragons. Along the southern horizon, four hours’ march away, the army of the House Elves sprawled in a vast encampment across the plain.

Watching the flight of the ogre survivors, Kagonos finally knew that more than just the battle had been won. With dual victories, in the mountains and on the plains, the elves had prevailed over their enemies in the Dragon War.

Still, he felt a curious numbness as he led the Elderwild tribes toward the camp of Silvanos. From the crest the march took the rest of the afternoon, and with each step it seemed that the mass, the numbers of the House Elves, grew steadily larger. Cheers rang out as the wild elves approached, and the Pathfinder knew that their greeting would be warm.

But what lay behind that warmth?

It all depended on Silvanos, Kagonos knew. So much about the ruler of the House Elves was a great mystery to the Pathfinder, and it was not without trepidation that he took his warriors and their families among the much more numerous elves of the city-dwelling clans.

The House Elves had made their encampment on the heights overlooking the Vingaard River, within sight of the battlefield – but far enough away to avoid the stench of rotting ogre corpses. In the light of the setting sun Kagonos saw hundreds of vultures wheeling over the scene of carnage, while clusters of the birds already gathered on the ground, flocking like maggots around the multitude of gruesome remains.

The elven camp, conversely, was a riotous gathering of colored tents, crowded horse corrals, and brilliant banners trailing in the breeze. Many of these pennants blazed incredibly bright in the light of the setting sun, as if the flags themselves were living tongues of flame.

In the center of the gathering snapped the white crown pennant of House Silvanos, and Kagonos guided his column toward the patriarch’s circle. Nearby waved the green-and-white birch branch that signaled the tents of the great Lord Balif and his attendants. The wild elf knew that it was Balif, even more than Quithas, who had planned and executed Silvanos’s most stunning victories. Balif was the true war leader of the Silvanesti, a fact that Silvanos never failed to acknowledge. Now cheers and the sounds of a boisterous toast rose from that great captain’s compound, and Kagonos guessed that Balif had played a part in yet another historic victory.

Nearby fluttered another banner, this one all too familiar to Kagonos – a golden field emblazoned with the crossed claws of Quithas’s rampant steed. The Elderwild chieftain sensed with a sting of lingering hatred that the general of Silvanos’s cavalry had not only survived the battle, but had showered himself with glory.

Now, as they welcomed the arrival of the Elderwild, the elves of Silvanos came forward with shouts and cheers, forming two broad columns to either side of Kagonos’s march. The numbness in the chieftain’s breast expanded into a sort of vague disbelief as he heard the cheers, felt the exultancy of victory surging over him, offered by the warriors who were of his race but not of his people.

Even in looking at Silvanos’s troops, Kagonos could see the differences. The House Elves wore armor of silver, and all of them bore swords or daggers of keen steel. Their faces were unpainted, their boots firm and stout – at least by comparison to Elderwild moccasins – and their blond hair was bound carefully against their necks.

Most of the warriors, by now, had set their armor aside in favor of cloaks and tunics of bright silk and dyed cotton, while jewelry of silver and gold dangled or gleamed from wrists, necks, ears, and fingers. On many of the high-ranking elves, gems – diamonds, emeralds, rubies, garnets, and many others Kagonos didn’t even recognize – sparkled in a brilliant affirmation of an individual’s wealth, status, and power.

The elves of Kagonos’s band, conversely, allowed their darker hair to flow freely across their shoulders, blowing in the wind with the same lack of constraint as the folk themselves cherished so deeply. The Elderwild were still painted in their swirling battle colors, with each tribe displaying the symbol that identified it – the antlers of the Whitetails, the curling wave of the Bluelake, or the hawk’s beak sigil of the Black Feathers. Many wild elves displayed spirals of varying length, and while some of the warriors still showed the hollow circles of unblooded braves, these circles would be altered to spirals at the earliest opportunity. Of course, the paint would be washed off at the conclusion of the victory celebration, but during preparation for battle it served as a key indicator of an individual’s station within the war party and the tribe. Now those symbols marked them as a proud and distinct people, obviously very different from the light-skinned House Elves.

The column of Elderwild marched steadily, warriors raising their heads and throwing back their shoulders as they walked among the ranks of their allies. Though every one of them had lost a brother, cousin, or friend in the fight, the survivors remained determined to present a proud and honorable face to their kinsmen from the city houses.

The cheers rose to a crescendo as Kagonos led his fighters among the tents of Silvanos’s entourage. Before him crackled a huge fire, sending tendrils of flame dozens of feet into the night sky, and it was around this blaze that the leaders of the House Elves had gathered.

Despite his mental preparation, Kagonos was startled when, as he neared the fire, Silvanos himself came forward to greet him. As before during their occasional meetings, the Elderwild was struck by the youthfulness of the great leader and statesman. Since the first great council of the Sinthel-Elish, more than six hundred years ago, Silvanos had been the unquestioned leader of all the House Elf clans. He was, in some senses, the king of Silvanesti – but in every other sense he was very much more than a king.

Though his hair was as silver as spun wire, Silvanos’s proud face was free of lines. His wide green eyes glowed with a depth of wisdom that never failed to unsettle the forest-dweller, and there was something about Silvanos’s stature – removed from mere height or broad shoulders – that gave to the elven ruler an undeniable sense of destiny and power.

“Greetings, kinsman,” declared the great leader. Silvanos halted and bowed deeply to Kagonos. The Elderwild returned the bow to the exact same depth.

“And to you, kinsman,” the Pathfinder replied. “I see that your efforts were met with victory.”

“And yours,” Silvanos replied. “Quithas brought the Bluestone to the battlefield in the very blink of time that remained to us, before the blue dragons would have wreaked terrible havoc. Now the spirits of those serpents are entrapped in the stone, and it will be buried – as were the stones of the reds, greens, blacks, and white dragons before them.”

“Then it was worth the cost of gaining it,” Kagonos stated grimly.

“Before the battle, Darlantan told me of the stone’s location, of the nature of your attack. Tales of your courage and triumph will be told through the ages.”

The elven lore masters, Kagonos thought with surprising bitterness, will sing of your battle, of Quithas’s flight. But they will have little to say about us.

Shaking his head, the Pathfinder fought off the resentment, the anger that had begun to seethe within him. Surely, after a victory like this, they could set aside their differences for a time. Then he thought of Dall, of Kyrill, and he was not so sure.

The esteemed ruler allowed his eyes to flicker across the column of Elderwild survivors, many of whom were bandaged or obviously wounded. “The cost to your tribe has been dear – I’m sorry for that.”

“We all pay the prices we must,” Kagonos replied, discomfited by his kinsman’s sympathy. It was far easier for him to regard the House Elves as dangerous rivals than as friends. Now he could not relax from a sense of impending danger. However, decorum called for some sort of response.

“I am sure that many of your own tribe will not share the celebration of victory,” he offered, with a stiff nod of his head.

“As you say, the price …” Silvanos was quiet, pensive for a moment. “But perhaps, kinsman, with today’s victory further bloodshed can be banished to some point far in the distant future.”

“There can be no greater reward – nor one more honestly earned,” Kagonos agreed.

A file of warriors came toward them, led by a tiny, bareheaded elf whose unusually broad face was split by a great smile. He reached up to clap Silvanos on the shoulder in a surprisingly casual manner, and then turned to study Kagonos. The wild elf looked back stiffly, wondering if the short elf could actually be as friendly and guileless as his beaming expression indicated.

“You have not met my right hand, General Balif,” Silvanos said, smiling without apparent discomfort at his lieutenant’s bold friendliness.

“You and your warriors are a tribute to the elven peoples,” Balif said, startling the Elderwild Pathfinder by reaching out and taking both of his hands. “Know that, in the new realms we open in the east, the forests will always be open to the wild elves.”

“I thank you,” Kagonos replied, liking Balif in spite of his un-elven lack of reserve. He turned back to Silvanos with a raised eyebrow. “What are these new realms?”

“Balif will take a number of the houses and settle the forest lands of the eastern shore. The ogres don’t live there, and there are barely a few tribes of human savages in the woods. Balifor will become the second great nation of elves.”

Another House Elf, this one dressed in a golden helm, stepped forward to the ruler’s side. Kagonos recognized Quithas, and the Elderwild’s scalp bristled with instinctive antipathy.

Taller than the average elf by more than half a foot, his dark eyes glittering on each side of his hooked, hawklike nose, Quithas looked down at Kagonos.

Kagonos thought that the elven war leader looked darker and far more bitter than he had during their last meeting, which had occurred just two days before. Now Quithas fixed his gaze on the steel-headed war-axe at the wild elf’s belt, then raised his gaze to stare into the Pathfinder’s face.

“Dare you come here with my weapon?” he demanded.

“It is my trophy now – remember?” Kagonos retorted.

“So now you come to seek rewards for your contribution?” spat the general. “As if our sacrifices have not been enough, you seek the treasures of the House Elves?”

“The sacrifices have been made by all tribes,” Silvanos interjected smoothly, ignoring the taut lines of anger suddenly etched into Kagonos’s face. “General Quithas, perhaps you should see to the arrangements for the victory feast.”

Now it was the city elf’s face darkened by fury, but he dared not challenge his ruler. Quithas turned and stalked away, while Silvanos shook his head sadly. “His son was slain in the charge that broke Talonian’s line – while Quithas himself was off retrieving the Bluestone. I fear …” The great ruler’s voice trailed off, sad and pensive.

“Sacrifices have been made even by the gods,” the patriarch noted abruptly. “Did you see the moons these last two nights?”

Kagonos nodded.

“Those are the remains of the three gods – those immortals who gave us the means to win this war.”

“Why were they punished thus? Do the other gods favor evil?”

“I believe they regret that we mortals have gained the power of magic. Perhaps they should, though we shall endeavor to keep its use under control. But enough of that – suffice to say that the cost has been high to all.”

Silvanos sighed, and for the first time Kagonos realized that the elven patriarch was actually subject to mortal failings. “It grieves me to see such divisions among our people, my friend,” he told Kagonos. Though he did not want to hear the words, the Elderwild found it impossible to tear his attention away from the patriarch’s charisma.

“We are all one folk, under the war paint and the golden cloaks,” Silvanos continued. “I would like us to know that oneness through all aspects of our lives on Krynn.”

“The hatreds of the House Elves will ever divide us,” Kagonos suggested. “Those like Quithas, who cannot grasp the lightness of freedom.”

“Do not confuse living in a city with slavery,” Silvanos chided. “We, too, are free – in many ways freer than you of the woodland shall ever be.” Kagonos thought there was a trace of genuine regret in the ruler’s voice, though the Elderwild was truly mystified by Silvanos’s concepts of freedom. How could any walled enclosure hope to offer the breathtaking and unfettered life that he knew in the forest?

“Tonight is not the night for such discussion,” the Elderwild chief noted awkwardly. “We have won a victory – and must mourn our dead.”

“Indeed. Death has touched us all. I grieve beside you over the loss of your brothers. They died as brave warriors, as elven heroes, and their courage will be a source of pride for many generations – in the cities as well as the forest.”

Kagonos tried to suppress his astonishment – the only communication between the two armies had been the flight of Quithas, when he retrieved the stone. Certainly that dour elf had not carried word – had not even known – of the Pathfinder’s personal tragedy.

“The grief you struggle so hard to conceal – it shows in your eyes, for one who knows what to look for,” said the great patriarch gently. “I have seen that look many times today. My own nephew, Palthios, was killed leading a charge against the ogre flank; my brother’s eyes were as haunted as yours. And General Quithas’s loss was his only son, his only child. For a time I thought the darkness in his mind would consume him.”

Numbly Kagonos nodded, wondering if Quithas might not yet yield to that ultimate despair. The Pathfinder was aware that some portion of himself was terribly racked by grief. Yet why was it, then, that he barely sensed the feeling?

“I invite you, as I have before, to come to the new land of Silvanesti with us,” Silvanos declared earnestly. “There, amid the splendid valley of the Thon-Thalas River, we shall create the greatest city the elves have ever known, and we hope that your tribe shall stand at our side as we do so.”

“We have no need of a new land, not now – not when the war is won, when all Ansalon beckons.”

“But think of the might we could gather, centered in Silvanesti! All the elves together. Your people, too, as one of the great houses! We shall name you House Servitor, and your people will know lives of productivity and beauty!”

“That is no life for an Elderwild!” Kagonos’s voice grew sharp with scorn. “House Servitor, you say – will you make us lackeys to your lords?”

“No – of course not. But tell me, Kagonos – why have you never accepted my invitations?” asked the great leader, ignoring the hostile tone of the Pathfinder. “Come, at least, to visit one of my palaces! Stay as my honored guest.”

“It is impossible,” Kagonos said with a firm shake of his head.

“But, why?”

“A vow – a pledge I made centuries ago.” Kagonos recalled the scene as if it had been yesterday – the Grandfather Ram, suddenly become the dragon Darlantan, commanding his obedience and loyalty, compelling him to obey two rules. In obedience – and, fully in keeping with the Pathfinder’s own wishes – he had never taken a wife, and he had never journeyed to a House Elf city.

Vaguely, he felt the patriarch’s gaze on him, and when he looked at Silvanos he saw more, even greater, sadness. Instinctively, with a chill, he knew why.

“Darlantan?” asked the Elderwild. Suddenly the numbness was gone.

“He awaits you beside the river,” Silvanos said. “He bade me speak to you first, before you went to him. You will find him there, where the twin cottonwood trunks cross.”

The Elderwild squinted into the patriarch’s face, certain that Silvanos knew more than he was telling – and equally certain that he would learn no more in this conversation.

CHAPTER 6

PASSING OF A PATRIARCH

Gripped by a dire sense of apprehension, Kagonos sprinted through the army of elves, drawing little more than curious glances – and an occasional curse if he came too near a fire, or startled some dozing sentry or grazing warhorse. Soon the darkness of the night surrounded him, but it was not the cool, still quietude of the mountains. Here in the plains the night air pressed against him, warm and stifling. The harsh grass was brittle underfoot, neither solid like the bedrock of a high ridge nor cushioning like the mossy loam of an alpine meadow.

The two trees indicated by Silvanos arched upward, silhouetted against the stars as they joined in a towering apex. Beyond them, glittering like pale crystal, rolled the waters of the eternal Vingaard, alternately silvered and red beneath the flickering reflections of the two visible moons. The great river was shallow here, the surface roiled by rapids across its breadth of perhaps three hundred paces. It had proven an effective backstop against the maneuvering of the ogre army.

And now, the elf saw with a sharp gasp of breath, the mud of the broad bank provided a soft resting place for a massive, terribly wounded figure.

Darlantan’s great silver head rose from the mire, the luminous amber eyes blinking several times as Kagonos scrambled down the embankment and knelt beside his oldest friend.

“I am glad to see you alive, Pathfinder,” said the dragon, Darlantan’s voice a rasping shadow of its formerly powerful timbre.

“And you,” Kagonos replied, trying to bite back the sadness that cloaked his words. “You fought the blue dragons, held them off – and lived.”

“There is no need for deceit – I will not see the next sunrise,” Darlantan demurred. “But that is of little consequence. My time is through, but because of our victory today there will be many families of elves and humans who will live out their lives in peace. That is a worthy knowledge to carry to one’s death, I think.”

“And I, too, Silver One. But I grieve that you, who have fought so valiantly, should not live to see that blossoming of peace.”

“I have seen much in my time – though I did not see the two blue dragons come at me from below. That’s when they rended my wing,” the serpent declared with a wry chuckle that carried some of his usual resonance. “It was the fall – something more than a mile, I should think – that did the rest.” The mild laughter faded into a coughing gurgle that left no doubt as to the severity of the wounds.

“Do not labor yourself with speech. Allow me to sit – to make vigil with you,” Kagonos said.

“That would please me – but as yet I am not ready for silence. There is a thing I must say.”

The Elderwild waited, squatting on his haunches, listening in desperation to Darlantan’s labored breathing.

“Your people are strong, and proud, and beautiful.” There was nothing weak about the dragon’s voice now. As he spoke, his words struck to Kagonos’s core. He knew Darlantan’s words were more than an opinion, that they went beyond simple praise. The mighty dragon spoke a fundamental truth.

“More than all these things, you are wild – and that wildness lies at the center of your being. You must help your people remain wild, Kagonos Pathfinder – wild for all time.”

For a long time the elf sat silently, formulating a reply. “I hear your words. Know that I desire for my people that we always remain free of the House Elves’ fetters. But I fear that, as the centuries pass, the ways of the Silvanesti will draw more and more of my people from the forests – until there are none left to be wild.”

“Your fears are real, but you – and you alone – can ensure that they do not come to pass. The horn will help to guide you – use it.”

“But … how?”

“Let the music tell you that. Remember, too, that the second horn is safe, in the den of my wyrmlings. They will know its purpose and its importance. They know, and you should remember always, that the silver dragons and the wild elves will share a kinship, a bond that will last for all the ages of Krynn.”

“Rest, now,” urged the elf. “Save your strength, and you may well see the new dawn.” In his heart he desperately wished he spoke the truth – but in his mind he recognized the lie.

“I shall have time … for rest,” Darlantan murmured dreamily. “As do we all. One day even you, Kagonos, shall have to choose another Pathfinder, to pass along the horn of the Grandfather Ram. Elves are long-lived, but you shall not roam the forests forever!”

The massive silver body shifted, shrinking, and as the elf reached out he felt warm, coarse wool. He brushed his palm over a sturdy shoulder, his throat tightening in grief as he recognized the Grandfather Ram. Though Darlantan had appeared in many incarnations in the centuries Kagonos had known him, he had not seen the lordly ram since their first meeting. The white-maned head lowered, and Kagonesti thought he saw a shimmering of silver scales in the curling pelt – or was it merely his imagination? With a great exhalation, the ram dropped his chin to his shoulder and lay still.

“Dar —” Kagonos’s throat choked the rest of the word. He blinked bitter tears, then grinned foolishly as Darlantan opened one bright, yellow eye. It gleamed at him with vast depths of wisdom.

“Your people … lead them. Find the path – and use the Ram’s Horn to show them the way,” whispered Darlantan. “Now, I go to rest. …”

This time, when Darlantan ceased speaking, Kagonos knew that his words were done forever. Sighing, yet possessed by a tingling sense of energy he had not known since before the battle, the wild elf rose to his feet – though his shoulders remained hunched in grief.

Now he had an important task. Kagonos found a sturdy, blunt-ended stick below the cottonwood tree, and used it to scratch a hole into the soft dirt. He knelt to pull the loose soil out of the hole with his cupped hands. The work was hard and grueling, yet the elf took a peculiar satisfaction from the blisters raised on his palms, the stiffening muscles that began to ache and complain each time he hoisted more dirt out of the hole. He felt that, in every way, this was the most honorable work he had done in a longtime.

Finally the excavation was deep enough to protect Darlantan from scavengers and desecrators. As gently as possible the Pathfinder carried the ram to the grave, laid him with dignity along the soft mud in the bottom of the hole. Murmuring a prayer for the creature’s peaceful rest, the wild elf slowly, reverently, moved the dirt back into the hole. When he was finished, he washed himself in the river and spoke another prayer for the spirit of his friend. With a look at the sky, Kagonos had no trouble believing that Darlantan’s light still burned brightly among the legion of twinkling stars.

Across the plain, huge victory fires blazed, spurting showers of sparks into the dark sky. Tinder, in the form of ogre supply carts, surplus spear shafts, and other debris, was cast onto the coals. Shouts and cheers arose around the fires – already the victory dances, with their attendant boasting and storytelling, had begun.

The Elderwild braves would figure prominently in the celebration, Kagonos knew. His people could brag as expansively as any other, and a wild elf warrior would not be shy about enhancing the drama and glory of his accomplishments. And in the recent battle those accomplishments had been truly legendary.

Still, the Pathfinder could find no enthusiasm for the celebration. If not for the need to tend his people’s business, he would have started back to the mountains immediately. The solitude of the heights seemed likely to provide the only possible balm for his multitude of intangible wounds. He realized that all of central Ansalon was once again open to him, to all the wild elves. Yet what freedom was that when Dall, Kyrill, and Darlantan would not be there to share it with him?

Certainly the rest of the tribes would depend on him for leadership, for some sort of suggestion as to where lay the future of the Elderwild. Perhaps it was time for the multitude of small tribes to consider gathering again in larger clans. After all, the danger of the evil dragons was gone. He thought back to a long time ago, having difficulty remembering that the Dark Queen’s wyrms had smashed the great councils that had been an annual feature of Elderwild life during the first centuries after Kagonos’s birth. He remembered the time of Midsummer Starheight, when he had spoken to the Grandfather Ram. He had left the tribes, tired of their silly celebration – and had been given the Ram’s Horn. Now the tribes would create a whole new series of such observances, based around the moons that appeared nightly.

Indeed, the idea of such communal celebrations tickled a favorable nerve – perhaps the idea had merit. If the tribes once again met in Highsummer council, if they talked with their brethren from across Ansalon, would not the wild elves grow stronger, develop the will to resist the encroachments of the followers of Silvanos? And they would all hear the song of the Ram’s Horn and share in its wisdom and comfort.

The wild elf Pathfinder cast a last look at the grave of his comrade. The site, with its smooth, rounded dome of earth, seemed larger than was possible. Even in death Darlantan possessed a regal dignity, an awe-inspiring presence that seemed to cry out to any observer that this had once been a masterful being, lord of flatland, mountain, and sky.

Abruptly Kagonos froze, then slowly lowered himself into a flat crouch. He didn’t know what had alarmed him – sound or smell, most likely, a sensory impression too light for conscious awareness. Nevertheless, he knew he was not alone. There was an intrusive presence nearby, someone who had arrived here with stealth and cunning. With that knowledge, Kagonos clearly understood something else, something important:

The hidden figure in the darkness was someone who intended him harm.

CHAPTER 7

AN ACCOUNTING

Kagonos crouched soundlessly, responding by instinct to the sense of danger. He tried to absorb the subtle clues of the night, sniffing the air, trying to penetrate the shadows with his eyes.

Someone shared this dark riverbank with him – someone very close, someone dangerous. Kagonos was inclined to believe that it had been an odor, faintly borne by the night breeze, that first had triggered his subtle sense of alarm. He never questioned that his intuitive response had been a portent of real danger.

Silently the Elderwild crawled sideways along the riverbank, wriggling snakelike through the mud and grass. He strained to study the darkness, to break the veil of silence. His nostrils twitched, probing the wind, and then he knew: it was the scent of metal, tainted recently with blood.

The wind shifted, and the scent was gone, yet its passing gave Kagonos a better picture of his enemy’s location. The threat lay along the bank, slightly downstream. Carefully, silently, the Elderwild worked his way along the mud flat bordering the great flowage, crawling against the direction of current until he felt safe from observation. He remained as low as a slithering animal when he climbed the bank and lay on the brittle grass of the plain. Against the horizon, the fires from the camp still surged, too far away to provide any illumination here.

Staying low, Kagonos crept along the bank, vision attuned to the darkness, nose twitching as he sought that faint, yet clearly definable, scent.

His elven eyes saw the threat first as a haze of warmth gathered between two juniper bushes. Creeping carefully closer, Kagonos discerned his quarry pressed to the ground, immobile, head raised to better see the grave site. Obviously, the lurker hadn’t seen the wild elf make his way off to the side.

Kagonos observed the vague shape, gradually making out the cooler form of a longsword held ready in the fellow’s hand. That blade was the source of the smell, he knew. The fact that it remained out of its scabbard seemed clear enough proof of this hidden figure’s hostile intent.

Rising on his hands and gathering his legs beneath him, Kagonos prepared for the charge. His long-shafted weapon, the steel axe head gleaming coolly in the starlight, felt light and deadly in his right hand, while his left would launch the momentum of his charge. When the soft moccasins nestled into small depressions in the ground, the Elderwild waited a few heartbeats, ensuring that his quarry did not know he had been detected.

No sign of alarm disturbed the still watcher. The steel sword remained poised a few inches off the ground, the slender head – an elven head – fixed on the riverbank below. With an explosion of speed Kagonos sprang, raising his axe and sprinting along the dry grass with no more noise than the rustle of the air around his body.

Yet that wind sound was enough. The other elf twisted on the ground, starlight reflecting with diamondlike glitters as that silver sword whipped toward the charging Elderwild. Kagonos pounced and swung, then cursed as the clang of metal rang loudly through the night – his target parried the blow with a lightning-fast twist of his blade.

The Elderwild tumbled away, hearing the whoosh of air as the deadly sword slashed past his ear. Bouncing to his feet, crouching for balance, Kagonos raised his axe and watched his quarry, ready to counter the swordsman’s next move. As he probed the darkness to seek his enemy’s intentions in his eyes, the tribal chieftain recognized the stealthy ambusher – without surprise.

“Quithas!” he spat. Though he had suspected this since his first tingling of alarm, the sight of his old enemy inflamed, and at the same time strangely gratified, Kagonos.

“Yes, Wild Elf. I have come to reclaim my axe – and to avenge myself for its theft.”

“You lost it easily enough – against a naked, unarmed ‘boy.’ Do you remember?”

Kagonos watched the golden-haired general carefully. Quithas was taut, almost trembling with tension – but his hook-nosed face was twisted into an almost giddy grin. He leered at the Elderwild, his eyes glittering unnaturally, and cackled a laugh before he replied.

“I remember well. But I have killed many times since then,” Quithas replied. “And with each death my skills have improved – and with each death I have brought myself one step closer to ultimate vengeance against you!”

“Why do you seek me now, when peace is here?” The Elderwild was disturbed far more by his opponent’s unsteady demeanor than he would have been if Quithas had been grim and purposeful. Kagonos struggled to contain his own anger, understanding that careful alertness might be the only way to save his life. Forcefully he pressed aside an urge to throw himself wildly at the House Elf, swinging the axe in mad, furious swipes.

“There can be no peace for me, as long as you live!” Quithas declared. For a moment, his face became earnest, as if he really wanted the Pathfinder to understand his murderous intent. “There is more than vengeance in my mind, Kagonos. I shall kill you, but not only for revenge.”

Kagonos ducked as the silver sword slashed forward. Skipping backward, the Elderwild parried a series of fast cuts, meeting each with the head of his long-hafted axe. He took great care to parry metal against metal, knowing that the keen longsword, if it met the wooden shaft, could possibly chop his weapon into two useless pieces. Deftly the wild elf backed away, watching his enemy expend energy on a series of futile slashes.

“What is this if not your revenge?” demanded Kagonos, falling back for a moment, trying to keep his enemy talking. He was surprisingly shaken by the House Elf’s words.

Quithas barked a laugh. “Silvanos is speaking to the Elderwild. Under a banner of high honors, he has promised to lead them to his capital in the south, to fete them with gifts and treasure.”

“They will not go!”

“Already they agree. Barcalla and Felltree have been dazzled by jeweled bracelets – the shamans are fighting over baubles,” Quithas declared with a smirk. “I told the great ruler that I would seek you, persuade you of the wisdom of this course.”

“He knew you would try to kill me!” Kagonos declared. The Pathfinder’s rage expanded outward to include the elven patriarch in its embrace.

“Perhaps,” Quithas noted with a shrug. “I don’t think he really cared – he doesn’t understand, as do I, that your people will be much more malleable without your disruptive presence.”

“My people love the life in the forests – they will not turn their backs on it!”

“Silvanos can be very … persuasive. He has showered them with countless things they could never gain in their usual savage state.”

This time Kagonos didn’t hold back the fury. He exploded toward Quithas with a wicked slash of his axe. Drawing back before the griffontamer’s parry, the wild elf reversed his swing, driving his opponent back toward the steeply dropping riverbank. One step from the edge, Quithas halted, defending against the attacks with skill that was the match of the Elderwild’s. Finally Kagonos retreated, realizing that he would not yet find the fatal opening. Once more Quithas breathed heavily, drawing deep gasps through his open mouth even as he tried to grin triumphantly.

Within Kagonos’s mind raged a storm of dissension and fear. Could it be as Quithas had boasted? Would the elves of his tribe turn their backs on the woodlands, choosing instead the “protection” of city walls? And what use would their polished cousins find for them – painted, unclothed, unschooled in matters of poetry and arts? As House Servitor? No! They must be wild!

He remembered Darlantan’s commands – only Kagonos, the Pathfinder, could show his people the way.

Quithas moved so quickly that Kagonos barely saw the attack. One moment the swordsman leaned forward, gasping to regain his wind, and the next he burst into violence, silver blade lashing from the darkness like the tongue of a striking snake.

Again and again the axe bashed the sword aside, though the tip of Quithas’s weapon gouged a stinging cut across Kagonos’s chest. Now it was the wild elf who fell back, struggling to block each potentially fatal blow, striving to avoid the roots and branches that suddenly seemed to thrive on ground that had been smooth a few minutes earlier.

Then the House Elf stabbed with a lightning thrust that grazed the Elderwild’s side as Kagonos twisted away. Grunting, Quithas twisted his weapon, carving deeply into his enemy’s flesh. The Pathfinder gasped as cold steel ripped over his rib cage.

But this time Quithas overreached himself, though he realized the mistake immediately. Planting both feet, crouching, the swordsman jerked his blade back, flipping it upward to parry Kagonos’s blow – which he expected from the left.

The Elderwild feinted with a drop of his shoulder, but at the same time he flipped the axe into his other hand. When Quithas raised his weapon to block the anticipated blow, the axe head swept inward from the opposite direction, striking the elf cleanly in the neck, slicing with cruel force, the blade coming free, emerging into the air above Quithas’s opposite shoulder.

With a reflexive shiver, the House Elf’s body flexed backward, the longsword flying harmlessly into the mud. When the corpse started to topple, Kagonos reached forward and grasped Quithas’s head, seizing the locks of long blond hair. While the body flopped onto the ground, the head swung freely from the Elderwild’s hand.

Instinctively Kagonos tipped back his head and raised the horn to the sky. He blew, and the braying wail carried across the plains, into the camp of the celebrating army, perhaps even to the distant stars themselves. He wondered if Darlantan heard – and took some comfort from the hope that he did.

Then Kagonos turned toward the House Elf camp. His fury pounded, and he held his grisly trophy up toward the sky. He would go there, carrying the head of Quithas Griffontamer, and present it to Silvanos himself!

Kagonos would speak to his people, would wrap them in his fury. They would fight if they had to, battling through the camp of the craven, villainous House Elves. He would show them the path with his rage, with his righteous condemnation of Silvanos. He would lead them to the wild places!

If they would come.

CHAPTER 8

SONG OF THE RAM’S HORN

As he trotted along, fueled by fury, the Pathfinder clutched the head of his enemy and grasped the smooth haft of his weapon. Only gradually did Kagonos begin to perceive the effect that his entrance to the camp – bearing the gruesome head – would have.

The grisly talisman would certainly have the power to inflame the elves of Silvanos, perhaps driving them to a frenzy of vengeance that would bring open warfare to the camp. The Elderwild, outnumbered and surrounded to begin with, would certainly lose – but Kagonos knew that none of his braves would shrink from such a battle. That was one way to bind them to their chieftain, and in a way that would allow them to fight in the finest traditions of warlike elven valor.

Of course, there were the women and the young and the old elves who were not warriors but would nonetheless be caught up in the slaughter. Or else, left without their braves, they would have no choice but to give themselves into the hands of the House Elves, joining the ranks of House Servitor. Was this not the fate that so many of them desired?

Yet even as the martial beat of his heart intensified, and though he did not waver in his direction or his pace, Kagonos began to question the wisdom of his tactics. Truly, he saw, if the tribes were to sunder themselves from the House Elves, they could only do so peaceably. The severed head of Silvanos’s cavalry general would do nothing to make this easier.

With a scornful gesture, he threw the trophy to the side, cleaning his hands by wiping them on tufts of dry prairie grass. Then he resumed his rhythmic lope, stretching each step into a lengthy, gliding stride that betrayed his growing urgency.

He trotted into the camp, past armed pickets who stared at him in surprise, but made no effort to impede his progress. Kagonos continued jogging forward, ignoring the numerous elves who, apparently startled by the intensity of his gaze, scattered out of his way. The followers of Silvanos thronged to watch his arrival, gathering to form a long aisle for their leader. Steadily the wild elf continued along this impromptu passageway.

Before him the clans of the Elderwild chanted and sang, gathered around one of the largest of the victory fires. They cheered at the Pathfinder’s approach, and Kagonos saw a look of relief on Barcalla’s face as that normally reserved warrior raised his voice in a lusty shout. He saw others, including women and the children, and knew that he must not give way to the anger that once again began to burn within him.

Many of the wild elf warriors crowded forward as their chieftain approached. Still painted, their faces flushed with celebration, the braves held their weapons aloft and shouted a mixture of eagle and wolf cries. Kagonos smiled thinly as the cacophony washed over him. Finally the Pathfinder came to a halt, breathing easily as he stood before the great bonfire, letting the heat steam the sweat from his skin.

The crowd of House Elves parted, and Kagonos saw Silvanos, with Balif at his side, striding forward to greet him. If the great ruler was surprised to see the Elderwild alive, his face betrayed no hint – instead, the patriarch’s expression seemed to be one of genuine pleasure.

“Welcome back, my kinsman,” Silvanos said, before his eyes betrayed a hint of somberness. “Did you find Darlantan … in time?”

“Aye … though his time is now past.”

“He is a hero unique among our allies – a dragon whom the elves will revere throughout all the coming ages.”

Kagonos had his doubts about that, but he was touched by Silvanos’s apparent sincerity. If Darlantan’s name was not remembered by elves two thousand years hence, the Elderwild knew that it would not be because Silvanos himself had forgotten.

“Did Quithas find you?” Balif asked. Kagonos looked for a hint of conspiracy in the diminutive elf’s eyes, but he could see only honest curiosity.

“He went to tell you of our council,” Silvanos explained, looking over the Elderwild’s shoulder as if he expected Quithas to come trotting through the camp behind.

“He found me, but he said little about your council,” Kagonos replied, watching as Silvanos frowned in puzzlement. “In truth, he came to kill me – and he nearly succeeded.”

“What?” The patriarch was clearly shocked. He squinted at the Elderwild in real suspicion. “I do not think you would lie to me, but I find this difficult to believe.”

“I believe,” Balif said softly. “There was a look in Quithas’s eyes when he departed. I thought it was grief over his son – but it seems, now, that it may have been murderous rage.” He hung his head, then looked at Kagonos with genuine regret. “I’m sorry that I didn’t send another to find you. We are all glad that he failed. You can trust that he will be punished.”

Kagonos surprised them by laughing. “Your general will not be returning – not for punishment or for any other purpose,” he declared, as the great leader stepped forward.

Silvanos sighed, his eyes narrowing. “Tell me everything that happened.”

“General Quithas is dead. I killed him. His body lies beside the river. His head is somewhere on the plain.”

Growls of outrage rose from the assembled elves. Silvanos grew suddenly pale, his voice tightening.

“I would have questioned him myself, seen justice served. Or has your own hatred made you mad? Do you commit murder, then come here to boast about it?”

“I defended myself – Quithas came to commit murder. He failed.”

“But … why?” The elven statesman seemed honestly puzzled.

“It is proof of the divisions between your clan and mine – we are two peoples, not one!”

“No! There is time to change!” Silvanos disputed. “I have been speaking to your people of the benefits of life in Silvanesti, of the wonders of our cities. We shall set aside great preserves for you, where game dwells in plenty! You will have no need of your paint and your feathers – you will wear silks and perfume instead!”

“That war paint is our pride – it shows who we are,” Kagonos retorted sharply.

“Your pride can rise to even greater heights with us! You elves, and your great clan – House Servitor – will become as mighty as any of —”

“House Servitor will lead us only to a future of humiliation and slavery! I will not take that road, nor will I lead my people there!” cried Kagonos.

Silvanos’s face darkened. “Will you command them to follow you?” he demanded harshly, knowing the Pathfinder had no power to give orders his people must obey.

“I make no commands – but I will lead them from this camp. Those who do not follow me, you are welcome to take back to your cities.”

He remembered more of Darlantan’s words – he must show them the way! Then he knew, and he lifted the spiraled horn from its place at his side.

Kagonos raised the curling trumpet to his lips, eyes blazing as he stared across the upturned faces of his fellow Elderwild. The painted warriors shifted nervously, each dropping his own gaze rather than meet the burning rage of his Pathfinder.

The wild elf lowered the spiral instrument just a few inches, snapping his words in curt, decisive tones.

“I cannot – I will not – command you to follow me. Any Elderwild who chooses to accompany my esteemed kinsman to Silvanesti should do so! Fly to the walls of the cities – fly to the tables and windows and floors that will, for the rest of your days, form the borders of your lives!”

Again he raised the horn, and as he touched it to his mouth music began to flow. Notes rolled into the night with deep and resonant force, a sound unlike any horn ever carved. Indeed, it was more like the mournful, somber chant of some monstrously great creature.

A creature like a dragon.

He blew into the instrument, and the powerful sound rose, sweeping across the stunned Elderwild, washing over the suddenly stilled masses of the House Elves. Could they hear the music? Certainly they saw its effects. Silvanos himself, eyes wide with wonder, took a step forward and reached out a hand, as if he would hold and caress each blissfully poignant note.

The Pathfinder played without conscious thought. He did not know what he did to make the sound – rather, it was a kind of instinct that guided his music. The heart of the song, it seemed, came from the horn itself.

Kagonos paused for breath, and the notes died away, but again he touched his lips to the mouthpiece. As he blew, the sound rose anew, gaining pulse and tempo, surging upward from its minor key into a challenging chorus of a climbing scale. But still it did not make the sound of a horn.

The song had no words, but it painted vivid pictures in the minds of the Elderwild. The first notes created a background of trees, leafy branches rustling in the wind. A waterfall trilled somewhere, with music so cool that spray seemed to wash the skin of all the gathered wild elves.

Then the melody became a wind, singing of open skies, towering mountains, yawning chasms … and always new and wondrous trails. It was a song of endless pathfinding, tracks everywhere, choices unfettered by thoughts of borders, or houses, or cities.

Kagonos felt his skin tingling, as if the music had wrapped him into a cocoon of gentle, yet prickly, warmth. His war paint embraced him, emphasizing that heat like warm wax trickling, not uncomfortably, over his skin. With a sense of wonder, Kagonos lowered the horn and realized that the notes continued to expand, sweeping across the gathering and embracing all the elves – but most especially the Elderwild – in its subtle clasp.

The Pathfinder clasped the instrument as if it were his only anchor in a storm, and as the growing force of sound swept him up, he felt as though strong winds buffeted him, rendering his footing unsteady, his vision cloudy.

Why couldn’t he see? Everywhere he turned Kagonos looked upon a bright aura, like a film of fire that sheathed him, screening him from observation. Only gradually did he realize that the flames were real, and that they were surging outward from him – from his skin.

Wonderingly, the Elderwild looked at his bare chest, seeing yellow flames licking higher, bright and lively as they sputtered from him. Still he felt no pain, but instead his sense of wonder seemed to grow. Gradually he understood that it was not his entire skin that burned, but only the places where war paint had been smeared upon his body.

As the flames died, his body rippled under dark, permanent tattoos – stains that perfectly matched the hawk and oak leaf pattern of Kagonos’s war paint. His paint had become a part of himself, indelibly burned into his skin – marks that would, for the rest of his life, show him as a member of a different people than the House Elves of Silvanesti.

The flames, Kagonos saw, did not die away entirely. Instead they swirled outward, rising up in a great archway before the awestruck faces of his people.

Barcalla was the first to advance. The warrior held his head high and stepped through the archway. Immediately the paint on his dusky skin flared into life, the flames singing upward like the highest notes of the Ram’s Horn. Before these flickering fires died away, others of the tribe had advanced, in pairs and trios, then as a great column, proudly walking through the fire, letting the tongues of flame embrace them.

By the time Barcalla’s halo of fire died away, Kagonos saw that the warrior, too, had been permanently marked – also in the pattern of his war paint. As each wild elf advanced, the gentle cocoon of brightness took him, kissed his flesh, and left him with the marks of distinction that would forever show the rest of Krynn that this was a tribe of forest-dwellers, wild elves who shunned the enclosures of their kin. Kagonos knew that even if more nations of House Elves were formed, if Balif made his kingdom in the east, if other clans moved to the Kharolis forests in the west, the wild elves would remain wild and free.

The elves of Silvanesti stood aside to let Kagonos past. He looked once at Silvanos, and he did not see an enemy – but neither did he see a being who had any further meaning for him or for his tribes.

“Go, then, Kagonos,” the patriarch said quietly, and even now the force of his words arrested the Elderwild chieftain, compelled him to listen. “You have made your choice, and I must trust your wisdom. You lead your elves as one clan, now – a greater tribe than they have been before. No longer are you the Elderwild.

“In our songs, you shall be called the Kagonesti – and you shall ever be known as our kin.”

The name was good, thought the Pathfinder, though its portent sent a slight shiver of apprehension along his spine. If he had not fully grasped the momentous nature of his decision, Silvanos’s words made it quite clear.

Raising his head high, shouldering his weapon and letting the horn fall comfortably back to its position at his side, Kagonos felt a pleasant warmth from the tattoos that now marked his skin. The Pathfinder turned his face to the north, where the tree-lined foothills rose gently against the night sky.

And Kagonos led his people back to the forest, and to the woodlands beyond.

The Dragons

Part I (continued)

CHAPTER 13

BLUES IN BATTLE

(3357 PC)

Campaigns raged across the face of Ansalon, scoring bloody scars over each summer season. During the colder times, the vast armies rested, recouped, and prepared for the upcoming offensives. The tide of battle flowed over the plains of Vingaard, lapped at the foothills of the mountain ranges flanking that great flatland, and washed deep into lands that had once been hallowed forests.

However, with three clans of evil dragonkind imprisoned in the stones of life-trapping and Crematia nowhere to be seen, the blue wyrms had become more cautious. They still sent their lightning against helpless mortals on the ground, but no longer did they join in the great campaigns of Blacktusk’s – and later his heir, Talonian’s – vast army. Thus the elves of Silvanos and the elven leader’s human allies were able to gradually drive back the evil force’s most aggressive spearheads.

Crematia, by all reports, had disappeared at the time of the ambush of the black dragons, and Aurican had quietly voiced the hope that she had somehow been entrapped with her inky cousins. Still, the gems had been specifically forged for a particular kind of dragon, and in darker moments, the gold dragon speculated that the red female had simply teleported away to spare herself from Darlantan’s attack. Thus, she could be biding her time, waiting for her revenge.

Yet finally, after a campaign of more than a hundred winters, victory lay within the grasp of Aurican, Darlantan, and their elven and human allies. Only the blue serpents remained, and the silver and gold had patiently awaited a chance to trap them within the remaining dragongem, the enchanted stone of blue.

Until that stone was stolen.

For once, the ogres used cunning instead of brute force. Bribed by great treasures, some humans had betrayed the rest of their kind, enabling the ogres to penetrate the heart of the army camp where the bluestone was being held for safekeeping. The monsters had made off with the orb, carrying the precious treasure somewhere into the Khalkists.

Now the army of elves and humans was encamped across a vast plain, several days’ march from the forest that had been their only protection in the days before the dragongems. Silvanos and his human allies had taken this position with audacity, in a blatant attempt to lure Talonian into a final battle – a contest that would almost certainly decide the outcome of the war.

Beside that position rose a single, steep-sided mountain, and it was atop this peak that two long, serpentine forms sprawled with regal ease. Starlight reflected from glittering scales of silver, rippled along sleek wings of gold, as the ancient nestmates overlooked the flatland and its burden of twin armies.

The blot of Talonian’s horde lay to the north, a dark stain on the dark land. Moving hastily, camping without fires, the ogre chieftain had brought his troops on a brutal forced march, so desperate was he to meet the elves while the enchanted gem was unavailable to them. Now that massive swarm was encamped along the northern horizon, and even in the darkness, the two dragons could smell the stench of many thousand ogres, a bitter and acrid blight on the night wind.

On the plain below, sprawling for as far as they could see, were the innumerable sparkling cookfires of the human and elven force. Pickets were placed and the formations were encamped in company order, ready to fall into line in the morning. From the mountaintop, the glittering specks marking Silvanos’s massive army stretched almost to the far horizon.

“Or is it even Silvanos’s army anymore?” mused Aurican pensively. “He tells me there are ten humans for every elf in his ranks.”

“That is good for the elves, then,” Darlantan noted dryly, “for the humans will likely do ten times as much dying.”

“Indeed,” Auri agreed sagely, missing the irony his nestmate had intended.

Even to Darlantan humans, were short-lived and reckless beings, lacking the dignity and wisdom inherent in elves. Yet increasingly the silver dragon had discovered that he not only found humans to be fascinating, but that he also actually enjoyed their company. Perhaps because of the memories and legends of the benefactor Smelt, the humans had welcomed the assistance of the silver serpent with enthusiasm and gratitude, and Darlantan had been eager to help when he could. He had walked among humans many times during more recent years, finding a peculiar and enervating excitement in the chaotic tangles of their messy, disorganized cities. Many men seemed to be industrious and unpredictable folk, and though he couldn’t explain his reaction, the silver dragon had long ago realized that he was fascinated by them. He also wanted to protect them, insofar as it was possible, from the depredations of the Dark Queen’s wyrms.

“Tell me,” Aurican asked, interrupting his kin-dragon’s musings, “has the wild elf heard any word about the bluestone?”

“The news is hopeful. Kagonos has located it, and has a chance of returning it to Silvanos. Unless he can do so – until he does, in any event – it will be up to us to stand against the Dark Queen’s blues.”

“It is fitting enough, if only to get the war over with,” Aurican said with a sigh. “There are ballads to compose, lyrics to record … too many things that have been put aside for this priority of violence.”

“And nestlings,” said Darlantan, with a regretful sigh of his own. Increasingly he had been thinking about those silver eggs in the grotto. Long ago he had resolved that as soon as the war was won, he would return to that sacred cavern. He even entertained hopes of being present to see the wyrmlings crawl forth from their eggs, but of course that would depend on many things that were beyond the ability of even an ancient dragon to control.

“Do you remember how Kenta and Oro chased us away?” mused Aurican.

“The grotto has become a place for females and eggs,” Dar agreed with a nod. “As though they forgot that we, too, had dwelt there for thousands of winters!”

“Not forgotten, no.” The gold dragon was pensive. “Rather, it was as though they understand that it was time for us to leave, to move into this world as its permanent inhabitants. In fact, there is a rightness to what our females did.”

“Have you heard word from them … our mates?” asked the silver.

“Oro finds ways to send me news, often by griffon. I heard over the last winter that the eggs are safe.”

Content for the moment, Darlantan sighed and closed his eyes. Throughout the cool night, the nestmates rested side by side, Dar’s neck lying on Auri’s wing, silver tail curled around to make a pillow for golden head. The ancient dragons didn’t sleep, but nevertheless were alert and ready with the dawn. At first light, Darlantan’s eyes played across the field as the combined elven and human camp stirred, great regiments and legions taking shape, commencing a crawling advance to the north. Now Talonian’s horde hove into view, angling down the bank of a great river, turning to meet the advancing foe.

Daylight spread across the plains as the sun rose, bright rays breaking through the patchwork of clouds in many places, leaving a blotchy pattern of shadow and light across the sweeping plain. Abruptly a flash of crimson splashed across the scene like a huge stain of blood, but Darlantan recognized her instantly.

“Crematia!” he hissed, pointing with the angle of his flaring snout.

Aurican, who had been scanning the north in search of the blue dragons, whipped his head around and stared. “It is as I surmised,” the gold declared. “She was not trapped in the black gem. She merely wished us to believe so.”

“I will kill her now,” declared the silver dragon, crouching, wings spread, ready to fly.

“Wait, my brother.” Aurican’s voice held Dar back. “My scales cannot be burned by her fire. Let me go after her. You watch here for the blues, or wait for word from Kagonos.”

Darlantan growled, but he knew Auri was right. The gold dragon’s gilded scales were proof against Crematia’s fiery breath, a protection that Darlantan could not claim.

“Fly with the speed of sorcery and the Platinum Father,” Dar urged.

“I shall.”

In the echo of that word, Aurican was gone, a rush of air swirling in his wake. Darlantan squinted and saw the golden form diving toward the red dragon. Crematia darted away at impossible speed, and Auri, though unenchanted, pursued like a shooting star. Rapidly the two dragons dwindled to tiny specks of color far out over the dusty plain.

Returning his taut, uneasy inspections to the north, Dar squinted along the horizon. The scourge of the blue dragons had been well reported by elven scouts as the vicious serpents spread a swath of devastation along the eastern coast of the world. Moving northward, they had continued their way along the shoreline of the great ocean. Recent reports told of their intentions to rejoin Talonian.

So they would have to come from the north, Darlantan knew.

Soon his certainty was rewarded as tiny flecks of azure appeared in the distance against the rusty brown of the plains. The blue dragons swept toward the field with relentless determination, flying in a broad wing. There were five of the serpents in all, soaring below the level of the puffy clouds that scudded through the sky.

Darlantan took wing immediately, climbing through the clouds into the thin, frosty regions where he had rarely ventured. He took an evasive, wayward course, using the largest of the cumulus clouds as concealment from the onrushing serpents. Finally, far above them, he circled and waited.

Every once in a while he glimpsed a blue wing or the trailing flick of a tail through the obscuring vapor. Mostly the view below was blocked by the thickening overcast, and this concealment suited Darlantan. The wyrms were flying well below the clouds, doubtless to insure that they would have plenty of time to react to an attack from above.

That is, an ordinary attack. But Darlantan had a new plan in mind, a tactic that would require careful timing and a measure of luck. The leading blue dragon blinked into view again in the gap between two nearby clouds, and the silver dragon put his plan into action.

The body of metallic sheen shifted and grew smaller in the instant of his thought, and in an eyeblink, it was the body of a frail, white-bearded sage poised high in the air. Lacking wings, the body naturally began to fall straight down, and here Darlantan hoped for the intervention of luck.

He plunged through the clouds, blinking away the tears that formed in his eyes from the buffeting force of the wind. Tucking his arms around his skinny legs, he made himself as small an object as possible, a tiny ball of humanity plunging from the lofty clouds, directly toward the back of the leading blue dragon. Doubtless the following serpents would have noticed something as huge and visible as a dragon of gleaming silver, but none of them took notice of this insignificant fleck of nothing tumbling downward.

But in another eyeblink Darlantan became a dragon again, poised directly above the back of the massive blue. He struck his target with crushing force as the silver head whipped around. Jaws gaping, he blasted an explosion of killing frost into the startled face of the next blue in line.

Beneath him, the wyrm snapped and writhed, trying to bring those lethal jaws – and that deadly lightning – to bear. Darlantan’s claws closed around the blue’s throat, crushing and tearing, until his own fangs ripped through its scales. Slowing the descent with his outspread wings, the silver dragon twisted once more to make sure his foe was dead.

Then he released the lifeless carcass and dived toward the ground, sweeping away from the two armies clenched in their distant, sprawling struggle. Bellows of rage still echoed, and the acrid scent of spent lightning stung his nostrils as he drew deep breaths and strove for altitude.

Three blue arrows plunged from the sky in vengeful pursuit as Darlantan headed for the scant concealment of a range of rugged foothills. He dodged into a chasm, flying around a massive bluff and swinging over the plains again, leaving the blues straining to keep him in sight. Upward and still upward he rose, the powerful strokes of his wings carrying him high above the land, higher than he had ever flown before. Passing through the tenuous layer of clouds, Darlantan found himself in a realm of twilight chill, though the sun burned from just past zenith overhead. The wetness on his scales turned to frost, and he sensed that the blues struggled with the uncomfortable chill as they labored in pursuit.

But they still had their magic, and in a heart-stopping moment, the three blue serpents materialized in the air before him – and Darlantan knew he was defeated. A trio of cruel maws gaped as the mighty silver tried to veer aside, knowing he was too late. The blue dragons were arrayed in lethal formation, poised to kill no matter which way he turned.

Then a great rock was there, a massive orb that was somehow suspended in the sky. The surface was silvery and bright, coated with frost, and the great sphere was moving very fast, tumbling crazily into the midst of the aerial melee. Darlantan veered, dodging as the massive globe swirled past the chromatic dragons.

Lightning blasted, and shards of white-silver stones flew past Darlantan. But the blue dragon’s aim had been thrown off by the great sphere of stone. His shot missed the silver serpent, instead splintering into the great, floating mass of rock. Dar had no time to ponder the mystery of the flying stone. He curled around the gradually rounded surface, realizing that the body of rock was monstrously huge. Certainly it would be visible to those on the ground, though he had never seen nor heard of such a body in the skies above Krynn.

Sudden darkness loomed, as if something had abruptly doused the sun. But then he saw that it was another sphere of rock streaking after the first, this one midnight black in color. Indeed, the stone was so dark as to resemble a hole in the sky more than any solid surface of rock. Again lightning blasted, and this time shards of the black orb exploded upward as the blue’s bolt missed its target and gouged into the mysterious globe.

Flying faster, Darlantan curled away from the black object, now seeing another great rock heave into view. This one was as red as blood, and it seemed to trail the other two through the sky. With three blue dragons in pursuit, the silver veered toward this third massive sphere, hoping beyond belief the good fortune that had blessed him until now would hold firm.

Sensing the blues close on his tail, the silver serpent curved sharply, driving his wings through long strokes, almost skimming the surface of bright, blood-red rock. The monstrous orb hurled past, obviously trailing the other two on a trajectory that would carry it even higher into the sky – above the clouds, above the loftiest dragon-flight, seemingly beyond the very air itself.

Darlantan twisted instinctively, warned by familiarity with his foes. Once more lightning spurted past, driving into the surface of the cosmic rock, missing the silver dragon by a mere hairsbreadth. Then the crimson orb was streaking away, leaving a trail of shards from the lightning strike that, like the black and silver debris from earlier blasts, tumbled lazily through the air, falling with deceptive grace toward the ground below. The three great spheres, white and black and red, coursed quickly upward and away.

Without the moons for cover, Darlantan relied on his speed once more. He pushed himself through the air, blinking against the onrush of wind, tilting into a plummeting headlong dive. The snaky line of the Vingaard River expanded into clarity, and once again the dragon of metal outdistanced his azure foes.

But there was still that magic, and abruptly two of the blue serpents popped into view below him. Jaws agape, they waited in perfect attack position as Darlantan curved his neck and stretched his wings, striving desperately to pull away.

The lightning exploded with a violent flash, though curiously the silver dragon heard no sound. For a moment, everything was impossibly bright.

And then there was no light at all.

CHAPTER 14

DARLANTAN’S TRIUMPH

(3357 PC)

Aurican dived, the scarlet-winged form of Crematia growing broad in his vision. With a bellow, he lunged, arrowing his body into a deadly spear, driving toward that hateful crimson matriarch. The long pursuit was over, he sensed … now they would finish their feud.

But the red dragon suddenly whipped about, halting in space, suspended by magic. Aurican veered, slashing at a crimson wing, and the two dragons met in the midst of a raging fireball, the combined blast of their lethal breath weapons. Still, neither of these mighty serpents could be badly hurt by fire, and so they broke apart, diving to regain speed, then swerving upward to recommence the fight.

Once again they clashed, Crematia now abandoning magic for the fury of fang and talon. Rending and tearing, they dived and coiled and twisted through the air. Aurican’s fangs tore into the crimson scales of his enemy’s belly. She screamed, folding her wings and dropping like a falling rock to escape the golden claws. As she plummeted, Aurican heard her muttering strange words, knew that she was casting a spell.

Abruptly a whirling shape materialized in the air, an elemental summoned by Crematia from a distant plane. Like a whirlwind, it roared after the gold dragon, tearing at Aurican’s wing, ripping the leathery membrane. Twisting, he snapped at the bizarre creature, but it dodged nimbly away – until he incinerated the elemental by belching a cloud of furiously churning flame.

Crematia again took flight, diving and then flying with desperate speed, but Aurican closed the distance with his quarry. For long hours, they raced and fought through deep canyons, over lofty ridges, and among the jagged peaks of the southern Khalkists. Slowly the gold dragon drew close, sensing that victory was imminent.

Then, in the blink of an instant, she was gone, leaving a hole in the sky. Aurican knew that she had teleported away, but he had no way of tracking her. Grimly furious, he banked to the side, squinting into the distance as he sought any sign of crimson scales … but there was nothing.

A squawk from below drew his attention to a griffon. As the creature flew closer, Aurican banked toward the hawk-faced flyer.

“What is the word from the east?” asked Auri as the griffon curled around to match his course and altitude.

“The battle was raging. Darlantan was in battle with the blues, flying high above the field, until at last we lost sight of him.”

“And the elves?”

“They did not fare badly. It looked as though Talonian might at last meet his defeat.”

“If the blues can be trapped … all our hopes depend on that,” Aurican said. “Forgive me, my friend, but I must hasten back there. But I would ask a question of you first.”

“As you wish,” declared the griffon, with a polite dip of its hawklike head.

“Your kind and ours have had many conflicts, many rivalries. Why, in the midst of all this, have you been such a loyal friend to my brother?”

“He showed my ancestor mercy once,” replied the descendant of Ravenclaw simply. “I am grateful.”

“Patersmith would be proud,” murmured Aurican, not surprised. Leaving the griffon wondering what he meant, the gold dragon turned back to the east. He flew for many hours until, near sunset, he found himself above the two armies.

The battlefield was a scar across the greensward below, a great wound in the world that glistened with flesh and blood, with the debris of broken weapons and punctured bodies. Fires blazed in many places, where war machines had been overtaken and put to the torch by victorious elves, or the ogres’ supply wagons had been captured and subsequently destroyed.

Aurican dived lower, wishing he could celebrate the victory, could share the joy that must be rampant in the elven camps by now. But there were good reasons why the gold dragon felt a lingering sense of melancholy. For one thing, Crematia had eluded him. For another, he was deeply concerned about his silver nestmate.

The gold dragon settled into the midst of the elven encampment, maintaining his true form as Silvanos and his chief general, Balif, came forward to greet him.

“What of the blues?” inquired Aurican with precipitate haste. His concern for his ancient nestmate forced him to set aside proper patience for formalities.

In reply, Silvanos pulled forth a stone of deepest turquoise. The large sphere pulsed with vitality as the hateful spirits of dragons thrummed and struggled within.

“There were but three of them left,” explained the elven patriarch. “My Elderwild cousin regained the stone barely in time. Quithas, astride his griffon, returned it to me here. When the three blue dragons swept downward to aid the battle on the ground, they approached me carelessly, and I was able to capture their spirits in the stone.”

“Darlantan …?” Auri felt a sense of bleak despair, knowing that his silver brother would have given his life to prevent the blues from getting through. “Did he know that you had the stone … or …?”

“He fought throughout the morning, killing two of the blues before they could reach us. But, no, he did not know that Kagonos had regained the gem.”

“Where is he?”

Silvanos pointed toward the riverbank beyond the camp. Night’s shadows had stretched across the plain, but in the glow of firelight, Auri saw the grief in his old friend’s eyes.

“I’m sorry. You had best go now if you hope to speak with him.”

The elven patriarch’s words were a murmur, barely whispered through the evening breeze, following the gold dragon who had already taken wing.

Aurican flew fast and low, and quickly he found the battered silver form stretched in the soft mud flats of the riverbank. Darlantan lay beside the broad flowage, the Vingaard, that drained this whole vast plain. Now the mighty head rose stiffly as the golden dragon swept through the night skies, gliding toward his nestmate.

Then Aurican was at Darlantan’s side, the serpentine body of pure gold coiling protectively around the battered silver flesh. With a glimmer of change, almost invisible in the starlight, the gilded serpent became again the kindly elven sage. Darlantan sighed as the hand, soft and soothing with the wisdom of millennia, gently stroked the gouged and burned scales at the base of his neck.

“The mud is cooling balm, and it helps to soften the pain,” the silver dragon admitted, allowing his head to settle once again to the ground. Still, Aurican knew that the soft dirt could do nothing to ease the various wounds gouged into the mighty serpentine body.

“Did … did the blues reach Silvanos?” Darlantan asked.

“No, my cousin. You killed two of them. And by the time the other three turned their attentions to the ground, Kagonos and his wild elves had regained the Bluestone. It was returned to Silvanos in time for him to capture the rest of the Dark Queen’s wyrms.”

“Crematia … as well?”

“Alas, no. I chased her across the plain, and through realms of smoke and sky, but she managed to elude me. The best I can claim is that she has gone to ground again. We can only hope that, with the loss of all her kin, she will remain aloof from the affairs of Krynn.”

“She does not know of the grotto, the eggs?” whispered Darlantan, suddenly stiffening.

“They are safe,” said Aurican. “Already some of the eggs are showing signs of motion. I understand that the females have their eye on a silver. They expect it will be the first of the hatchlings to emerge.”

Darlantan nodded, trying to absorb this suggestion of a future destiny.

“My son …” Darlantan’s voice trailed away with the wind, but Aurican sensed his nestmate’s joy at the thought of his own offspring coming forth into the world. The gold took some comfort from this knowledge, finding that it helped him to ignore the cruel wounds.

“Kenta is there, watching?” the silver serpent asked, his tongue flicking between his long fangs as he stirred weakly in the mud.

“Of course.”

“My son … the first of the hatchlings,” Darlantan declared dreamily. “He shall be named Callak. Here … please see that he has this when he comes of age.”

The silver wing shifted, revealing the curling ram’s horn and its chain of fine links. Aurican gently lifted the artifact, cradling it reverently in his two hands.

“It is done, my cousin,” declared the gold dragon with the body of the ancient elf. Drops of warm wetness trickled onto Darlantan’s brow and snout as Auri failed to restrain his weeping.

Darlantan’s eyes turned upward, toward the dark vault of the skies. He saw two moons there, a circle of red and another of white. Behind them trailed an orb of blackness, visible only as it blotted out the light of the stars.

“Even the heavens mark the passing of war,” he said softly, “for they have placed their lights in our sky.”

“Those moons mark more than the passing of war,” Aurican said. Even through the haze of his wounds, Dar realized that his brother spoke very seriously. “They are the tombs of nothing less than gods – Lunitari, Solinari, and Nuitari.”

“What gods are these?” Darlantan, who knew of few deities other than their own Platinum Father and his antithesis, the Queen of Darkness, asked.

“These were the three gods that gave magic to the world – the trio I visited with the brother mages. It was they who gave us the dragongems, that we might battle the scourge of the Dark Queen’s dragons,” said Auri regretfully, shaking his head in despair. “They are being punished by the greater gods for their transgression, though that transgression gave us our means for winning this war.”

“I will join them soon,” Darlantan said, once again yielding to that dreamy sense of departure. Then apparently something fought to bring his attention back to the present, and he forced himself to raise his head, to focus the increasingly vague center of his mind.

“Here,” he said weakly, lifting his wing to reveal the three shards of moon that had tumbled to the ground with him.

“But how did these …?” The gold dragon looked in wonder, shaking his head as he struggled to accept the reality of the stony fragments.

“The final battle took me … far,” Darlantan explained. “Even to what I now see are these godmoons. The lightning of the blues blasted the shards loose from the very bedrock of the spheres.”

“And these pieces …?”

“They tumbled back to Krynn with me … but now I give them to you. Or perhaps I give them to the future.” The silver head was upraised, the voice stronger than before. Those deep yellow eyes glowed, compelling the gold dragon to hear and obey as Darlantan gestured to the three large stones. One was as black as the encroaching night, another silver-white, while the third was as slickly red as fresh blood.

Aurican stood upright then, and in a shimmering of golden scales, he returned to his serpentine body. “I understand,” he said softly.

Crouching over the stones, Auri reached out with open jaws. His tongue snaked forward and scooped up the black shard, quickly drawing it into the gaping maw. Tossing his head high, the gold dragon gulped down the stone, an awkward bulge rippling the shimmering scales along the length of the sinuous neck. With swift stabs of his mighty head, Aurican took the white, and finally the red segments of stone, swallowing them after the black.

“Good,” Darlantan said as the silver head once again settled to the mud. “It is nearly finished. But it is time for you to fly.”

“Soon.” The great golden form settled beside the ravaged body of his ancient nestmate, and in silence, the great serpents felt the kinship of touch, a sensation familiar to them over scores of centuries.

“Your elf is coming,” Aurican said some time later. Darlantan couldn’t see, couldn’t raise his head, but the scent of Kagonos came to him on the evening breeze. In the distance, the camp of Silvanos rang with cheers and celebration.

“I will speak with him alone before I go,” Dar whispered. “Now, fly back to our grotto, my brother, and have an eye for my wyrmlings as well as your own.”

“You have my promise that I shall do that, and I shall compose a ballad that will live for the ages: the tale of brave Darlantan’s last battle.”

“I think I would like that, to have a ballad. And now it is time.”

With a nod and a last gentle touch to the silver-scaled neck, Aurican reared tall and shimmered in the pale starlight. Golden wings arced outward, scooped down to compress the air, and then he was gone, vanishing into the sky before the painted figure of the wild elf emerged from the darkness.

CHAPTER 15

LEGACY

(3357 PC)

Aurican’s chest swelled with warm power, a fulfilling goodness unique in the gold dragon’s experience. He felt an impulse to breathe out, to spew an explosion of gas that would unleash this invigorating, barely contained power of magic within him.

Instead, he clenched his jaws and felt the pressure rise, a glow of sublime might swelling him, bearing his golden body through midnight skies. His wings carried him higher and higher, parting the cool, dark air, gleaming with shining brightness under the night skies. At first, he passed through wispy clouds, an ethereal atmosphere that masked the vast plain of Vingaard below and obscured the soft starlight glowing above. But still the golden wings drove downward, and Aurican rose, splitting the mists, shimmering like a metallic ghost in the formless space. The cool, moist air felt good against his wings and his scales, and droplets of water glowed like gems against the metallic sheen of his body.

And then the clouds were a soft blanket below him, rolling crests and swells, shadowy kettles and swales that seemed deceptively solid under the muted light from above. Still the pressure expanded within him, and though the force was great, the feeling was not unpleasant.

Looking upward, Aurican beheld the three moons in close alignment, rising in the east, preceding the arrival of dawn by many hours. First came crimson Lunitari, then the dark shadow of Nuitari, and finally the brightness of Solinari. The loss of the three magical shards that now seethed within Aurican had left no visible scars, at least none that the gold dragon could see, yet he keenly sensed their influence within him as the magic surged.

Faster flew Aurican, soaring through the skies like an arrow launched from a monstrous bow. The distant ridge of the High Kharolis came into view as the plains passed away beneath him, as a flight that would normally take him three days was accomplished in the space of a single night. On wings of the gods he glided, serene and aloof, grieving but triumphant.

With a keen sense of destiny, he dived toward the secret entrance to the Valley of Paladine. He wasted no time coming to rest on the ground, instead flying with deliberate speed through the long entry tunnel, then racing over the still and silent waters of the subterranean lake. Like a golden arrow, he shot through the secret cavern, gliding toward the sacred grotto and its precious trove.

Only when he reached the rim of rock beyond that sheltered cavern did he come to rest, and even then he paused only long enough to fold his massive wings against his flanks. He crept into the winding passage, smelling the familiar warmth of the grotto. Drawing that presence through his nostrils and into his deep chest, he was overwhelmed with thoughts of Darlantan, and of Smelt, Burll, and Blayze. He knew that he carried the legacy of them all.

Approaching the nest, he lifted his head, conscious of the metallic females gathered along the cavern walls, watching him with bright, golden eyes. Gold and silver, brass, bronze, and copper dragons, all studied their patriarch as he rose above the precious clutch of eggs. Shifting restlessly, wings fluttering in barely contained agitation, the females rose and crept closer, surrounding Aurican and the nest in a ring of metallic scales and intensely staring eyes.

Kenta curled protectively around one side of the nest, and Oro framed her silver sister on the other side. Aurican nodded at each of them, then turned his attention to the precious orbs protected within the sheltered confines. Carefully curling his tail behind him, he sat with precise dignity. Only then did he arc his long neck and lift his head to stare at the clutch of metallic spheres, his heart swelling with a sense of profound wonder.

The pressure within him grew stronger, and Aurican clearly understood what would happen next, yet this understanding did nothing to cool his wonder. The golden jaws spread wide, and Aurican breathed softly, sharing the essence of magic, the power that was a part of every dragon’s being but that, in Aurican, had been expanded and amplified by the effect of the shards of the three moons of magic.

A glowing mist floated forth, coalescing in the air, seething and roiling with colors that varied from black to silver to red. The gases swirled more rapidly, spiraling about the nest, slowly settling downward, touching the surfaces of the eggs, stroking the metal shells with ethereal fingers. The vapor sparkled with a glimmering wetness, slowly vanishing, as if absorbed by the pulsing, living treasures.

For a long time, the glow remained, shifting from one egg to another, sometimes bright and focused, other times diffused, but always possessing a vibrant and inherent brilliance that would have shamed any light born of flame or sun. The brightness danced and swayed, cavorting back and forth like a living thing, and when the brilliance faded, it left a lingering aura within the eggs that was perfectly clear to Aurican and the female dragons. The tiny serpents sheltered within those eggs had been blessed by the essence of magic. The enchantment contained in the bodies of the three gods was bestowed upon the young dragons in the breath of their golden patriarch. It settled on the eggs, infusing the shells and the wyrmlings, enchanting them with a power that had been absent for millennia.

Time, in seasons and then in years, passed while Aurican and the females waited with the serene patience of their kind. Watching and expectant, the great serpents held their attention upon the nest. Beyond the grotto, winters and springs and summers cycled through the High Kharolis in succession, a pattern mounting into the dozens, then the scores.

Still the eggs glowed, and gradually the brightness increased until the entire grotto was illuminated as under a noonday sun. Very slowly and gradually, several of the eggs began to pulse and shimmer. A silver surface throbbed, and a golden membrane shimmered under the internal pressure of a sharp beak.

Ultimately the two eggs ruptured, tiny metal newtlings crawling forth. Shaking away the muck of the eggs, clawing each other roughly aside, the dragons struggled toward the edge of the nest. Another egg, a brass, twitched and thrashed, and then several copper spheres began to show signs of movement.

And then they were coming from everywhere. Enchanted by the breath of Aurican, surrounded by the aura of magic, the next generation of metal dragons poked and pushed their way into the world.

PART II

CHAPTER 16

CREMATIA’S LAIR

(ca. 3000 PC)

The cavern of fire lay deep in the heart of the mountain, beneath an active volcano, with plunging roots descending into a tangled network of seething lava, searing gases, and barren, scorched rock. A vast lake of fire bubbled and surged here, waves of liquid lava rumbling and tossing in the grip of an eternal gale, propelled by the regular convulsions of heaving bedrock. From many places across the expanse of molten rock, black pillars of stone rose to merge with a lofty ceiling. Sheer rock walls, melted smooth by eons of infernal heat, surrounded the expanse, broken only by an occasional ledge or outcrop.

A layer of soot darkened the vast ceiling. Many crevasses and gaps pocked that irregular face of cracked stone, giving vent to the buildup of heat and pressure. Far above, invisible from the huge subterranean chamber, geysers of gas, flame, and ash scarred the landscape in the rugged heart of the Khalkists.

Yet those external signs had no significance to the great crimson being who coiled, torpid, deep within the hellish cavern. Here Crematia had come to recoup, to heal and to hide in complete safety. She knew that not even Aurican could follow her into this searing environment, and any lesser flesh, such as cloaked man or elf or ogre, would blister away within moments of arrival.

The red dragon was a tangled, snaky coil gathered along a narrow ledge above the lake of lava. Crematia’s back and wings rested against the cliff wall, and the double lids remained closed over her eyes. The long tail curled back over her feet to end just before her wide nostrils. Those twin apertures flared slightly in a gradual cadence, the only clear proof that the mighty creature still lived.

Soot and ash had settled over the serpentine shape over the course of a long hibernation. The stuff was a sticky goo that gummed Crematia’s eyelids and encumbered her wings. Yet even that murk couldn’t conceal the vibrant crimson of the dragon’s scales or the blood-red flaps of her massive, folded wings.

She slept as she had slumbered for hundreds of years. Perhaps it was the lethal heat that drove her into this lethargy, but more likely her evil spirit needed time to restore itself following the wretched conclusion of her initial campaign. While she slumbered, her body healed the wounds inflicted by the mighty gold dragon, and even at her ancient age, she continued to grow.

She knew that the other chromatic dragons were gone from Krynn, their souls swallowed by the gems of life-trapping. Certainly Crematia had vivid dreams while she lay all-unknowing, and there is no doubt but that in those dreams she saw, and feared, a gleaming serpent of gold. Her enemy spewed breath as fiery as her own, attacking with power and skill – the deadliest foe she had ever known. She recalled her queen’s command … find her strongest enemy and kill him.

And Crematia knew she had failed.

Frequently the red body quivered in a sense of betrayal, an outrage at the fact that she had found such potent magic in the hands of her enemies. Sorcery was to have been her domain; the queen herself had promised this. And though Crematia had seen the three moons and knew that the gods who had given magic to the dragons of metal had been punished, the knowledge did nothing to soothe her hatred – or her desire for vengeance.

But when finally the scarlet serpent stirred, it was not in response to any dream. Though no sound could penetrate to the depths of her fiery lair, there came a deep and inaudible message, a summons on a purely magical level. She lifted her head slowly, blinking a film of dust and soot from her eyes. When she could see, the hot illumination of the cavern reminded her instantly of where she was.

Her first thought was of Aurican, and with that memory came a renewed pumping of her heart, a taut eagerness stiffening her body and her wings. These recollections came with a full measure of hatred, and when she was fueled by hatred, Crematia came truly, completely alive.

The red dragon’s tail uncurled with a whiplike crack, lashing back and forth as she rose to stand, stiff-legged, at the brink of the ledge. A reflexive pounce hurled her into the air, wings spread wide to catch the updrafts raging from the lava lake below. These rising currents lifted her as she glided effortlessly around the vast chamber, and without stroking her wings, she was soon carried near to the ceiling. She veered easily between down-jutting spikes of rock, relishing the vibrant energy of returning vitality.

She banked and dived, delighting in the dizzying speed, the onrush of molten rock as she plunged toward the crimson liquid. Bubbles expanded and burst in the thick surface, and the serpent relished the spattering of lava as droplets flew into the air. At the last moment, she pulled out of her dive, skimming low over the roiling lake, arching her back to rise toward the ceiling again.

Once more she rode the fast-rising updrafts, but this time she helped herself as well, climbing with powerful strokes, angling toward a black slit in the ceiling of the cavern. She knew that, once within the chimney, she wouldn’t have the space to turn around, so she drove herself with increasing urgency, making an arrow of her body – an arrow with large, very powerful wings.

Then the stone walls were close beside her, the rush of venting air roaring in her ears, bearing her higher and higher. Still she flew, straining for altitude, reaching for greater lift and pushing down with relentless strength. Her momentum slowed, the walls of the shaft visible now as more than a blurred backdrop, but she also saw a gap overhead, sensed that the darkness churning beyond was the ash-laden sky of the Khalkists.

Belatedly Crematia thought of magic – she could easily levitate out of this deep lair – but she cast aside the notion in the instant it arose. She would do this with her strength, and with her hatred. Again she thought of Aurican, imagining the gold dragon winging through the mountainous skies beyond, relishing the picture of his surprise when his crimson nemesis suddenly appeared. Her wings pulsed, driving through the air, and she exploded upward with renewed speed.

Abruptly the chimney walls gave way to a breathtaking expanse of air – she was free again, soaring into the skies over Krynn. Banking, sideslipping away from the venting gases, she plunged crazily along the steeply descending slope of the volcano that had sheltered her for so long. Darklady Mountain was a massive peak, and she couldn’t help but see her queen’s majesty reflected in the vast conical summit. She shrieked a cry of fierce exultation, skimming through a pass between the great mountain and a lesser neighbor, rocketing into the chilly air of an eternally shadowed gorge.

In the depths, she flew above a roiling river, watching the brown waters churn into whitecaps, thunder through rapids, steadily erode a deeper and deeper channel. Again she roared, the sound of her voice forceful enough to break rocks loose from the overhanging cliffs, bringing miniature landslides cascading into the torrent.

Upward she flew again, working hard now, relishing her own labors as she cut from realm of spray and shadow into the gusty heights. Veering back and forth like a wyrmling, she dodged through the smoke and ash that streamed from the smoldering summits in long plumes. A hundred great mountains were visible from this high vantage, but all the peaks except Darklady herself were far below. She banked regally, gliding with the serene arrogance of one who is mistress of everything in her sight.

A swift reconnaissance showed her a deep valley where several caves lined the walls. Tiny beings scuttled between these caves or worked their way up and down the steep trails leading to the stream at the foot of the plunging mountainsides. Crematia wheeled into the murk of the clouds, unseen from the ground, content for now to know that ogres still dwelt in these mountains. She would make herself known to them soon enough, but first she had an even more urgent task.

Flying above a treeless but well-watered swale, she observed several spots of whiteness on the green grass of the high tundra. She swept closer with silent, deliberate speed, and before the mountain sheep knew they were under attack, she had crushed a plump ewe to the soft ground. The blood was sweet on her tongue, the scent intoxicating in her nostrils, and she tore off the head of her prey, swallowing the morsel in one convulsive gulp. The rest of the mutton was fresh and warm in her claws, but she would not eat further at the moment.

Instead, she clutched the carcass and took to the air again, winging with renewed purpose, a crimson arrow flying straight toward a specific destination. Crematia curved from her path only when a looming crag rose high enough to block her flight, but after each digression, she returned to the course she marked from ancient memory, reacquainting herself with the highest reaches of the Khalkists. Flying toward another great volcano, one almost massive enough to vie with Darklady for mastery of the range, she set her sights upon the lofty summit. In fact, her target was an even more specific location, a specific spot on the high cliff. Closer now, she banked slightly, making a direct line toward the magically enchanted place on the mountainside.

She saw with satisfaction that her concealment spell remained in effect, masking the ledge as a patch of inaccessible cliff. Landing there, she found the sturdy barrier of her wall of stone spell similarly undisturbed. Though hundreds of winters had passed since her last visit, she was not surprised that her arcane protections remained unaltered. For the first time in centuries, she called up the magic to negate that spell, and the surface of stone melted smoothly away in the breath of her dispelling, revealing the mouth of her secret cave.

Within, Crematia crept through the vast treasure chamber to the precious skull basket that was her nest. Trembling with anxiety, knowing that the future of her kind depended upon what she found, she looked over the brink of the bony container … and expelled a flicker of tender flame in an outburst of relief.

The clutch of crimson eggs lay perfect and unspoiled within, except for an irregular pulsing she detected in one, the largest of the orbs. Before her eyes, a slit appeared in that shell, a tiny beak pressing outward, tearing down. Frantic claws emerged, tugging, trying to widen the gap – until the little wyrmling fell back, exhausted.

For several heartbeats, Crematia watched the egg. Finally she ripped into the carcass of the sheep, raising a piece of meat over the nest. With a deliberate squeeze, she let a trickle of fresh blood splash onto the egg, aiming carefully so that the stream of red liquid spilled into the tear in the shell of the first hatchling. Immediately that leathery orb throbbed and pulsed, and then those claws were there again, tearing and slashing at the narrow gap. The little beak thrust outward, and Crematia dribbled more sweet blood, driving the wyrmling into a frenzy. Another inch of eggshell tore, and now two forefeet pushed outward, pulling, making room for the sharp-beaked head on its long, skinny neck.

Finally, with a heaving thrust of awkward rear legs, the little creature pushed itself free of the restraining shell. It stood, wobbly, flexing two mucus-coated wings, though one of the membranes remained creased and gooey, still bound from centuries of gestation. The red tail stood stiffly upright, and an instinctive growl rumbled from the scaly chest.

Crematia gobbled the rest of the mutton then, but only long enough to chew it thoroughly and to let the juices of her belly begin the process of digestion. Then, with a heave that rippled along the length of her supple, scarlet-scaled neck, she regurgitated the gory remains into the nest.

Immediately the sole wyrmling threw himself at the messy food, rending and growling with instinctive fury. Several other eggs now showed signs of movement, pulses and jabs as the blood-red spheres throbbed slightly, rocking from the labors of hatchlings trapped within. Soon another slit appeared, then another. Crematia saw more snouts and claws come into view, but she paid scant attention to these flailing efforts. Her attentions remained fixed upon the firstborn of the wyrmlings, which still gnawed ravenously on the gruesome mess of the ram’s carcass.

“Enjoy your feast, my son.” Crematia bent low over the savagely growling little dragon, puffing a wisp of flame around the scarlet shape. “Hear me, my proud wyrmling. Your name is Deathfyre, and you shall lead my serpents back to their mastery of Krynn.”

The dragon paused in its feasting long enough to regard his mother with bright, hungry eyes. By the time the monstrous crimson matriarch had turned to the cave mouth, the wyrmling had already gone back to its feast.

Once back on the mountainside, Crematia restored her spells of protection, leaving the wall of stone as a physical barrier and the other illusion as full concealment for the secret niche. Only then did she launch herself into a sky that had been cloaked by the shadows of nightfall.

The red dragon flew with a different destination now, one that had been born in her dreams and set with the long centuries of hatred within her fiery cavern. Her targets were strangers, creatures she had never attacked before, but she felt no fear, only a growing onslaught of fresh, hot hatred. Her dreams had shown her that her newest victims possessed no magic – indeed, they abhorred sorcery in all its forms – so it was with sublime confidence that she sought out their lair.

A black mountain, long and slender, with a ridge crest like the edge of a serrated knife, rose into the darkness before her. She swept through the clouds, her dark-sensitive eyes staring along the slopes of the massif. Soon she saw it: a small crack, narrow and lightless, plunging into the depths of the world. Masking herself with a spell of invisibility, the red dragon flew low over the aperture.

Despite her distance from the source, she could sense the magical emanations rising from the opening, and she knew of the rare and enchanted treasures that lay within. Her inspection showed her other creatures – small, busy figures laboring at the mountain’s foot, the quarry that had been shown to her in her dreams.

They were called dwarves, she knew, and they had come to the Khalkists during the time of her hibernation. Now they delved the stone, seeking to create great underground lairs, an entire city sculpted from the living bedrock of the mountain range. But Crematia knew there was another reason for their digging as well, and this was the key to the red dragon’s hopes.

She settled downward beyond the gathering of dwarves. Despite the darkness, many of the little creatures labored in terraced fields, using massive horses to pull plows and till crops. Others worked with a clattering of picks and hammers on the construction of a great tower. Nearby, massive granite blocks were being dragged over smooth pathways by teams of horses and dwarves. On a stone-paved plaza nearby, another group, apparently novice warriors, worked under the tutelage of a sharp-tongued trainer, learning the use of hammer and shield in battle tactics.

It was before this latter group that Crematia appeared, negating her invisibility as she dropped to the ground. Rearing before the startled dwarves, she spread her jaws and belched out a great cloud of fire. Flames spurted and crackled across the training field, instantly incinerating those dwarves caught in the full blast, then spreading outward like a slick of oily liquid, surrounding, dragging down the hapless victims on the periphery of the gathering who had turned, far too slowly, in an attempt to run away.

The smoke cleared away to reveal dozens of charred, blackened bodies smoldering and sizzling in the wake of the inferno. Near the edge of the swath of darkness, a pathetic figure crawled, reaching with blackened, clawlike hands, then shuddering to the stillness of death. Only the soot and char moved, drifting away on the wind. Crematia turned toward the great doors of the tower, sensing that hundreds of pairs of eyes regarded her with a mixture of terror and awe.

“Here me, dwarven delvers! I am the angel of magic, and four of my eggs lurk in the bowels of your realms!”

The words echoed through the valley, rebounding from the surrounding heights as the tiny bearded figures quaked and trembled in awe.

“These are spheres of blue and black, of white and green. They belong to me, and they are death to any other who would steal them.”

She snorted another cloud of flame, watched the soot scar the great doors before she continued. “You must find these orbs of magic, these baubles that are my eggs, and bring them forth. If you do not remove them from your mountain, the taint of my sorcery will spread inward to infest you all! And the fires of my breath shall be nothing compared to the awful plague wrought by my eggs!”

She heard a groan, as if from the mountain itself, and knew that her words created real horror in the dwarves, for they hated magic above all else.

“I shall return in one hundred sunrises,” she declared with a growl. “Present these stones to me then, or face my wrath!”

Again she took wing, a scarlet killer whispering into the night, knowing that the dwarves would work hard to do her bidding.

CHAPTER 17

LESSONS

(ca. 3000 PC)

“And what is the effect of the teleport spell?” Aurican, in the guise he favored as the elven sage, scowled archly at the twisting silver form on the floor before him.

“I – I don’t know, Master.”

Callak was miserable, and certainly his mentor understood this – but, with equal certainty, the young silver dragon knew that misery was no excuse in his golden tutor’s eyes. Indeed, sometimes it seemed to Callak that Aurican liked his wyrmling pupils to be miserable.

All of them except Auricus, that is, though even as he had the jealous thought, Callak felt a glimmer of guilt. In truth, his golden nestmate was more than a kin-dragon bonded by the linkage of a shared nest. He was his greatest friend, his best companion. Indeed, in the matter of magical tutoring, Aurican showed favoritism to his firstborn son only because Auricus had so clearly earned it.

Already the young gold dragon was able to make himself invisible. He could create minor illusions that would amuse, frighten, or – most likely – irritate his numerous siblings. Arrogantly he levitated his prey, ignited fires in the grotto, disguised nuisances, like chips of ice, that he used to trip up his fellow nestmates. And his sense of magic detection was so well attuned that he was able to penetrate to the truth of just about every trick the other wyrmlings tried to play upon him.

Still, as the largest and most aggressive of the nestlings, Callak had been able to avoid the worst of Auricus’s pranks. Indeed, with his size and quickness, there was no one who could best the silver wyrmling in any contest of physical skill, though his nestmates, and particularly copper Flash, never hesitated to try.

“If my question is too complicated, perhaps you would like me to write it out? On your snout, perhaps?” growled Aurican, the penetrating stare of his yellow eyes quickly bringing the young dragon’s attention into focus.

“Teleportation!” he said brightly. “I – I think I remember. … It is the transportation of the caster from one point to another in the instant of casting!”

“Very good – though it is one thing to know the effect of a spell, and another, quite more involved, to be able to cast that same enchantment. The Platinum Father alone knows when the latter studies might open themselves to you.”

“Aye, lord.” Callak hung his head, with a sidelong glance to insure that none of the other nestlings mocked his discomfiture. But the dozens of wyrmlings – bronze, copper, brass, silver, and gold – sitting rigidly behind the silver made no gesture that could remotely be construed as rude. After all, even at the young age of three hundred winters, Callak was much larger than any of his fellow nestmates, a physical supremacy that now served to intimidate the wyrmlings from making any mocking or insulting remarks.

Yet it was far more than his size that accounted for Callak’s aloof mastery – in matters nonmagical, at least – of the grotto. His eyes drifted to the nest and saw the curled ram’s horn suspended there on its fine silver chain. Kenta had placed it there, and none of the wyrmlings could look at it without recalling the esteemed heritage of the silver dragons.

All the young dragons had been schooled on the tales of brave Darlantan, whose final sacrifice had brought victory to the metal dragons and their allies during the Dragon War. For one thing, the silver matriarch, Kenta, had insured that her mate’s valor was known to all the hatchlings. Aurican himself often spoke of the mighty serpent, invariably in tones both impassioned and affectionate. With great ceremony, he explained the legacy of the ram’s horn, told them that someday the greatest of the silver serpents would bear that artifact as proof of their sire’s legacy and wisdom.

It was a collection of tales that never failed to move Darlantan’s offspring, Callak and his proud brother Arjen, and his sisters Daria, Starr, and Splendor. Even tiny Agon, crippled and malformed since emerging from his silver egg, allowed his chest to puff out when the name of their heroic sire was invoked.

All knew, too, of Smelt and Burll and Blayze. The silvers were not the only wyrmlings who had lost their sire before hatching. But it was Callak who felt the greatest burden of that history. Natural master of all the lesser wyrms, he engaged in constant rivalry with Auricus, while at the same time striving to learn the lore of magic as taught by the wise elder.

Now, however, as Aurican lectured sternly, the wyrms of the brown metals were content to let the silver absorb the browbeating. Bronze Bolt and brass Dazzall carefully averted their eyes as Callak mutely looked for support.

Copper-scaled Tharn, meanwhile, merely smirked and flexed his wings, no doubt still seething because of a recent trick the silver male had played. Indeed, Callak couldn’t suppress a smile as he remembered his deception. The copper had eagerly pounced upon an object that looked like the plump carcass of a newly slain deer, only to discover that the silver dragon had used a minor illusion to create that appearance over a muckhole of brackish water and quicksand. The prank had resulted in a week of careful watching, as Callak had spent each waking moment since in wary anticipation of Tharn’s revenge.

“The teleport spell works like this!” declared Auricus, suddenly appearing in the midst of the gathered wyrmlings. The golden dragon was poised in the air a good high jump off the ground, and before he could start flying, he plunged to the floor, sending several of the coppers tumbling and scrambling to get out of his way.

“And it’s a good thing you can teleport!” Callak jabbed with a delighted sneer. “That way you won’t have to learn how to use your wings!”

“I can fly!” Auricus insisted, sitting up and flexing the shimmering flaps of brilliant gold. “It’s just that it’s not as much fun as magic.”

Callak knew his kin-dragon spoke the truth – at least, the truth as it appeared from Auric’s perception – but just the same, the whole notion seemed crazy to the young silver. After all, he had learned that flying was simply the best thing there could possibly be, and no mastery of magic would ever make him feel any different.

“I think that’s enough of our lessons for now,” declared the tutor, with a stern glare between Auricus and Callak. “I suggest you fly to the valley, perhaps paying visits to your mothers.”

In the moment of the suggestion, the wyrmlings were off, flashes of metal gleaming down the corridor and into the cavern of the great lake. The race evolved as always, with Callak in the lead, head and neck arrow-straight, wings all but buzzing from the strain of his flight. The others trailed behind, darts of metal hurtling through the air. Wind whistled over their scales, and the darkness passed in a blur.

The flash of gold went by him so quickly that the silver dragon wobbled in the air, almost losing control. In disbelief, he strained even harder, but could only watch as the golden tail pulled away. Within moments, Auricus had disappeared into the distance.

By the time Callak had led the rest of the brood into the sunlight warming the Valley of Paladine, Auricus had assumed a position of casual ease on the lordly rock that dominated the valley floor. Licking traces of rabbit fur from his jowls, the golden dragon regarded his approaching nestmates with an affected air of great boredom.

“Whatever in Krynn is the reason for your delay?” he asked, golden eyebrows rising in a mask of perplexity.

“You’ve learned another spell, I see,” replied Callak sourly, having figured out by now that his nestmate had employed some kind of enchantment that greatly increased his speed. “What do you call this one?”

“It’s the haste spell – quite a simple casting, really. Would you like me to teach you?” Auricus asked, innocently lowering his translucent inner eyelids.

“No, I would not!” huffed the silver wyrmling, lashing his tail in frustration. “I’m still trying to learn what each spell is called, while it seems that you’re casting them one right after the other.”

Auricus frowned. “Well, sometimes I have to. It’s the only way I have to keep you from beating me all the time. After all, you’re faster and stronger, and you can fly for days at a time, while I need to land for rest after each sunset.”

It intrigued Callak to think that his golden nestmate actually felt he was getting the poor end of the competition. After all, the gold’s sire was their collective tutor, and Auricus’s intelligence often made the rest of his nestmates feel slighted and inferior. Still, if even Auricus could feel like this, Callak decided that life, perhaps, was not so unfair after all.

As to the other males, Bolt and Tharn had already shown tendencies toward the solitary life that had occupied the later years of their fathers. Each had discovered his patriarch’s secret hoard and returned with tales of mystery and wonder, aggressively guarding against any hint that would lead to the location of their ancestral treasures. Dazzall, in the meantime, had made many friends among the humans who populated Krynn in ever-increasing numbers.

With a flexing of his silver wings, Callak took to the air, at first skimming the soft grass that layered the Valley of Paladine. He flew in long, lazy circles, and over a leisurely afternoon, he spiraled far above the valley floor. Finally he approached the ridges themselves, the precipitous heights that encircled the vale.

First he passed the reclining form of Oro, greeting Auricus’s mother with a respectful nod. The mighty gold was stretched along a high crest so that, with just a turn of her head, she could see a hundred miles to the west or the east. She blinked lazily as the silver wyrmling flew onward.

Finally Callak saw another silver form, the sinuous shape coiled around the summit of a steep, conical peak. He came to rest beside Kenta, curling under her wing, nudging her flank with his snout. She was serenely placid, barely aware of him as he tried to recline with the regal grandeur of an adult dragon.

But soon Callak grew restless again. Then, inevitably, his narrow wings swept outward to carry the silver serpent over his steadily expanding world.

CHAPTER 18

INTRANSIGENTS

(ca. 3000 PC)

Crematia spread her wings wide, gliding through the cool night air, drawing close to the black pyramidal mountain she had visited a hundred days before. She broke from the overcast and screeched a warning of her presence, enjoying the panicked maneuvers of the dwarves as they scattered from their fields and roads, scrambling chaotically in a hundred different directions. Like ants revealed beneath an overturned log, they darted about in a vast and instantaneous reaction to her presence, a reaction that pleasantly reassured Crematia of her own might:

Yet by the time the red dragon’s echo had returned from the opposite elevation, every one of the dwarves on the ground had disappeared. Crematia blinked, wondering if her aging eyes were suffering from the effects of minimal light. But no – she could see the roads and trails, even spot the picks and shovels dropped by the scattering work crews as they had funneled into an apparently infinite number of holes, niches, hatches, and caves. Her first impression had been right: The dwarves had all vanished.

She settled to the ground on the still-scorched paving stones of the plaza, the same place where she had earlier demonstrated her infernal might. Now she raised her head to the massive stone doors leading into the mountainside, allowing a deep growl to rumble from her belly. She sensed the reverberations of the sound vibrating the great gates, and she trusted that the import of her message was reaching the dwarves, who were no doubt cowering within. Still, it frustrated her that she was unable to attack, even to see, the wretched denizens huddling within their stone shelter.

Patiently Crematia waited, and while she did, she studied this valley of dwarves. The tower on the mountainside was a secure fortification. She saw that steel shutters had been drawn across the windows and doors, a barrier that might possibly prove resistant even against the killing heat of her breath. And the great gates of the dwarven city were set deep into an alcove in the wall of the mountainside, anchored by huge stone hinges and reinforced by straps of heavy steel. She could see slits and gaps above the entryway, and imagined that the resourceful creatures would no doubt find ways to attack her through these openings if she made an attempt to smash the sturdy gates.

Still, the dwarves were vulnerable otherwise. Their terraced hills were lush with crops approaching harvest, a harvest that Crematia could eliminate in a few hours. And she took it for certainty that the bearded creatures would not be content to dwell within their mountain for a long time without glimpse of the sun. After all, they obviously had labored with nearly inexhaustible energy on a variety of major projects throughout the valley of their realm.

So she was not surprised when a tiny aperture opened in the base of the great gate and a figure came out. The tiny fellow was dressed in a blue robe that trailed along the ground far behind him. His chest was as broad as a barrel, his arms strapping, terminating in powerful, callused hands. Though he wore no weapon at his waist, he bore a satchel of leather over his shoulder.

Naturally Crematia could have slain the dwarf with a slap of her forepaw or a minor sneeze of her breath. But she was impressed by the fellow’s courage and curious about his intentions. She held her violent impulses in abeyance, at least long enough to hear what the dwarf had to say.

“Who are you?” she demanded, punctuating her question with a puff of black smoke.

“I am Bayrn Takwing, a chieftain of this delving,” the dwarf replied, with a belligerent glare, as if he would have welcomed the dragon’s precipitous attack – a notion that lingered temptingly in Crematia’s mind.

“Have you obeyed me?” she demanded, once again sparing the insolent dwarf with a supreme effort of will.

“We have here one of your ‘eggs,’ Mighty Killer,” declared the dwarf, glaring upward with an audacious display of ill temper.

“Then you have failed me, for I bade you bring four of them,” growled Crematia, rearing back in unconscious surprise at the dwarf’s manner. “Know that I am not one who is tolerant of failure.”

Fire swelled in her belly, barely restrained from lethal release. Smoke puffed from her nostrils, but something in the dwarf’s manner held her in check.

The fellow’s beard bristled, and he slung the satchel forward, opening its mouth to allow a perfect sphere of white to tumble out. The stone sat still on the stony road, but seemed nevertheless to move with some sense of inner vitality. It pulsed and radiated, brightening the surrounding ground with a wash of icy light.

“And you have lied to us, for this is no more an egg than you are a horse. It is a gemstone, and you should be glad that it’s magic. Because of that, we’re content to be rid of it, and you are welcome to take it away from here. Otherwise, understand that you’d not be seeing its likeness again.”

“Bold words for a dwarf whose city cowers behind him.” Crematia was amused more than angered. Indeed, she was almost grateful, as she felt her hopes flaring at the sight of the dragongem. “Know that my displeasure has wasted greater realms than yours.”

“Bah! We’re safe enough.” The burly dwarf crossed his arms over his chest and made a great production of turning to the side and spitting casually into the dust.

Crematia reared back, seized by a deep rage. It had been many hundreds of years since anyone had dared to speak to her like this. “Do not expect mercy from me, foolish dwarf. Mercy is weakness, and weakness is death!”

“Oh, sure, you could kill me now, maybe even break down a few of our doors. But then you’d never see another one of these stones.”

“So you admit the others are within your delvings? You dare to hold them from me?”

“They’re down there somewhere. Our priests have felt the magic, and they don’t like it much, neither. But there’s no sayin’ when we’ll get down to the stones themselves.”

“I shall return in another one hundred sunrises, and you will produce all of the stones. Otherwise your city will die.”

“No. You’ll take this white stone and be gone for now. You should come back in one hundred years. By then, we might have one of these stones for you.”

“One hundred winters?” demanded Crematia, aghast. Her belly swelled, fire surging anew, pressure rising from the involuntary fuel of her rage.

“And if you damage our crops, or indeed even try to damage our city – not that you’d have any luck – then you can consider those stones gone forever.”

Crematia clenched her jaws and snatched up the whitestone, forcibly resisting the temptation to sear this insolent dwarf into charcoal. He would have the other stones, she knew, and she could force herself to wait for a while before they became hers.

So instead of destroying this place, she took to the air, already resolved to wait the hundred winters – what was that time, really? – before she returned.

CHAPTER 19

DEATHFYRE

(2698 PC)

A red dragon male was the first to hatch, and he proved to be the largest and most powerful of Crematia’s large brood. He grew with a quickness that astonished and delighted the venerable matriarch, displaying cruelty and malice, bullying his nestmates, and immediately asserting his superiority. Even as a wyrmling, he ate voraciously, once killing and devouring one of his weaker siblings when his mother had been slow to bring fresh food.

By the time he had entered his second century, Deathfyre was flying as swiftly as an eagle and bringing down prey that varied in size from young dwarves to the burly, spiral-horned rams that dared to graze in the heights of the Khalkists. He took a keen delight in killing and invariably tortured even the meanest of his prey with a deft cruelty that fascinated and impressed his savage matriarch.

By his two hundredth winter, Deathfyre had flown far beyond his mother’s lofty vales. Sometimes he returned with meat – even humans and elves fell to his cruel claws – and other times with rare treasures, or news. He mastered a tribe of minotaurs and brought new bands of ogres into the fold of Crematia’s gathering horde.

And in his third century, he returned with the bakali.

The craven lizard men swarmed in some stagnant fen in the lowlands. Deathfyre had demonstrated his power by slaying several of the tribe’s elite warriors, finally blinding the chieftain as a reminder of his superiority. Then he had ordered the bakali to march into the mountains, to gather beneath the red dragon lair on Darklady Mountain. Bearing their maimed and eyeless ruler – a great, spike-spined lizard with strapping shoulders and brawny arms – on a feather-draped litter, a file of savage warriors encamped around the steaming springs of the Khalkist valleys.

Crematia herself remained close to the lair, for her other hatchlings were not so strong nor so capable as Deathfyre. She tutored and trained them, punished every weakness or tendency toward mercy, rewarding cruelty, always demonstrating the efficacy of merciless violence.

Every hundred winters, she journeyed to the dwarven home, and twice since her first successful visit had she come away with a dragongem. Now, corresponding to the arrival of Deathfyre’s legion and the growing maturity of her other offspring, who numbered thirteen in all, the interval had passed again, and it was time to collect the last gem, the blackstone.

Her proud son accompanied her, the two dragons winging eastward through smoking, ash-laden skies. Deathfyre was already two-thirds of Crematia’s own serpentine length, with the black mane of an adult bristled in a steadily thickening thatch around his cruel jowls. He was a strong, swift flyer, and the scarlet matriarch shivered with a thrill of pride. She admired his sleek frame, the sinewy muscle rippling beneath the crimson perfection of his scales.

Arriving over the dwarven vale, Crematia wasn’t surprised to see that all the dwarves had once again taken shelter within their underground lair by the time she and Deathfyre settled toward the ground. She bade her son to remain watchfully back from the gates, then stalked forward with her crimson head held high. The great red dragon had already resolved upon at least one thing: After the dwarven king gave her this last stone, he would have no more hold over her, and thus she would slay him as just punishment for his past insolences.

Unfortunately the wretched delvers had apparently anticipated her intent, for this time, no berobed dwarf emerged to present her with the gem. Instead, a small hatch in the base of the gate swung open, and a sphere of perfect blackness rolled forth. Momentum carried the stone to Crematia’s feet, and by the time she looked back at the gate, the hatch had slammed shut and she heard the sound of metal bolts being drawn.

She opened her mouth and belched a searing cloud of fire against the gates, taking minimal satisfaction from the slick surface of melted stone, the scorched blackness that now ringed the city’s entryway. Changing shape with a twinkling of magic, Crematia stood in the flesh of a tall human woman, her body a shape of slender curves and flowing red hair clad in a gown of shimmering green. She reached down and picked up the blackstone, then turned back to Deathfyre.

A volley of arrows arced from small gaps in the mountainside, but the few that reached her merely bounced from the green silk and fell to the ground. She laughed, the sound a gaily trilling chime, as she strolled casually up to the red serpent, reaching upward to caress her scion’s shoulder with a slender human hand.

“They seek to spite me,” Crematia declared in amusement, turning to regard the concealed dwarves with a coy, even playful, smile. She gestured with her other hand, to the lush fields of grain and fruit, terraced fields covering the gently sloping mountainside in every direction.

“I told them to expect no mercy from me. But perhaps they did not believe me. Now, my bold son, show them that we know the meaning of spite as well as they.”

For a long day, the young red dragon frolicked through the croplands, scorching with his breath, rending with talons, crushing with the wallowing weight of his great body. Crematia sat with the relaxed dignity of an amused lady, reclining in the shade of a great oak tree, occasionally tasting of some melon or grape brought to her by Deathfyre.

Once she rose and strolled tauntingly before the great gates. She laughed as arrows arced toward her, skipped nimbly out of the path of some of the missiles. Others she transformed into harmless flowers with a flick of her hand, or dissolved into sparks with a snap of her fingers. Always she taunted the dwarves, waving at them, summoning them to come out in a cooing, playful voice.

Only when the harvest had been thoroughly mauled, grain burned or crushed into mud, fruit squashed and broken, trees of ancient orchards snapped into kindling, did Crematia shift back to the body of her serpentine self. In the waning light of dusk, the two dragons took wing, coursing through the skies, vanishing into the shadowy gorges of the high Khalkists. Flying under moonlit skies, they soon left the ruined dwarven realm far behind. As she flew, the ancient female relished the memory of thousands of dwarven eyes, glaring with impotent hatred at the leisurely departure of their omnipotent enemies.

Returning to the valley of fire that half encircled Darklady Mountain, the two dragons found their legions of bakali and ogres eagerly waiting. For many seasons, the monstrous warriors had been gathering here, training and learning and worshiping their mighty crimson mistress. Now that the dragons had flown to retrieve the last dragongem, the troops knew that at last the period of waiting was almost done. Masses of troops thronged across the ground, shouting accolades and hoarse cheers, whooping in raw delight as the pair of serpents flew overhead, bellowing and snorting flames.

The mighty reds came to rest on a flat shelf of rock at the foot of the lofty peak, a natural stage where they could rise above their assembled horde. The promontory and its two illustrious occupants were visible from across the entire floor of the valley. Deathfyre bristled in stiff-winged pride while Crematia lifted her supple neck, raising her head far above the gathered horde.

This was an area naturally lighted by the fiery rivers of lava flowing down the Darklady’s slopes and from gouts of flame and bubbling rock that frequently erupted from fissures on the valley floor. Yet now the ogres augmented the illumination, igniting great bonfires before the raised platform so that the two mighty red dragons were brightly lit in angry, surging flames, their crimson bodies slick and alight in the brightness cast by the massive pyres.

Crematia reared still higher, clutching the blackstone in her claws and raising it above the lustily cheering mass. Her twelve lesser offspring brayed and roared, adding their accolades to the wave of noise.

Finally four bakali shamans who had demonstrated remarkable talent – and great loyalty to Deathfyre – came forward. The lizard men priests, like the rest of their kind, were lean and supple creatures, marked by protruding muzzles and low, sloping brows. Forked tongues darted from fanged jaws, while heavy tails stretched behind, lending balance to the strangely dainty walk of the monstrous warriors.

Each of three bakali shamans carried a single dragongem of green, white, or blue. The fourth knelt before the still-upraised Crematia, tilting its snakelike head, leaning far backward to balance on its outflung tail.

The dragon abruptly dropped to her belly, crimson scales stopping a hairsbreadth short of smashing the shaman to the ground, a blow that would have certainly broken the wretched creature’s spine. Yet the bakali remained faithfully rigid, singing the praises of the mighty red wyrm. Pleased, Crematia gave it the blackstone.

All four of the stone-bearing bakali marched between Crematia and Deathfyre, then started up the steep slope of the mountainside. Each clutched its stone in one taloned foreclaw, with the other hand pulling upward to aid in the long ascent. Crematia watched for a long time, relishing the awestruck silence of the legions gathered behind her as they, too, observed the four shamans gradually disappear into the darkness and haze of the heights.

“Fly with me, my children!” cried Crematia, taking to the air with a downblast of wind. She soared low over a sea of bakali and ogres and was lifted, borne aloft by the force of their relentless cheers. Behind the crimson matriarch, Deathfyre and the other red dragons took wing, following their mistress in an awe-inspiring flight over the massed army. Red wings filled the sky, like deadly awnings spreading above the rumbling horde.

Gradually the serpents climbed until they, like the lizard men shamans, had disappeared from the view of the legions on the ground. Even so, as she looked down, Crematia could still see the raging bonfires and the jagged streaks of the lava rivers crossing the valley floor. But now her eyes turned skyward as she strove steadily through the night. The air was warm, tainted with sulfurous gases from the bowels of Krynn. Often she tasted the metallic taint of copper or iron, solids rendered into vapor by the heat within Darklady Mountain.

Finally the lofty summit was there, emerging from the murk, the rim of the crater a sharp-edged circle in the sky. Crematia and her young came to rest along the crest, facing the plunging shaft, feeling the infernal heat baking against their faces and breasts. The giant matriarch loomed over them all, with mighty Deathfyre rising large to one side. The lesser serpents of her wyrmlings perched, still and patient, to either side along the rim of the Darklady’s crater.

For a long time, Crematia made them wait, knowing the bakali would climb the mountain slowly. She watched carefully, and when Hodyo showed signs of slinking back from the inferno, she seared the end of his tail with a blast of breath, then sneered as he nearly toppled forward in a panicked effort to escape.

“Show strength, my dragons! Welcome the Darklady’s heat! Fire is your spirit and your soul, and it shall not harm you – it sustains and renews. Remember, never show weakness!”

Finally she discerned a glowing brightness down the mountainside, soon recognizing the illumination of the whitestone. The green and blue were next to appear, and she had located all four of the bakali shamans before she found the sleek, inky perfection of the blackstone.

Though the lizard men had labored throughout the long night on an ascent that few, if any, landbound creatures had ever attempted before, they showed only eagerness as they reached the rim of the mighty crater, kneeling on the stony crest, two to each side of Crematia. The mountain rumbled, waves of heat blasting upward, billowing clouds of smoke and ash roiling in the bottomless depths.

“Splendid work, my shamans. … You have earned our queen’s pleasure.”

The bakali shivered, their faces pressed abjectly to the ground. Each clutched its dragongem tightly to its scaly chest as the grumbling in the mountain grew to a palpable tremor. Fire roared, and ash swirled through the air like stinging needles of hot sleet.

“See, my children … she rises to show her magnificence.”

Now the bakali and the dragons looked toward the massive crater, where the billowing clouds of smoke had evolved into five distinct pillars. The central, and mightiest, was lit by an internal stream of flaming gas, glowing brightly with a crimson light. The columns of smoke on either side writhed and twisted like lesser snakes, alternately pale or dark, while the red central pillar rose even higher, spuming flame and ash into the sky.

“Now, shamans – jump!” Crematia barked her command, head rearing back to insure that each of the bakali obeyed.

Her precaution was unnecessary. At the command, each of the shamans leapt exultantly from the rim of the crater, clutching its dragongem worshipfully as it vanished into the gulf of fire and smoke. Immediately the mountain roared, waves of heat and light bursting into the sky.

“Now fly, my children! Take wing with me!” The mighty red took to the air, the thirteen younger serpents following. They circled the lofty summit, fighting their way through churning clouds of roiling air, watching as more and more convulsions rocked the Darklady.

“Deathfyre, fly to the valley. Lead the army away to the south,” commanded Crematia as sections of rock slipped away from the summit, tumbling in landslides toward the lowlands masked by smoke and dust.

The red male swept away, and the matriarch turned her attention back to the mountain, secure in the knowledge that her scion would lead the army to safety. For a long time, the great summit rumbled and shook, firing clouds of debris into the air. Even as sunrise illuminated the sky, this remained a region of perpetual shadows. The red dragons circled through the murk, wyrmlings flying behind their mighty matriarch, glimpsing the shuddering, conical peak through gaps in the swirling smoke.

Abruptly the top of the mountain exploded, the force of the blast sending even mighty Crematia reeling through the skies. She plunged downward and away, pulling herself out of the dive and guiding her nestlings – except Deathfyre – back toward the shattered summit.

But now there was more than smoke and ash roiling through the air. Crematia’s heart pounded at a glimpse of blue wing slicing through the edge of the cloud, at a green tail that flickered into sight, then vanished. Then scaly shapes passed to all sides, giant serpentine bodies borne by leathery wings.

At last the slopes of Darklady Mountain tumbled away, shattered by convulsive explosions, wracked by mighty destruction. Lava surged into the air, gouts of liquid rock sizzling through the clouds, splattering against the heaving ground below. Rocks as big as Crematia’s wing floated past, tossed like marbles by the violent pressure of the dying mountain.

The pressure of noise shook the air with thunderous force, but the crimson matriarch exulted in the violence, knowing that the convulsions were nothing less than the power of the Dark Queen. More of the summit was blasted into dust, and she brayed loudly, a shrill cry of delight.

One whole shoulder of the massive peak sloughed away, thundering downward in an avalanche of dust, gravel, and flaming debris. More slopes fell, some collapsing inward, others falling out, sliding with glacial power into the smoldering, trembling valleys below. Colors flashed within that roiling murk, here a patch of white and blue, there a blur of green, a smudge of perfect black.

Then they were all around, filling the skies, crying deep challenges and exulting in freedom after long centuries of confinement. The chromatic dragons of the Dark Queen, released from their prisons in the dragongems, swept away from the mountain that had now collapsed into three lesser, but still mighty, summits. The wyrms of Takhisis bellowed their joy at their freedom and roared with rage at the thought of vengeance that had been too long denied.

“Fly, my kin-dragons!” cried Crematia. “Take wing with me to the south, where our armies march – and where we shall take our revenge against the elven lands!”

CHAPTER 20

MEMORIES OF LIGHT AND DARKNESS

(2693 PC)

Aurican drifted in a pleasant haze of memory and reflection. Sprawled across the great mountain ridge of the High Kharolis, he knew as he looked down that he was watching Callak and Auricus chase each other’s tails through a maze of valleys and gorges. Specks of bright metal darted, looped, and raced in the full enthusiasm of youthful flight, their gold and silver wings a blur of shimmering reflection.

Yet a part of the mighty gold’s mind could almost believe that it was himself and Darlantan down there, perfecting those maneuvers for the first time, chasing and wrestling, hunting together or tormenting their kin-dragons of the brown metals. When he drifted into these reflections, he felt like a young wyrmling again, ready to flex his wings and buzz like a hummingbird through the vast realm of the sky.

But when he shifted and stretched, he was vividly reminded that he was an ancient dragon now. His wings crackled, comfortable in repose but reluctant to respond to the commands of elderly muscles. His neck and back were sore, and he wanted nothing more than to absorb the warmth of the sun soaking through the shiny metallic scales. Was it his imagination, or did his spine actually creak as he raised his head to look off the other side of the mountain? He was slightly restless – worried, perhaps, about some unnamed threat to the nestlings, but not so agitated that he felt it necessary to move.

Though, in fact, these youngsters gave him many things to worry about. Callak and Aurican, of course, were strong and proud, and would someday be worthy heirs to the silver and gold clans. Auri learned magic with real talent, and his silver nestmate showed promise in the arcane arts as well. But they were impetuous and reckless in ways that disturbed the venerable gold, as if they didn’t acknowledge the possibility of danger, the threat implicit in the Queen of Darkness and her currently dormant dragons. Naturally Aurican tended to forget that he and Darlantan had lived for thousands of years before becoming aware of that menace.

And the males of the brown metals were even more worrisome. Flash was every bit as selfish and hot-tempered as his sire, Blayze, had been. The younger copper showed little patience for the concerns of his nestmates and had been quick to bite – or even to spit a nasty stream of acid – when his young kin-dragons displeased him. From an early age, he had shown a tendency to wander off, to hunt and dwell by himself. Flash had located his sire’s lair, Auri knew, but he feared that the vast treasures concealed therein had spoiled the young copper, making him even more suspicious and resentful of the others.

And Brunt, the offspring of strong, thick-skulled Burll, had sadly shown little of his sire’s placid nature. Like Flash, Brunt had found a separate lair, and he spent much of his time hoarding treasures and avoiding the company of the rest of Paladine’s brood. Whether it was the same place Burll had used Aurican didn’t know, but the young bronze always returned from his journeys with the scents of brine and fish that had distinguished the elder bronze.

At least Dazzall had carried on the sociable legacy of Smelt. He was already well known among humans and had proven to be a peacemaker among the nestmates. Although he was a passable student of magic, he lacked the concentration of Auricus or the native intelligence of Callak.

Aurican’s attention drifted as his head swept through a serene, regal inspection. He saw the two lakes, where Oro and Kenta had gone to their final rest, side by side, their waters now emerald green following the spring melt, and sighed with loneliness. He was acutely aware that he was the last of his nestmates, the only one of Patersmith’s pupils still alive.

It had been within the last fifty winters that the two elder females had finally weakened. Kenta had gone first, crawling from the lair into the mountains, laying herself on the ice so that she had been entombed by the thawing of spring. Then, the next year, golden Oro had followed her silver cousin into the realm beyond life.

Aurican thought about a thing he had learned from elves and humans, the strange concept of love. He had tried to understand this intangible bond. He knew that it connected mates to each other, and even stretched between siblings, parents and children, and close friends. Silvanos had once confessed that, despite their differences, he and Kagonos had shared a bond that could only be described as love. Yet when Auri looked at the place where Oro was buried or thought of the death of Darlantan, he wondered how the two-legs could bear it – to have such a bond torn apart in the short life span that was, at least in the case of humans, inevitable. While the ancient gold was saddened by the loss of his mate and his kin-dragon, their deaths had left him lonely, but not grief-stricken. Indeed, the very thought of an end to life made him more curious than anything else.

Aurican was not at all certain about whatever awaited one when mortal flesh at last yielded to death. To be sure, he had spent time – centuries, in fact – on the study of this particular question. Yet the mystery had eluded even the most penetrating of his meditations, researches, and self-posed queries. Even his dreams, normally a potent source of learning, had yielded little insight.

His musings, like so many of his reflections, made Aurican feel like a relic from an earlier era. Had he really ever been a wyrmling, sleek and supple like Auricus? Or were those memories merely dreams? For that matter, was there, in the present, a significant difference between a dream and a memory of the distant past?

This had been the question of philosophy that had occupied his thoughts for the last dozen or so winters, and he had yet to determine a truly satisfying answer. Naturally there were differences between dreams and memories, but were they significant when viewed from the portal of the present? With a pleasant drooping of his leathery lids, so that they half covered the still-clear orbs of his golden eyes, Aurican began to review the arguments in favor and opposed.

He thought in particular of Daria, the boldest of the female silver nestlings. She had always spoken of very vivid dreams, and several times Aurican had dreamed of Daria’s destiny … a danger and a fate that would be revealed to her in a dream. He made a vow to speak to her of this, for he had the strong feeling that he himself would be dead before this destiny was made clear.

“Grandfather!”

A shout of forceful urgency brought his musings to an abrupt halt. Raising his head so quickly that a jolt of pain shot down to his shoulders, Aurican looked around for the source of the noise.

Little Agon was flying toward him, flapping his small wings with desperate urgency. “Grandfather Aurican!”

“Yes … what is it?” he asked as the silver wyrmling came to rest on the mountainside slightly below the venerable gold. Agon was a likeable and enthusiastic wyrm, stunted in size since emerging from his egg, but popular among all of his kin-dragons. Much to Aurican’s pleasure – and surprise – the runty silver had demonstrated almost as much magical aptitude as had golden Auricus.

“I heard something! It was loud, braying like a horn, and it seemed as if it were calling me. But I couldn’t see anything! What was it?”

“Where did it come from?”

“Th-the east, I think. But I was flying with Dazzall, and he said he didn’t hear anything.”

Aurican’s brow furrowed. He saw Dazzall as the brass dragon winged upward to join them. In moments he had landed, nodding his head in confirmation of Agon’s words.

“A horn, you say? Like a trumpet?”

“Yes, Grandfather!” Agon said with a vigorous nod.

The gold dragon remembered the ram’s horn, safely stored in the grotto, but he knew that another of the horns existed. That one was borne by the wild elves, and long ago Darlantan had told him its purpose: the Kagonesti could use the ram’s horn to summon help from the silver dragons, in a call that was audible to the wyrms of argent alone.

“Here come Callak and Auricus,” Agon noted, and the venerable gold saw that the pair were also flying upward, laboring hard toward the ancient’s lofty vantage. Both were stiff-necked, straining their wings in obvious urgency.

Immediately Aurican hurled himself into the air, and his wings responded as needed, sweeping outward to channel and guide the wind, easily steering his flight. Callak and Auricus fell into formation as the elder dived past them, trailed by Agon and Dazzall.

“Did you hear something?” Aurican asked the young silver.

“Yes, Grandfather – a horn, with a strangely compelling sound.”

“But you heard nothing?” the ancient demanded, turning to his golden scion. Auricus shook his head. “That seals it, then. What you heard was the ram’s horn of the Kagonesti. Gather the others. We have important matters to discuss.”

Before he could settle to the ground on the floor of the Valley of Paladine, Aurican was startled by a shimmer of magic below. A two-legged figure appeared instantly, and he realized that someone had teleported here. As he landed, the mighty gold saw that the newcomer was an elf. A river of blood trickled down the flank of the battered figure, and the dragon saw that his robes of regal silver had been rent and torn by cruel violence. The fellow looked up, took a weak step forward, and then fell to the ground.

Aurican scrutinized the stranger even as his gold dragon body shifted and shrank. Quickly the elder stood upright as he adjusted to his familiar elven body. He saw that the stranger had been gouged by a sword thrust to the side, and noticed by the irregular tears on the rich garment that the blade’s edge had been cruelly serrated – in other words, a weapon that no elf would wield.

“Greetings, honored elf,” Aurican said softly as Auricus and Callak came to rest behind him. They had not yet mastered the talent of the shapechange, and their metallic, reptilian heads rose over his shoulders as he regarded the battered newcomer. Dazzall and Agon held back slightly but also listened.

“Can you hear me? Do you come from Silvanost?” pressed the elder dragon. He had lived for a while in Silvanos’s city, already a legendary place of crystal palaces and towers rising from an island in the midst of a mighty river. Now Aurican pictured that pastoral place, which had been peaceful for centuries, and the golden serpent felt a shiver of deep, chilling alarm.

At the name, the elf’s eyelids flickered. His right eye was swollen shut, distorted by a purple bruise and cruel gouges on his cheek, but his left opened to regard Aurican with an expression of palpable terror.

“Again … she comes again,” croaked the elf, a spatter of bloody drool trickling from his lip.

“Who?” asked Callak and Auricus at the same time, urgency hissing in the words.

“Crematia,” declared Aurican, without any question in his voice. He looked again at the sword wound, then sniffed. The taint of acid was a sulfuric stench, faint but unmistakable, the effects visible in the holes that had been burned in the trailing edge of the elf’s robe. “And she has brought her kin-dragons, awakened from the heart of the Khalkists.”

The wounded elf arched his back, his jaws clenching soundlessly as he thrashed at an imaginary foe. Aurican leaned forward, touching him gently upon the forehead, and the fellow’s struggles immediately ceased. His good eye opened, but the madness was gone. Instead, he stared with a desperate, pleading intensity.

“They came from the sides … all of them, red and black and white and the rest. And on the ground, ogres, charging from the woods … and warriors like snakes, snakes with arms and legs, bearing cruel swords. Those came from the swamp and butchered all of us who tried to find shelter there. We fought them … we killed and we died … but there were so many. …”

“What about Silvanos?” asked Aurican. “Does he live?”

“Aye, at last word before I was carried away. The three brother mages were there … the three robes … red and black – and the white one, too. Their magic was the only thing that enabled us to survive the first onslaught … walls of sorcery around Silvanost. The city stands, for now. They sent me here to find Aurican … to beg for help!”

The elf’s words burned with shame at the admission, but again the serene figure of the altered gold dragon laid a hand upon the injured messenger’s forehead. At the touch, the battered fellow once more drew a deep breath and apparently relaxed.

“You have done your job well, my friend. You must rest here, and grow strong. Know that I shall fly in response to your need.”

Abruptly Aurican was a dragon again, rearing high above the younger serpents behind him. He raised his mouth to the skies and, with a trumpeting bray, summoned the other nestmates from their hunts and meditations among the peaks of the High Kharolis.

“Who are these brother mages?” asked Auricus.

“Three elves I knew centuries ago,” the elder replied. Clearly he remembered the quest to the realm of gods, and the gifts that had led to spell magic on Krynn – and the three moons that, ever since, had loomed in the night sky. “They are still alive, and still mighty. Indeed, it sounds as though their magic is the best hope of elvenkind – at least, until I can get there.”

Soon the brood of his own offspring and his nieces and nephews had joined him, several dozen bright males and females of copper, brass, and bronze, together with Callak and his brother Arjen, and Auricus. One of the females, Dazzall’s sister Krayn, took charge of the wounded elf, bearing the messenger into the depths of the undermountain and its sacred grotto.

“I return to Silvanesti,” announced Aurican, fixing his stern glare upon the restless wyrmlings. “While I am gone, I expect that all —”

“We’re coming with you!” declared Callak, rearing up with a fluttering of silver wings, staring belligerently into the eyes of his ancient tutor.

The other wyrmlings cringed back, expecting an explosive response, but Aurican merely sighed heavily, sending a puff of warm smoke emerging from his nostrils.

“You cannot,” declared the elder. “You – all of you – are too young. Bold and brave, I know, but neither will keep you alive against the cruel dragons of the Dark Queen. And though our nest is here, we have no eggs, no clutch to guard. It is too great a risk, for we gamble with the whole future of our kind should I let you come to war.”

“What worth is a future if we allow the Dark Queen’s dragons to rule the world?” demanded Auricus quickly, raising a question with vexing logic as he came to his brother nestling’s aid.

Despite himself, old Aurican allowed himself a measure of pride in his youngster’s argument as he replied. “There is no cause to panic. It is not out of the question that I myself, with the aid of the brother mages, may deal with the threat.”

“But this is not your task alone!” asserted Callak. “Is not Crematia responsible for my father’s death, as well as those of our other patriarchs?”

“And you’ve told us how, during that war, the red dragon was not captured in the gem of life-trapping with the others!” silver Arjen insisted. “Now is our chance to slay her!”

“There are many wyrms of evil, are there not?” pressed crippled Agon, bobbing his head high to be heard in the midst of his silver siblings. “Surely you could use our help. At the very least, we could guard your back and warn you of ambush!”

“No more argument!” snapped Aurican sternly. “This is an affair of ancients, and my business to complete. Now go, all of you, and guard the grotto!”

“But there are other kin-dragons who don’t know about the danger,” Callak objected. “Flash and Brunt are gone, and Tharn! And my sister Daria, too …”

“Then that is your task! Find your nestmates and bring them here!” insisted the ancient gold. “I command you, in the name of the Platinum Father. Gather the kin-dragons to the grotto and await my word.”

Then, without a backward glance, he took wing toward Silvanesti … and war.

CHAPTER 21

PRIDE

(2693 PC)

“How do we find Tharn and Flash? And who knows where Brunt’s lair is?” Callak asked, forlornly watching Aurican’s golden shape winging into the sky. Abruptly the gold dragon vanished from sight, and the younger wyrms knew he had teleported to Silvanesti.

Their bronze nestmate laired far away, though none of the other dragons knew exactly where. It was common knowledge that Tharn, on the other hand, had claimed the ancient copper lair of Blayze. The location of that cavern was also secret, but at least they knew it was somewhere in the eastern foothills.

“Well, we’ll have to split up. Tharn and Flash will be in the foothills somewhere,” said Auricus. “As to Brunt, he always flies west from here, and everybody knows he goes all the way to the coast.”

“Daria spends a lot of time hunting on the eastern part of the range,” Callak remembered. “Ill see if I can find her. Maybe she can help locate the coppers.”

“And I’ll teleport to the coast,” Auricus added with a nod of agreement. “I’m the only one who can get there fast, and that gives me the best chance of finding Brunt. The rest of you wait in the grotto, as Aurican said.”

“Let’s go!” Callak cried, leaping into the air and angling for the crest of the High Kharolis. He looked back to see Auricus disappear and the other dragons take wing toward the tunnel leading into the grotto.

The silver male flew with all haste over the snow-swept ridges of the highest part of the range. He relished the icy air against his scales, the pristine frostiness of each deep breath. The exhilaration of flight, as always, brought him a sense of serene contentment, even joy. But he knew that he couldn’t complete his task in these lofty reaches, so as soon as the terrain beneath him spilled toward the lowlands, he tucked his wings and tipped into a shallow dive.

How should he find his silver kin-dragon? He tried to think, knowing that Daria was the biggest of the silver females and had demonstrated a streak of independence as powerful as any of her male nestmates. Callak knew she favored hunting in the wooded, venison-rich heights of the foothills, far enough from the plains so that human hunters rarely ventured there. Once, after warning him not to plunder her game, she had shown Callak several of her favorite valleys, and it was to these that he now glided.

He searched diligently, gliding through the hours of daylight, seeking some glimpse of silver scales. Callak flew high enough to see over the serpentine ridges of the foothills, but not so lofty that he would miss details on the ground. He took a deer each night at sunset, generally selecting a yearling with a plentiful layer of fat. Yet despite the good eating and pastoral scenery, he grew increasingly agitated by his failure to locate Daria as the days passed.

After the fourth sunrise of his search, he saw a flash of reflection from a ledge just below the summit of a rounded mountaintop. Stroking upward, he found the silver female coiled regally in a rock-bound aerie, sleeping off the aftereffects of her feasting. Daria was growing plump and shiny, Callak saw, and he was startled by the allure he saw in that glimmering, serpentine form. He wondered why it had been so long since he had sought her, or desired her company.

But this was a time for more pressing business. He brayed a greeting as he swept downward, and the female quickly raised her head, blinking drowsily as he came to rest beside her. Curling his tail onto the ledge, Callak bowed, lowering his neck to parallel hers.

“What is it, Cal? I was sleeping!” she snapped petulantly.

“Trouble,” he said, shaking off any further objections with his firm tone and stiff-winged bearing. Briefly he told her of the elf’s report and the summons of the ram’s horn. “Aurican wants us all to go back to the grotto and wait for him there.”

Nodding, Daria uncoiled with supple grace. “Are all the others coming as well?” she asked, stretching her wings, allowing her tail to jut stiffly behind her.

“Brunt, Flash, and Tharn are gone to their lairs. We know that Tharn, at least, comes over here. I wanted to ask you if you have any idea where we might find him.”

“Yes!” Daria said, her eyelids lowering shrewdly. “He doesn’t know that I found his lair, but I’ve seen him there several times.”

After a short flight, the two silvers landed on the smooth lip of a lofty cliff. Callak was surprised to see a shadowy cave mouth in the mountain wall before him. The cavern was dark, and moist, musty air, tainted with the sulfuric scent of acid, wafted from it. “It’s completely screened by the overhang,” he remarked. “You can’t see it at all from the air.”

“Or from the ground, either – not if you’re dead!” The voice, speaking in the copper dragon’s unmistakable growl, came from the darkness within.

Instinctively Callak whirled toward the opening, wings spread, his own head jutting forward on his stiffened neck. He felt the rumble of frost in his belly and stood alert, waiting for any sign of Tharn’s blast of acid, ready to reply with a withering attack of his own ice.

“Wait!” cried Daria. “We’re here with news!” Quickly she told the copper about the return of the chromatic dragons. “We’ve got to gather in the grotto!”

“Aurican has gone to do battle. He has commanded us to wait, to be ready,” Callak added.

“I’m safe right here!” snarled the copper dragon. “I have no intention of going back to the nest like some pathetic wyrmling, seeking my sire’s protection!”

“But together we’re stronger – we have a better chance!” the silver male argued.

“Then you go back and be ‘together,’” replied Tharn mockingly.

“What about Flash?” Daria asked, her tone surprisingly calm against the heat of the males’ emotion. “Can you warn your brother of the danger?”

“Flash?” Now Tharn’s voice was filled with unmistakable fury. “If you see him, kill him for me. He stole one of my treasures two winters ago!”

The two silvers tried for the rest of the day to convince their recalcitrant kin-dragon to accompany them, but he adamantly refused. Finally, in disgust, they took off and flew side by side toward the ancient lair of their clan.

Callak felt the hot, angry eyes of the copper burning into his tail as they flew toward the sunset. Strangely, the sensation lasted even after the valley of Tharn’s lair was long out of sight.

CHAPTER 22

THARN’S QUANDARY

(2693 PC)

Deathfyre watched the pair of silver shapes until they were long out of view. The two dragons of argent were big, but they flew like neophytes, wyrms who didn’t acknowledge the possibility of danger anywhere in the sky. The red felt a tingle of pure hatred, and only with difficulty did he restrain the urge to attack. Still, he knew his purpose here, and he wouldn’t risk that mission for a momentary act of violence, however tempting the targets.

When they were gone, he allowed the spell of invisibility to fall from his scales. Deathfyre relished the sight of his serpentine, blood-red body, and only reluctantly had he employed magic to mask his beauty from the world. Still, the concealment had served a useful purpose. He was certain that the silvers hadn’t seen him when they winged with such urgency out of the low, tree-shaded valley.

Regretfully, much of his current mission required him to travel in a state of invisibility or other magical disguise, such as the body of the soaring condor that he often employed. Deathfyre was proud of his crimson shape, but he was able to overcome that pride in order to serve the needs of concealment – and to hasten the chances of winning this war.

For a moment, he reflected on the grand, swift invasion that he and Crematia had led against the elves of Silvanesti. The bakali had proved to be loyal and effective troops, and with the skies overhead filled with chromatic dragons, they had accompanied the ogres in an irresistible onslaught. The northern border of Silvanesti had been breached in a series of swift battles, the elven garrisons caught before they could entrench. The magical barriers that had risen along the invasion routes into the forest realm had given the attackers only momentary pause, as the lightning and acid breath of blue and black dragons had quickly breached those arcane barriers.

When Deathfyre had left the battlefields a few seasons earlier, the armies had been surging southward with ruthless violence. They should be nearing the island capital of the elven realm by now, and it was Deathfyre’s devout hope that he would complete his mission and be able to return to the south in time for the final destruction. That conquest, so long overdue, would be Crematia’s greatest triumph – and the dawn of Deathfyre’s mastery.

But his mother was right about one thing, a lesson she had carried with her from the Abyss: They must always strive to find their strongest enemy and destroy him. And, despite the power of the three mages, that most lethal enemy was unquestionably represented by the metal dragons of Paladine, and their golden patriarch in particular.

Two crimson shapes popped into view beside Deathfyre, the pair of female red dragons coiling sinuously beside their leader as they inspected the valley beyond the concealing ridge.

“Did you mark the lair?” asked Cynysi, her tongue flicking along Deathfyre’s neck as she whispered the question.

“Yes, my pet, though I cannot know for certain if the two silvers were leaving their grotto or returning to it.”

“How shall we tell?” asked Kyri, jealously pressing close at his other side. “Perhaps they are flying back to the great lair, not departing from it Then we shall have lost them.”

“I have a way to find out. Mask yourself, my females, and wait for me here.”

Once again Deathfyre regretfully cast his invisibility spell, not daring to be discovered. Taking to the air, diving through the long shadows cast by the setting sun, he investigated the place that the silvers had left behind with such precipitate haste. He had been embarked on this search for a long time, but now he allowed himself to hope, for – thanks to his lucky glimpse of the two silvers – it seemed he might be drawing close to his goal.

Soon he saw the small cave mouth, and he settled to the cliff just above it. After insuring that a stiff wind blew up the face of the mountain, a breeze that would keep his scent from any nostrils within the cave, he sniffed – and was immediately rewarded with the stench of metal dragonkind, which hung thick in the air.

Yet the odor was dominated by the overriding, acidic stench of a copper dragon, and as the wind blew the last of the silvers’ spoor away, Deathfyre knew that this was not, in fact, the true object of his search. Instead, it was more likely the lair of a single, solitary dragon.

Deathfyre, with the help of Cynysi and Kyri, had been charged by Crematia with finding the lair of all the good dragons, and he all but growled at the thought that he still hadn’t succeeded. Still, this was closer than he had ever come before. When he had seen the two silvers, he had guessed that they had been departing from the great nesting lair of the metal dragons; now it seemed more likely that the mysterious hidden cavern had been their destination.

With an inaudible snarl of frustration, Deathfyre looked back to the west. The pair of silver serpents were long gone by now. He would never be able to catch sight of them.

But he was close; he knew it! There had to be something … and then his snarl turned to a rasp of quiet pleasure as he seized upon a plan.

When he leaned over the cliff to sample the air with his great nostrils, the scent of the copper was stronger than ever, strong enough to convince him that one of the good dragons remained within. Once again Deathfyre let the mask of invisibility fall away from himself. He took to the air, flying a roundabout course away from the copper’s lair. Finding Cynysi and Kyri, he gave them explicit directions, then left to wing strongly, and in plain sight, up the valley below the hidden cave.

“Here me, my kin-dragons!” he bellowed, his voice powerful enough to rattle rocks loose from the bluffs. Averting his head, he nevertheless eyed the lair from the corner of his eye. Soon a lanky shape moved there, crouching low but unmistakably staring outward.

“Come to me, my red sisters, my kin-dragons of black and white, my blues and greens! I have found the lair of the good dragons!” Now he allowed a hint of exultant triumph to enter into his voice, sensing the stiffening posture of the hidden listener. He bugled his words, filling his chest with air, shouting with forceful volume.

“Their nest lies to the west of this great ridge!” He extended his head toward the crest of the High Kharolis. “Gather with me in our sacred clearing. We will mass there. Tomorrow we attack!”

With perfect timing, the two females came into view, hurrying to join with Deathfyre’s steady flight. “This way!” he called, more loudly than was necessary. “Come with me as we gather our numbers!”

Propelled by a final pulse of his wings, Deathfyre lifted himself up and over the ridge flanking the valley, with Cynysi and Kyri flying right behind him. As soon as they were out of sight of the cave, Deathfyre again became invisible, then circled back to watch.

Coming to rest on the crest opposite the cave, he saw the slender copper emerge. The serpent’s agitation was clear in the stiff, twitching restlessness of his wings, and in the jerking of his head back and forth. The quandary was obvious to the sinister watcher. The dragon was torn between staying in his cave, or flying to the secret lair to carry the warning to his kin-dragons. Obviously it was not an easy decision.

Finally the copper made up his mind. He took to the air, flying with visible urgency, staying as near to the ground as he could. His course was the same as that taken by the two silvers.

And he was completely unaware of the massive, winged shape that glided silently and quickly and invisibly in his wake.

CHAPTER 23

AURICAN’S REVENGE

(2693 PC)

Aurican teleported by memory, bringing himself not directly to Silvanost, but over the northern forests of the elven realm. He wanted to approach the capital with a plan, so now he flew as an eagle over the woodlands, winging steadily southward. His great feathered wings bore him quickly, and if he was spotted, the enemy wouldn’t know that a dragon approached.

The evidence of war was everywhere across the landscape below, and it was with grief that the gold dragon thought of the lives lost, the destruction wrought by the Dark Queen’s legions. A mighty rage swelled within him, and he desperately wanted to find Crematia and kill her. Yet almost immediately the anger passed, replaced by a wave of melancholy as he thought of his precious charges back at the grotto.

They’re too young – all of them! The ancient dragon all but groaned at the prosect of renewed warfare, knowing of the vicious and implacable foe awaiting them. Even the mightiest of his youngsters, Callak and Auricus, were mere neophytes at magic, lacking all but the most insignificant of spells. Too, they didn’t possess the size and power needed to face a full-fledged serpent of the Dark Queen in open battle. Any mature black or green would be able to blast one of those wyrmlings from the sky with a single lethal expulsion of breath!

That was why he kept them there, where, at the very least, they would be safe. Deep in his heart, he knew that even if the elven nation fell, if he himself were killed, the race of metal dragonkind would survive.

But how could the elves hope to stand? It broke Aurican’s heart to see the wrack of war, the horrors he had thought vanquished more than five hundred winters earlier. But now fires had again ravaged the lush woods, and towns and farms were torched into ruin. In places, the ground was black and utterly dead, marking the killing swath of an evil dragon’s breath – be it acid, frost, or any of the other lethal assails of the chromatic wyrms. Trees were splintered, and though fires still smoldered here and there, he could see that, for the most part, the war that had claimed this borderland had moved relentlessly on.

Aurican flew at a very high altitude, for the gold knew he would need surprise and speed to accomplish anything against his deadly foes. He winged steadily onward, seeing that the devastation was sweeping, even worse than it had been in the first war. The dragon soared over the ruin of a crystal-walled town whose stone barrier had been melted into shapeless muck by infernal heat. The buildings had been smashed into splinters, and areas that must have once been serene gardens were now trampled expanses of mud and ruin.

Flying onward, he found more smoke, sensed that war still raged in this region. He saw columns of troops marching through the wrack, great files that must certainly be ogres. Fury flared again, and he forced himself to resist the urge to dive, to incinerate a hundred ogres with an expulsion of his fiery breath. He would be patient, retaining the eagle’s body, saving his first appearance for an opportunity to strike at the crucial enemy: Crematia.

As he flew, the gold dragon’s eyes swept the ravaged forest, seeking some sign of a target. Finally he saw the crystal towers of Silvanost rising to the south and took some comfort from the fact that the elven city still stood. Magic shimmered in the distant air, and he knew that the three wizards had sustained some kind of defense, a barrier against the city’s ultimate collapse and destruction. The tenuous protection seemed to ring the island city but left the rest of the realm vulnerable to the invaders.

And then he saw a flash of crimson scales, a scarlet shape flying low and fast above the river leading toward Silvanost. He followed the serpentine form, saw the huge size of his target, the winged shadow flickering over the murky waters of the river. Aurican expanded into his true form, spread his golden wings, and made ready to dive. The blood-red dragon was Crematia, he knew, and the knowledge brought his hatred surging into a consuming emotion, a boiling fire in his guts.

The majestic gold tucked his wings and leaned forward, forming the deadly missile that was a diving dragon. Neck extended, belly rumbling with the pressure of surging flame, Aurican plunged swiftly downward. He watched the serenely gliding red grow larger in his vision. The wind whistled past his head as he descended, and his forelegs reached with unconscious tension, straining to rip sharp talons through crimson scales, to rend Crematia’s hateful flesh with the sudden onslaught of his attack.

The red dragon flew with a curious lack of caution, as if contemptuous of the very notion of danger. She glided without effort, crocodilian head swinging back and forth with arrogant unconcern. Auri thought he knew the reason: Everywhere Crematia looked, she saw only devastation and destruction, proof that her armies held sway over all this vast forestland.

Closer plunged the gold dragon, gases of angry fire now building irresistibly, seething toward inevitable release. A moment before collision, Aurican’s eruption of flame sizzled forward in a jet of searing fire, roaring like an inferno around the crimson form. He knew the blast – lethal to almost any creature alive – wouldn’t seriously injure this monstrous wyrm, but he hoped the surprising onslaught would give him an initial advantage when the two great bodies met. The gold dragon hurled himself into the dissipating fireball, clawing and striking, slashing talon and fang against —

Air! The massive crimson form had disappeared! There was no target here, only …

In that instant’s reflection, Aurican recognized the trap and acted with the speed of his thought. He whipped his head upward, arching his back to pull out of the dive as the space below him suddenly erupted with a hellish fireball of hissing, crackling flame. Crematia swept past, her deadly ambush foiled by his instantaneous evasion.

But then another crimson form smashed into Aurican from the other side, powerful jaws rending his wing, claws tearing golden scales from his flank. Flames roared, masking his vision even though the heat could not penetrate his golden scales. He bellowed and twisted, his reaction too slow to clamp his jaws into the supple red dragon that pushed away, Auri’s blood trailing from his claws and teeth.

The gold flipped onto his back, pitching desperately through a roll to come out in pursuit of Crematia. His wing was torn, but he could still fly, impelled as much by a monstrous, consuming rage as he was by the strength of his aging limbs. The other red, a creature that was much smaller than Crematia, fell rapidly behind as the gold’s plummeting speed carried him away. There were more of them now, a half dozen young red dragons swarming in pursuit.

Aurican muttered a quick spell, teleporting himself in front of the evil matriarch, avoiding another slashing attack by the youngsters. He reared, wings spread, jaws gaping, ready to meet his ancient foe.

Crematia and Aurican crashed together in a tangle of rending fangs and slashing talons. Clenched in a lethal embrace, the two serpents tumbled through the air, rolling and plunging toward the ground. Grimly Aurican seized the red’s neck in his foreclaws, ignoring the stabbing jolts of pain as her rear legs ripped into his belly.

Only at the last minute did Crematia break away, throwing herself outward and flailing her wings in a desperate attempt to gain altitude. Sensing his enemy’s desperation, Aurican cast another spell, an enchantment that went against the very nature of his enemy’s being.

A cone of cold blasted outward, searing the fire-loving red in a shivering onslaught of deadly frost. Crematia shrieked, straining to stay aloft, but by then Aurican flexed his own wings, trying to pull himself out of the headlong dive. Breaking away, Aurican saw the ancient red smash into the treetops, plunging downward to crash into the ground. She lay in a shady grove, twitching spasmodically, then growing still.

And then there were chromatic dragons coming from everywhere, blue and black, green, white and red. Aurican quickly masked himself with invisibility, but he knew that wouldn’t long deter the magic-using wyrms. Changing shape quickly into the body of a tiny hummingbird, he dived toward the ground and darted under a frond of leafy fern near the great crimson body.

Soon the clearing was crowded with dragons, a seething nest of bright scales slithering and coiling around Crematia’s motionless body. The wyrms were shocked, trembling with fury, growling and hissing as they glared here and there.

“Where’s Deathfyre?” asked one, a black.

“I come.”

Now there was another red dragon here, a surprisingly huge wyrm that was nevertheless as sleekly muscled as a young adult. He came to rest beside Crematia, and the other chromatic dragons fell back. The hummingbird that was Aurican, still and soundless, watched from beneath his leafy concealment.

“My matriarch!” groaned the red dragon, laying his neck alongside Crematia’s bleeding form as that great serpent stirred slightly, moaning in pain. This newcomer was Deathfyre, Aurican knew, and he realized with a shudder that the ancient red had left behind a very powerful heir.

“We shall have our revenge!” the one called Deathfyre declared, his voice a wicked and hateful hiss. “For I have found the grotto of the good dragons. I followed a fool of a copper until he showed me the entrance. Now we go there, and we kill!”

“I am proud of you, my son,” gasped the dying red. “Strike your blow swiftly, and then return here. Remember, find your strongest enemy … kill him. Mercy is weakness …”

“… and weakness is death!” hissed Deathfyre.

“Good, my son … Kill as many of the metal wyrms as you can … but then return here. The elves, with their magic, are mighty, and you dare not leave them unguarded for long.”

“We shall complete the revenge,” Deathfyre promised.

He might have said more, but by then Aurican had already teleported back to the cavern in the High Kharolis.

CHAPTER 24

DRAGONFLIGHT

(2693 PC)

The golden patriarch appeared in the grotto, just above the nest. With a flap of his vast wings, he settled to the ground as the younger wyrms stirred and hissed in shock at his sudden appearance. Wings buzzing, the throng of metal wyrms faced their sire. The agitation quickly settled as the nestmates recognized Aurican.

“Quickly, take wing, my wyrmlings! You have very little time!” declared the venerable gold, the urgency in his voice piercing any vestige of normalcy held by the younger serpents. Looking around, Auri saw that all the nestmates had gathered. Even Brunt was here, smelling of fish and brine.

“But why, sire?” demanded Auricus, trying to speak calmly. “And where do you command us to go?”

“The dragons of the Dark Queen are coming. Crematia is dead, but she has a scion, called Deathfyre, every bit as wicked as herself. And he’s learned of the grotto!” His eyes fell upon Tharn, who hissed and glared about, ready to fight. The gold dragon said nothing about what he had overheard, though he felt certain Deathfyre had somehow discovered Tharn’s lair and then followed the hot-tempered copper to the grotto beneath the High Kharolis. Yet there was neither time nor purpose for recriminations. They had to move.

“They will be here as soon as they can gather and teleport. As to where, you must divide into your clans. Callak, you take the silvers; Auricus, you lead the golds. Tharn, Dazzall, Brunt – you take charge of leading your siblings to safety.”

Agon flapped his wings loudly, rearing onto the withered stumps of his rear legs, the limbs that had been wrinkled and twisted since his birth. “Should we not fight them, Grandfather?” he demanded.

Aurican sighed, wishing he had time to explain. He shook his head, regretful but firm. “There are too many of them. You must take wing. Our only hope lies in the future – and then only if you can escape.”

“We go!” cried Callak, sensing the urgency. He pounced to the nest and reached out with a foreclaw to lift the silver chain of the ram’s horn, allowing the precious artifact to slide over his neck. Agon, Arjen, Daria, and the other silvers padded after, ready to follow their brother from the grotto.

The wyrms of the brown metals, too, as well as Auricus and his golden nestmates, also buzzed wings, surging in agitation. Only Aurican looked back with a momentary pang of regret, knowing that they departed a place that had been hallowed by the metal dragons for ages. It was an ignominious departure, and his throat tightened with rage and frustration as he considered, only for a moment, how much he wanted to remain here, to fight the chromatic dragons for this place.

But these wyrmlings were still too young. They would be doomed in any fight with the mighty serpents of Takhisis. Such foolish sentimentality was more fitting for a human or elf, creatures with the emotional vulnerability to know love. He wondered for a dazed instant: Could the two-legs, those creatures who spoke so enthusiastically of love, learn to love a place? Was such a thing even possible? With cold reality driving the moment of reflection from his mind, he reared above the brood and glared sternly about.

“I will lead the way. If I must fight, I will, but the rest of you are to flee with all haste. Leave me, if you must, but escape. This is my command, and the command of your Platinum Father as well.”

The wyrmlings took wing, buzzing through the air behind Aurican as he flew from the door cave into the vast chamber of the underground lake. There was no sign of the enemy here, but this didn’t surprise him. From the words he had overheard, he suspected Deathfyre had discovered the cave leading from the Valley of Paladine, but doubted that he had risked coming in this far. It seemed likely that, if he had, one of the nestlings would have noticed the intrusion.

With this thought, he wheeled into a tight spiral, whirling through the darkness above the great subterranean lake. A thousand thoughts tumbled through his mind as he sensed that this was the last lesson he would ever bestow upon the young wyrmlings.

“Make your lairs far from here, in secret places,” he told them. “Be true to each other, for you are the strongest allies your nestmates will ever have. When you have eggs, guard them with the last breath of your lives! And know that each of you is strong, strong in his own way. Find those ways, my children, and survive!”

He was about to dive toward the exit cave when Auricus pulled him up with a word. “Sire, can we not prepare for this battle with spells?”

“Yes!” he agreed, chagrined at his own impetuous speed. “But not for battle but for escape.” Aurican spiraled tightly, thinking. “Those of you who have learned the haste spell, cast it upon yourselves.”

He knew this would allow most of the golds and silvers to fly with great speed. The patriarch cast his own spells of haste on Dazzall and Krayn, giving the two largest brass wyrmlings the advantage of magical swiftness.

“I will cast mine upon Tharn,” little Agon said, startling the copper with the abrupt enchantment, then turning to face Aurican’s scowl. “Should we not see that two of each color, a male and female, have the best chance to escape?”

“And my spell goes to Horim!” Arjen agreed, enchanting the copper female before she knew what was happening.

“A good thought, my brave wyrmling,” Aurican agreed, powerfully moved by the crippled silver’s sacrifice. Brunt and Dwyll, the largest male and female bronzes, were also enchanted with the spell of speed. “Now fly to the Valley of Paladine and beyond!”

In moments, Aurican burst out of the entry tunnel in a golden explosion of speed. The sun blazed in a cloudless sky, and the shimmering brightness of daylight seemed an incongruous contrast to the darkness in his heart, the grief and shame that would be the legacy of their flight.

And there was Deathfyre, poised above the entry, already sweeping into a reckless dive. Two crimson females flew close at his sides. Other flecks of color appeared in the sky, widely scattered over the High Kharolis, and Aurican immediately understood the reason: Only the trio of reds had been able to teleport with accuracy, since the other serpents had formed their destination based only on Deathfyre’s descriptions. Still, a pair of blues plunged swiftly toward the valley, and more spots of color appeared in the near distance.

Aurican’s mouth gaped wide and fire spewed forth. The three reds flew through the flames, breathing infernos of their own. Golden claws reached out, tearing a crimson wing, and one of the females shrilled a cry of pain and fury. Aurican felt talons rending his own flank and knew that Deathfyre had whirled around to attack from behind. The mighty gold flipped and twisted, slashing down at the other female but unable to reach the tenacious foe clinging to his back.

“Get the rest!” cried Deathfyre, in a shrill tone of command, and Aurican knew that his nestlings had flown into view. “Kill them all!”

“Fly, my wyrmlings, for the Platinum Father. Escape and live to gain vengeance!” Aurican roared.

Then there was a shape of black wings, like a monstrous, snake-limbed bat, poised before him, and a blast of acid seared the golden scales of Aurican’s chest. He groaned, an involuntary explosion of pain, and then felt his body pummeled by another smashing blow. Dazed, he wheeled in the sky, vaguely surprised by the sudden silence that seemed to have descended. He felt no pain, merely a gentle serenity. Only when the scent of ozone stung his nostrils did he realize he had been struck by the lightning of a mighty blue.

Frost and fire blossomed around him, and the serpent writhed in renewed efforts to escape, to fight. His fiery breath seared a black, but more lightning hissed into his flanks, ripping away his wings, gouging deep into his ancient flesh. A cloud of noxious gas swirled as a green dragon dived past, and Aurican’s desperate thrash tore at an emerald-colored wing, shredding the membrane and sending the wyrm spiraling into a doomed descent. Once more he breathed, the great fireball engulfing several blues and a screaming white.

But then more power, another barrage of deadly dragonbreath came together with lightning and fire and cold. For a moment, Aurican’s struggling body was lost in a cloud of murky sky.

And then that murk closed in, darkening his vision, finally seeping through the pain to draw a final curtain across his life.

CHAPTER 25

A VALLEY OF CORPSES

(2693 PC)

Deathfyre turned into a reckless dive, shocked at the speed with which several of the young wyrmlings were fleeing the deep valley. He had expected the creatures to fight to the death and had not anticipated the desperate flight that drove them toward the high ridges. Clearly the cowardly serpents intended to escape.

Now the powerful red twisted in the air, seeing that many of the metal dragons had in fact remained to do battle. Other wyrms swept above, and he saw a blue dragon shriek and writhe in the clutch of several silvers and a brass. A red pulled through the melee, rearing its head to blast a desperately maneuvering bronze from the sky. Recovering his own equilibrium, stabilizing himself on his powerful wings, Deathfyre curved through the air, still looking for victims.

The memory of Crematia’s death was a fire within him, a driving force for vengeance. Her loss was not a cause for grief – there was a clear advantage that came to Deathfyre, heir to the Dark Queen’s empire – but it was a wrong that called for revenge.

Deathfyre wheeled to pursue the fleeing dragons, but he saw several silver shapes slashing toward him, and his instincts compelled him to protect himself. Though all of them were small, they flew with deadly purpose.

Twisting like a corkscrew in the air, Deathfyre whipped his neck toward the enemy attackers. Jaws gaping, he belched a cloud of roaring flame, a billowing fireball of death that wrapped two of the silver shapes in its killing embrace.

Pushing down with hard strokes of his wings, Deathfyre fought for altitude, trying to avoid the scorched bodies that would tumble out of the dissipating ball of fire – but there were no bodies! The remaining silver serpent curled around, and the red barely pulled his wing out of the way of a vicious blast of frost. He saw that this young silver was a cripple, that its rear legs were weak and shriveled, but that did nothing to tame the deadliness of its breath weapon. Deathfyre tumbled backward, out of control, with a burning pain of ice freezing his tail.

At the same time, he knew how the crippled silver had eluded him. It had been the simple spell of the mirror image, an enchantment Deathfyre himself had known since his first hundred winters. Yet when it was used against him, the simple trick had fooled him completely. There had been only one silver dragon, not three, and his lethal fire had been wasted against a pair of magical impostors!

Infuriated, he swept after the silver as that gleaming serpent flew close to the ground, carving a wide arc back toward the battle raging in the skies. Some of the wyrmlings had escaped, aided by magical speed, but most of the brood had remained to fight. This silver newt was small, little more than half of Deathfyre’s awesome length, but he proved to be a surprisingly fast flier. The withering of his body clearly did not extend to his wings. Straining to the limit, Deathfyre found that he could close the distance only gradually. Finally he breathed, spewing a hellish cloud of fire that surrounded the impudent silver for a searing, fatal instant. The red dragon was already wheeling away as the wrinkled, charred carcass tumbled from the sky.

Clouds of dragons whirled through the sky overhead. A young bronze tumbled, horribly slashed, while blues and blacks caught a pair of coppers in a deadly crossfire of acid and lightning. Fire and smoke drifted through the air, and flashes of flame and clouds of green and noxious gas added a surreal beauty to the scene.

And still more chromatic dragons winged toward the fight, with vengeful challenges ringing through the air before them. Several greens dived from the heights, sweeping toward the smoldering patch of sky, and a wedge of whites, laboring hard to gain altitude, winged speedily closer, their pale, serpentine forms standing out clearly against the mountainous landscape to the north.

Another metal dragon, this one a golden female, plunged downward, writhing and shrieking in pain. As the pathetic creature tumbled past, Deathfyre saw that her entire face had been burned away by a blast of black dragon acid. Another gold, this one a larger male, roared in and torched one of the blacks with a breath of fireball, but then the gilded wyrm was forced to flee for his life as the other blacks whirled about in furious pursuit.

Then suddenly the skies were empty of Paladine’s dragons. A few of the metal serpents had buzzed over the high ridges, scattering away from the mountain valley. They fled in full panic, knowing their clan had been decimated, and for now the chromatic dragons let them go.

Looking down, Deathfyre saw dragons of every color lying in the ghastly stillness of death. The battle had littered the valley floor with corpses, great shapes scattered like bright scars on the ground itself. Here a blue wing twitched, or there a copper tail lashed back and forth, but for the most part the serpents on the valley floor were utterly and irrevocably slain. Even from this height, the awful wounds inflicted by breath and fang and claw were clearly visible, leaving great rends in the scaly bodies.

And central to this killing ground was the mighty golden serpent, Aurican. It pleased Deathfyre to know that not only had the mighty patriarch perished, but also that fewer than a dozen of the metal dragons had escaped the carnage. The few that had fled were no threat for now. They would be hunted down and killed at his leisure.

His mother’s teachings, the words of Takhisis herself, came to Deathfyre in a clear flash: Find your strongest enemy and kill him. …

Now, with the dragons of Paladine defeated, he knew where that enemy lay. The power of magic still screened Silvanost, and it was time to reduce that stronghold.

There would be time for the metal wyrmlings later.

CHAPTER 26

EXILED

(2693 PC)

The surviving nestmates gathered in a dark, marble-walled gorge in the tangle of the Kharolis foothills. There were but ten of them, young dragons of metal who had departed the grotto in desperate, magically enhanced haste, with memories of violence and death licking at their heels.

Callak and Auricus were the last to land, after insuring that the evil dragons made no pursuit. The pair had circled for a long time over the Kharolis Mountains while the others tucked their wings and dived to the shelter of the secluded gorge. They all understood that there would be no returning to their ancient lair. Once on the ground, the remaining dragons of the Platinum Father could only huddle miserably together for warmth and comfort.

“Aurican is dead,” Auric whispered, his voice numb with disbelief. “He died so that we could live.”

“He was so wise, so mighty,” wailed Blythe, the golden female who now coiled dejectedly beside Auricus. “How will we survive without him?”

“And so many of our nestmates …” Dazzall said numbly. “I saw Flash perish after he tore the wings from a blue.”

“And Agon,” Daria said, her voice catching. “He led that mighty red away from me … from all of us.”

“Ten dragons of metal … we are all that remain.” It was Callak who called for the attention of the others. He nodded his silver head sadly, reflecting on the brothers and sisters they all had lost.

“Are we safe here?” asked Daria, the only other silver to remain alive.

“We cannot know for sure,” replied Auricus, in tones so deep that he sounded startlingly like his sire. “It may be that Deathfyre or another has tracked our flight, knowing we came here to hide and lick our wounds.”

“At least they felt the sting of our claws, the bite of our fangs!” asserted Tharn with a menacing growl. “I saw Arjen kill two blues … before he perished.”

He sighed, lowering his sharp, angular head to the ground in acknowledgment of the truth they all understood: In a few short minutes over the Valley of Paladine, the good dragons had been dealt a devastating defeat. It had been a tragedy of unprecedented and far-reaching proportions, culling most of their number, slaying their patriarch, reducing these nestlings to a band of pathetic survivors.

True, they had killed some of the Dark Queen’s wyrms, perhaps as many as they themselves had lost. But that, in the balance, still left scores of chromatic dragons, many of them fully mature, arrayed against these five pairs of young serpents.

The dragons of Paladine finally slept, abandoning themselves to torpor. A sunrise and sunset passed, but the nestmates didn’t stir. Instead, they rested, allowing their wounds to heal … but even the passage of time couldn’t quell the rising of despair.

Daria awakened them all with a braying cry of alarm. The silver female regarded her nine nestmates seriously.

“I have had a dream,” she said, her tone low, awestricken. She looked at Callak, then at the others, shaking her head in wonder. “I saw a great Spear of Paladine. Someday there will come to us a weapon that will allow us to battle the dragons of evil.”

“Where do we find this weapon?” growled Callak.

“It will find us, but not for many hundreds of winters. Until then, we must leave this place.” Daria looked at each of the wyrmlings, and the finality of her tone was enough to quell most objections.

“Leave the High Kharolis?” Auricus was the one who voiced the disbelief felt by all of the young dragons.

“New people will claim the grotto – not our enemies, but not our neighbors, either. They will mine these mountains and build great cities on the lake. And we must be gone.”

Callak thought for a moment about debating this point, but in the end, he deferred to his kin-dragon, knowing that the grotto held nothing for them now. And he understood instinctively that the power of her dream was not a trifling thing.

“We must separate, as Aurican said,” the silver male declared. “But we cannot forget each other. Remember, in our differences are we strong.”

“I will keep the fires of vengeance burning,” growled Tharn. “That we, or our children, shall know the price our nestmates have paid … and shall one day exact an accounting.”

“And I shall record the history of our grotto, and our leaving, so that none of our wyrmlings may ever forget.” Auricus made the statement, and they all knew that it was a solemn oath.

“The humans must learn what has happened,” Dazzall announced. “And I shall tell them to insure that they remember us.”

“Be strong, my nestmates,” Brunt declared, his thick, wedged head dipped into a bow. “For in strength, we will survive.”

“But for now, we must fly,” concluded Callak.

The mountain range was abandoned under the clear skies and bright full moon of the spring equinox. As Callak took to the air, with Daria by his side, he saw that the landscape of the High Kharolis was still a blanket of uniform white, sparkling glaciers and pristine snowfields reflecting the dazzling brightness of the midnight sky. Even the lake where his mother was buried had vanished beneath the layer of whiteness.

The wyrms of metal flew for a long time under the full moons, circling the high ridges in their matched pairs. Fate had seen that the ten who survived could still plant the seeds of future generations, for their numbers included five males and five females, a single pair of each precious metal color.

Finally they winged upward and away, soaring over the ridges of mountains that encircled their sacred realm. To an observer, it might have seemed that each pair of dragons chose a different point of the compass for its destination. Yet there was no such calculated plan to the dispersal. The divergent courses were merely the result of the good dragons seeking refuge in far quarters of Ansalon, places where the vengeance of the evil wyrms could never reach them.

Many years remained to pass before these young serpents would breed, produce eggs, and eventually restore the numbers of their kind. They would need to make new lairs, to hide themselves in such wilderness as remained in the world, seeking to live that their descendants might someday have a chance to be born.

Yet in their survival, they knew hope, and in their memories were the tales that would fashion their history and their destiny.

And perhaps, in the unknown future, that destiny might lead them to revenge.

CHAPTER 27

WILD MAGIC

(2688 PC)

Three robed figures gathered in the highest chamber of the Tower of Stars, Silvanost’s loftiest promontory. Aside from the colors of their robes, which were black, white, and red, respectively, the trio of figures might have been stamped from a single mold. Each was hunched low, grimly taut in posture, with the cowl of his robe pulled forward to hide face and features.

Although the clear skies allowed the light of a million stars to illuminate the room, the three remained fixed upon the floor, almost as if they were unwilling to regard the heavenly brightness. A pattern of arcane symbols was barely visible on the tiled surface, glowing slowly brighter until a pattern of illumination passed like a web though the room.

“Do we dare?” asked Parys Dayl, he of the white robe. “We have no way of knowing what effect the spell of wild magic will have, beyond that of capturing the wyrms of the Dark Queen.”

“What else matters? If the chromatic dragons are allowed to come on unchecked, everything is lost,” declared red-robed Fayal Padran.

“Yes.” Kayn Wytsnal’s voice was a hiss. “And since the dragons of metal have failed, there is no other hope. Our power may wrack the world, but if the serpents of the Dark Queen are defeated, we shall be well rewarded.”

Another figure came into view. His golden hair, gone slightly white with age, glowed softly in the starlight that filtered through the tall, crystal windows. The three wizards looked at him expectantly and with obvious respect.

“How fares your council?” asked Silvanos. Though the elven patriarch’s voice was as dry as parchment, the three listeners knew this was not because of age, but rather due to the profound nature of the proposal now being considered.

“Bah!” Kayn’s voice cracked like a brittle twig, snapping from beneath the black cowl of his robe. “They know what must be done, and yet they are afraid to do it.”

“And you are not afraid?” asked Silvanos, gently raising an eyebrow.

“Of course I am, but I am afraid of the results. They fear to take the chance, while I clearly recognize that we must cast the spell. We have no other choice.”

“And you?” Silvanos asked, turning to Fayal.

“I fear my colleague is right, though he cares little for the effects that may result. Magic could wrack much of Silvanesti, even the whole world.”

“And the dragons?” Silvanos inquired patiently.

It was Fayal who replied. “All the portents indicate that, whatever else its effects, the casting will seize the chromatic dragons and draw them into the fundament of Krynn. They will be entombed.”

“And that is the only effect that matters!” Kayn declared. “Anything else can be survived! For if we do not cast this spell, our barriers will inevitably collapse – perhaps within the next winter or two. Then Silvanost, and everything else, will be lost.”

“And the spell will work?”

“That is a good question,” Parys admitted. “We have aligned the poles of wild magic so that they have a powerful attraction for the wyrms of Takhisis. We think it will work. But in truth, all we can do is hope the summons will be enough to drag them down, to trap them.”

“But the defensive barriers will otherwise fall … this is a certainty?” inquired the elven patriarch.

“Aye,” said Fayal, with the other two mages nodding in agreement.

“Then it seems that we have no choice,” declared Silvanos with a finality that the others could only respect.

*

Deathfyre had wasted no time in renewing his onslaught against the elven realm, for he knew that the Silvanesti would be able to recover and rearm far more quickly than the dragons of Paladine could possibly hope to restore their depleted numbers.

So it was that the evil army returned its attentions against the south. Relentless hordes of ogres and bakali marched, led by ruthless minotaur raiders. Dragons of blue and black, of crimson, green, and white dotted the skies, answering to the mighty Deathfyre’s commands.

Coss, a great, acid-spewing black serpent, and Spuryten, an ancient blue, were Deathfyre’s chief lieutenants. The trio of dragons led three great spearheads converging onto the elven capital of Silvanost. And all the wyrms of Takhisis took wing against elvenkind, drawing in an ever-tightening noose about the besieged city on its once-pastoral island. Still, the barriers of the brother mages held them off, foiling every attempt to complete the conquest, to carry the destruction into the crystal city itself.

And the campaign progressed with relentless savagery and irresistible might. Bakali swarmed through the marshes of Silvanesti, driving the elves from the well-watered lands that provided so much of their food. Ogres bashed at the walls of every fortified strong point, often aided by the crushing power of dragonbreath. Gradually the doomed outposts were destroyed one by one, leaving increasingly large stretches of the forested elvenhome a bleak wasteland.

Only the magic of the three brother mages prevented the ultimate triumph of the evil armies. The wizards used their mighty sorcery to maintain the enchanted barriers that held the serpents and their land-bound allies away from the city of the elves. These potent blockades of stone and flame and magic and ice resisted all efforts of the advancing tide, though the rest of the realm was, little by little, overrun.

At last all the outposts had been overrun or destroyed, and only the stubborn island city remained. Three great armies, commanded by Coss, Spuryten, and Deathfyre himself, surrounded Silvanost, ready for the final onslaught. It remained only to plan the culminating attack.

“What news of the siege?” demanded Deathfyre when Coss reported to him on the progress of the campaign. “Has the city’s defense been breached yet?”

“It proves stubbornly defiant,” the black wyrm replied grimly. “The elves have gathered those three powerful wizards in a high tower. They have used sorcery to hold us at bay, but they must fall when all our power is concentrated against them.”

“All the dragons are ready to attack?”

“Aye, lord, though you should know that the numbers of our ogres and bakali have been depleted by the long campaigns.”

“I will find us more troops, and soon … soon we shall prevail,” the great red pledged. His thoughts turned to the past, remembering the golden killer who had brought about his mother’s death. Yet he remained aware that the metal dragons who had escaped remained too few, too young, to cause him any worries. Only when the war was won would he turn his attention to vengeance.

“Be ready for the final onslaught. I shall return soon with fresh armies.”

Deathfyre flew rapidly to the north, where, in the smoking Khalkists, evil men had built a teeming city in the place where Darklady Mountain had stood. This was a place called Sanction, a city of fire and smoke, a nest of thieves and murderers, where the worship of the Dark Queen was a thing highly regarded. Deathfyre was lord here, and the men had built great monuments to his name. Many of these wicked humans willingly joined the legions of his army, ready to butcher as cruelly as any bakali or ogre when they marched to war.

But before Deathfyre could return to the south, the three brother mages cast their great spell, an enchantment calling upon the fundamental power of wild sorcery, the fundamental power that abided in the very center of the world. The strength of this magic was a thing unknown on Krynn before or since.

With the exception of Deathfyre, all the dragons of the Dark Queen had gathered for the onslaught against the elven city. Before the attack commenced, the brother mages worked their enchantment in the Tower of Stars.

Coss, Spuryten, and all the others watched in awe as light flared from the lofty windows, and electricity – like bolts of deadly lightning – exploded into the sky. The ground shook, and the trees swayed to a fundamental disturbance, a disruption of the natural laws of the world.

Then, with a sharp crack like thunder, waves of sorcerous destruction spread outward from Silvanesti, wracking the land as they passed. The power of the spell sucked the chromatic dragons downward, trapping each serpent of Takhisis in a lingering well of darkness.

The ripple of magic reached Deathfyre as a trailing effect, for the center of the convulsion lay hundreds of miles to the south. Even so, Deathfyre hurled himself into the air, sensed the power sucking at him, trying to drag him down.

He made it as far as the smoking Khalkists before the power caught up with him. Then the ground rose up, and a great hole yawned below him. He could not prevent himself from falling in, and then the walls of stone and fire surrounded him, and everything he knew became darkness.

The Forest King

(ca 2750 PC)

Chapter 1

STARS

Darkness, true darkness, is usually found deep underground, where layers of soil and stone block every ray of the sun. Night is only half dark. The darkest night in the world cannot compare to subterranean darkness. Absolute dark clings to the eyes and heightens the senses, for no living creature is immune to the imagined perils of the unseen.

Strange, then, that the darkest place in the world was not deep underground, but high atop a shining tower in the city of Silvanost. In that place the clear light that was music and life to the elf race was shut out by all the skill and craft of their ancient wisdom. Dark deeds are best judged in dark places, and that was the darkest spot elf artifice could create.

It was called the Night Chamber. Built at the order of the Speaker of the Stars, Silvanos Goldeneye, its exact location was hidden from the outside world. By clever use of light and shadow, the penthouse containing the Night Chamber could not be seen from outside. The tower it capped was just like so many others in the city, constructed of thousands of deeply fluted bars of rock crystal. Some of the exterior surfaces were polished like mirrors, while others were etched with acid until they resembled pure milk. It was an ordinary facade in an extraordinary city, but the veiled dome at its peak was one of the most closely guarded secrets of Silvanost. On cloudless nights the invisible penthouse could just be seen as it eclipsed stars passing behind it. In heavy rain or fog, a vague outline was discernible, though it looked more like an errant cloud than solid architecture.

The Night Chamber had a single entrance. When in use – and to date it had been used only once before – the great lords whose duty brought them there entered one by one, in order of absolute precedence. First was the Speaker of the Stars. Bearing his own luminar, a lamp lit by a cold fluorescence, Silvanos ascended to the highest seat in the domed room. Once there, the rest would follow. Lords of the houses, senior sages of the magical fraternity, and the commander of the royal army all entered alone and silently took the seats protocol assigned to them. Each bore a faint lantern, just bright enough to prevent undignified stumbling in the black hall.

Those high persons were the judges. Their task was to hear the evidence of a great crime and render an absolute verdict. From their decision there was no appeal.

Next to enter were witnesses summoned under dire oaths of secrecy. They were given no lamps, but were directed to seats by the chamber’s bailiff. Each was isolated from the other. No one was allowed to speak until bidden to do so. Last of all, the accused entered. There was no seat for him. The accused stood on the last step of the rising spiral stair. Once there, the passage they had ascended was closed.

The second trial ever in the Night Chamber began in the fifty-fifth year of the reign of Silvanos. It was high noon on the median day of summer, the longest, hottest, sunniest day of the year. The recorder of the secret transactions noted the irony in his shorthand record. Inside the Night Chamber, weather and climate were meaningless.

Preceded by bailiffs, the accused climbed the winding stairs. From below, only a black half circle revealed where they were going. With each step, the prisoner dragged his heavy shackles over the polished marble treads. The guards walked behind with drawn swords. If the accused faltered or tried to resist in any way, the warriors’ orders were to run him through.

But the chains were heavy, and though the prisoner was not trying to stall, he could not climb with any grace. Shuffle, shuffle, clank – that was his cadence. Above, the entrance of the Night Chamber looked like a pool of black water fixed impossibly to the ceiling. The prisoner reached the last step before entering the dome. His feet rested side by side for a moment.

Two lengths of glittering bronze blade lay lightly on his shoulders. The bailiffs did not speak, but their message was clear. With a heave, the accused mounted the last step.

When the guard gained the top step, he raised his sword hilt to his face, saluting the Speaker of the Stars. He could not see him, seated well up on the curved wall of the dome, but the highest lamp in the hall was his. To that pallid light the bailiff paid honor then departed down the steps. Weapons were not permitted within the chamber. As the plume on his helmet descended below the level of the floor, the passage silently flowed shut.

When the well of light from below was cut off, a brilliant beam lanced down from the dome’s peak, impaling the prisoner in its blinding glare. He threw up a manacled hand to ward off the light.

“Is that necessary?” he called loudly. There was no reply from the ranks of dim, blue lamps. “At least let me shield my eyes. Or is it your desire I be blinded?”

There was a soft chime, and the restraints on the accused’s wrists and ankles fell away. He gave them a vindictive kick, sending them skittering into the outer darkness.

“The prisoner will show proper respect during the proceedings, or his bonds will be restored,” intoned a deep, distant voice. Transfixed in the shaft of light, the accused raised the flimsy hood of his prison garb to shade his face.

“All give attention! Silence before the throne of the stars!”

The prisoner did not know which way to face, but he stood up straight.

“The Night Chamber is now in order. Sitting in judgment is His Gracious Serenity, Silvanos, called the Golden-Eyed, first Speaker of the Stars, supreme ruler of Silvanost and all those of our ancient race wherever found. Pray, give thanks for his wisdom and understanding!”

Some words came to the prisoner’s lips. Wisely he stifled them.

“I am the Advocate of the Speaker. It is my duty to conduct the case against the prisoner,” said the booming voice.

“Who are you?” asked the accused. “Where are you? I want to see your face!”

“Your requests are irrelevant. Do not speak again unless so ordered. Is that clear?”

Fuming, the prisoner folded his arms. The sight of his hands, bristling with hair, provoked a stir in the void beyond the light.

“My lords, Great Speaker, you all know the accused. You have seen the specification of his crimes. Because of the blasphemous nature of his deeds, I will not degrade our Great Speaker by speaking aloud his odious actions.”

“Are you so afraid of me, you won’t even speak my name?” called out the prisoner.

At once the cone of light around him shrank by half. The accused felt a tremendous pressure bearing on his chest, limbs, and head. Gasping, he fought for air. The light was not simply theatrical. It was a magical barrier, restraining him as thoroughly as his bronze shackles had. Speaking out of turn earned him his punishment. His available space was violently reduced by half. If he continued to defy his judges, things could become very tight for him indeed.

“Your deeds are known. What do you say to them, prisoner? Are you guilty or not?”

“How can I answer when I don’t know what I am accused of?” he replied, eyeing the cone of light. It did not shrink again.

“Guilty or not?”

“I cannot answer —”

“Guilty or not?”

Arms tight against his chest, the accused lowered his hooded head and said nothing.

“Let the record state the prisoner stands mute. We shall proceed.”

His eyes had adjusted to the glare as much as they could. Around his dazzling cell were various elves, waiting to be questioned by the tribunal. The advocate called out the name Wenthus. At the mention of his name, a second beam of light shone down, picking out a lean, rangy elf clad in green leather. Over his head he wore a black velvet hood.

“You are Wenthus, son of Garathan?” said the advocate.

“I am, your lordship.” His voice was not muffled, despite the cloth.

“You are a forester and hunter, are you not?”

“I am, your lordship. My family has ranged the South Sward for five hundred years —”

“In what capacity do you know the prisoner?”

The woodland elf shifted on his feet. “I don’t know him, your lordship.” The accused suppressed an urge to laugh.

“Did he not hire you to supply him with a certain number of animals, which you would trap in the wildwood?”

“No, your lordship. I was hired by another. A high lord.”

“What lord?” the advocate prompted.

“The one we in the green lands call Camaxilas.” Camaxilas was forest dialect and meant Sword-Lord.

“What did this Camaxilas require you to do?”

“He sent me to catch animals, as you said, your lordship. He wanted small predators like foxes, martens, and ferrets. I thought he wanted them for their fur, but he would only pay for them if they were alive,” Wenthus said.

“How many animals did you supply this Camaxilas with?”

The hunter counted on his fingers. “Thirty-six live animals, your lordship. Fourteen dead ones he wouldn’t buy.”

Three more foresters were called. All had their faces concealed. Each told a similar tale. A great lord called Camaxilas hired them to trap wild animals, small carnivores all. The creatures had to be alive and in good health, or the Silvanesti lord would not pay for them. In total he purchased just greater than one hundred live animals from the rustic elves. The prisoner listened to their testimony indifferently. When the advocate was done with them, the woodland hunters were dismissed.

“Is the one known in the woodlands as Camaxilas present in the Night Chamber?” the advocate boomed.

Footsteps rang on the polished floor. Striding into the outer aura of the prisoner’s wall of light came a male elf in the prime of life. By the standards of his race, he was tall, with dark blond hair cut short, in a warrior style. Most Silvanesti males affected long hair, drawn back in a braid.

His posture was military too, though he was dressed in a simple kilt and white tabard. Even in the unnatural dimness of the chamber, his eyes were arresting, large and very blue, like beads of lapis lazuli. The prisoner gave the new witness a quick sidelong glance then averted his eyes altogether.

“My lord,” said the advocate with clear deference, “will you state your name for the chronicle?”

“I am Balif Thraxenath, Chosen Chief of House Protector, First Warrior of the Great Speaker. I am the son of Arnasmir Thraxenath, of the Greenrunners clan. The people know me as Balif, loyal subject of the Great Speaker.” He bowed in the direction of the highest lamp, knowing Silvanos sat behind it.

The unseen advocate apologized for summoning Lord Balif to the Night Chamber but added, “Are you called by the name Camaxilas?”

“Yes, my lord. In the southern and western woods, I am sometimes called that. It’s more a title than a name.”

A moment passed. The advocate said, “Did you commission several foresters to catch animals?” Balif admitted he had. “Why? For what purpose?”

“My counselor requested it.”

“And who is your counselor, my lord?”

Balif extended his left arm, pointing straight at the prisoner. “That is him.”

“Speak his name for the chronicle.”

“Uristathan Cavolox, called Vedvedsica.”

That was a name as well known as Balif’s, if not so respected. Vedvedsica – the name in rural patois meant wise, wise fellow – was a magician of great erudition. He was known for his vast knowledge of the magical art and for his refusal to join any established temple or guild. Whispered rumors clung closely to his gaunt frame. Not only was he a master of the art of high magic, but it was said that he soiled his hands by dabbling in low arts such as alchemy and divination. No real crimes had ever been laid at his feet, but a vague air of ruthlessness and personal corruption rendered his company unworthy and his name suspect to most Silvanesti.

Hearing his name spoken at last, the accused raised his head. His hood dropped away, revealing a nearly bald pate. The light shone down harshly, rendering Vedvedsica’s lean face in high relief.

“Thank you, my lord. You may go.”

Balif turned but the captive cried out, “Am I not allowed to question those who speak against me?”

The cone of confinement contracted again, crushing Vedvedsica’s arms against his chest. He had so little room, he could hardly draw breath.

Seeing his predicament, Balif said, “My lords, if it pleases you, relent. Let the prisoner speak.”

“We have no desire to hear his blasphemies!”

Balif walked in a circle around the gasping wizard. “He will guard his tongue. Won’t you?” Vedvedsica could only blink in agreement. “Relent, my lords. Let him pose his questions.”

The beam of light expanded, releasing the wizard. He reeled around, greedily sucking in fresh air. When at last his discomfort subsided, he said, “Thank you, my lord.”

“It is nothing,” said Balif.

“The prisoner will address the Chamber only!”

Vedvedsica bowed mockingly. “My lords. I would like to ask Lord Balif how long we have known each other.” The advocate agreed; the elf lord could answer.

“A century and a half, I think.”

Through the clumsy process of voicing his questions through the Night Chamber advocate, the wizard went on to ask what services he had performed for Balif over so many years.

“Healer, soothsayer, counselor, and adviser,” Balif replied. Vedvedsica had been his retainer a long time. Everyone knew that.

“In all that time, in all those capacities, did I ever fail you, my lord?”

“Never.”

“How is it I find myself on trial now for my life?”

“I delivered you into the hands of the highest authority in Silvanesti,” said Balif tersely.

“And we are grateful for your diligence,” the advocate put in.

“So grateful,” snarled the wizard.

At the time of the conjunction of the three moons three years past, Vedvedsica had come to his master with a modest but unusual request. He was trying out a new magical operation. He needed some live animals. Not the usual sacrificial beasts such as goats, sheep, or doves. Vedvedsica wanted wild animals. Carnivores and scavengers only, no rabbits, squirrels, or boars. After a hundred and fifty years of service, Balif did not question his counselor’s intention. He contacted some woodland hunters he knew and arranged for them to trap the animals the wizard wanted.

“That’s the last I heard about the affair until six months ago,” Balif concluded. That’s when he discovered the outcome of Vedvedsica’s experiments.

“Stop. Say no more,” warned the advocate. “The Speaker’s ears must not be soiled by hearing about these abominations.”

Balif agreed. “I sent word to House Protector. Vedvedsica and some others were taken by the royal guard. Because of his long association with a high lord, the wizard was treated carefully, but his assistants were put to the question.”

“Tortured, you mean,” said Vedvedsica bitterly.

They revealed a secret complex of houses, far away in the western forest, where the results of the wizard’s work were kept. A company of griffon riders swept down on the hidden site. There was resistance. Those who fought were put to the sword. Those who surrendered were in the worst dungeon in Silvanost, Thalasdown, located deep under the waters of the Thon-Thalas river.

“I have done nothing wrong,” Vedvedsica proclaimed. “Nothing the gods themselves have not done!”

At that, the light collapsed so tightly that it barely encompassed the wizard from his skin inward. Unable to stand yet unable to fall, he drifted slowly in a circle with only the tips of his toes touching the floor. As he turned past Balif, the elf warrior saw the deep hatred in his eyes.

The captain of the guard who captured Vedvedsica testified, as did the commander of the griffon riders. Seeing the fate of the outraged wizard, the warriors wisely obeyed the advocate and did not speak too clearly about what they found, only about what they did.

The griffon riders’ commander, a veteran soldier named Pirayus, dared to offer advice to the Night Chamber. “Destroy everything, my lords. Use fire until nothing remains of this horror but ashes!” He gave the prisoner a meaningful glance. “Destroy everything, my lords.”

The warriors were dismissed. Balif took that as his cue to go too. When the stairs opened in the chamber floor, the other elves descended. Balif went down one step, paused, then went down one more step. He halted there.

“My lords, what will you do with the prisoner?”

“That decision has not been made.”

He didn’t believe that. Vedvedsica’s fate had been decided before the Night Chamber’s doors even opened.

“May I address the chamber?” The advocate gave Balif leave. He walked back to where the wizard twisted slowly on a spit of white light.

“My lords, I beg you to consider the intent of the prisoner in your judgment. He was not trying to loose evil on the world. His motives were creative, not destructive.”

Silence in the dark dome was ominous. Rows of dim lamps burned like unblinking eyes.

“His acts are an offense against all that is decent and proper, I agree. But do not exterminate what has been created. As Astarin teaches, life is the highest force in nature. A living thing, no matter how wretched, owes its life to the gods and not to any lesser being. Do not kill, my lords. Punish, yes. Imprison, certainly. But do not stain your own souls with the death of innocents.”

“Innocents?”

The word echoed throughout the hall. It was not the advocate who spoke, but Silvanos himself. Balif faced the far-off voice.

“Yes, Great Speaker. No child chooses its parents. They are innocent of their creation.”

“Are you a priest now?”

Balif spread his hands. “I am a failure as guide and master to my counselor. Perhaps I should become a cleric and learn to deal with my failings.”

“You are too modest, my friend, and too gentle. There are lives that deserve to be expunged, just as there are crimes that must be punished.”

No one had ever accused the greatest warrior of the elves of being too gentle. No one but the Speaker of the Stars would presume to make such a charge.

“The Great Speaker is the final arbiter of justice,” Balif replied. “But take care, sire. Expunging lives can be habit-forming.”

There were audible gasps from the unseen lords. Everyone understood Balif’s meaning. Decades past, when the Silvanesti nation was still forming, Silvanos had ordered the destruction of the Brown Hoods, a sect of woodland wizards opposed to the Speaker’s assuming absolute power. Only one Brown Hood out of dozens survived the purge: Vedvedsica. He cast his lot with the Speaker against his forest colleagues, but in so doing, Vedvedsica swore allegiance not to Silvanos, but to Balif, his captor. Because Balif owed fealty to the Speaker, Vedvedsica was spared.

For a long time, nothing was said. Apparently deliberation was carried out in some fashion Balif could not hear, for at length the advocate declared, “The Night Chamber has reached a verdict.”

Who were they announcing it to? No one remained on the floor but Balif and the prisoner.

“It is the judgment of this tribunal that the prisoner shall be confined in the keep of Thonbec fortress for the balance of his life, however long that may be.”

Life in prison for an elf was no act of mercy. Confinement was more vindictive than execution.

“His writings on all matters shall be gathered and burned. The ashes shall be ground between two millstones and scattered over the sea.

“His name shall be excised from all documents, chronicles, and monuments. No trace of the blasphemous one will be allowed to remain.”

Balif bowed his head then lifted it slowly. “What of the fruit of his labors? What becomes of them?” he asked.

The advocate spoke carefully, as if listening to another voice the elf warrior could not hear. “All offenses against the gods shall be … removed.”

“Removed? Speak plainly! Or do you mean to execute innocents by euphemism?”

“You forget yourself, my lord! It is not your place to question the decisions of this tribunal.”

With an angry shake of his head, Balif said, “I do question! What will happen to them?”

The passage in the floor split wide, admitting an upward wedge of natural light. Four bronze-clad warriors marched up the steps and took up positions around the floating prisoner. In the bat of an eye, the confining light evaporated. Vedvedsica collapsed in a heap, wheezing. Fetters were snapped on his wrists and ankles. Two soldiers took him by the arms and dragged him to his feet. The other pair stood by with swords drawn.

The wizard’s head snapped around. Most of the lamps had been extinguished, but the highest one still burned, dim in the intrusive light from outside.

“I am not done!” Vedvedsica vowed as loudly as he could. “I am not done!”

It was then Balif realized that, immobile as he was, his former counselor had heard everything – his pleas, the verdict, and the Night Chamber’s judgment. Before he disappeared down the spiral stair, he had some words for his master.

“Weak reed! Pay the price of betrayal!” Vedvedsica cried. The guards hustled him out of sight.

The passage remained open. Balif looked from it to the place where the Speaker’s lamp had been. All was black above. He was alone in the chamber. Turning to the open exit, he descended the steps with a slow, measured tread.

He was not the last to leave. From behind a sweeping buttress, a single figure stirred. He carried a thick rectangle of polished wood on which he scribbled briskly with a slim, metal stylus. Streaks of light appeared briefly on the wood surface then faded away. Padding forward on soft sandals, the last one to leave the Night Chamber waited until Balif was gone before he started down the spiral stairs.

He was surprised to discover many hours had passed, a far longer interval than had seemed to transpire. It was dusk. The day was over.

Outside in the street, he inhaled the clean air of Silvanost. Glancing up, the dome of the Night Chamber was impossible to see. No one passing by had any inkling of what had occurred a hundred feet above them. That’s the way the Speaker of the Stars wanted it. The Night Chamber was his personal instrument.

Balif was walking away from the tower, head lowered in thought. Elves hailed the great warrior from left and right. Balif did not heed them. Ignoring his waiting coach, he walked home alone and on foot.

Chapter 2

WORDS

It was dusk when Balif reached home. The imposing pile of white marble, alabaster, and crystal had been built for the general at the Speaker’s order as a gift from the grateful nation for the general’s innumerable services. Done in the grand style of the city, the facade was all flutes and flying buttresses designed to make the house look as if it might take wing and fly at any moment. The villa was surrounded by a hedge of glass fronds made to look like the sea grasses of the Silvanesti coast. Forged in tempered glass by the best artisans in the city, the glass fronds bent and fluttered very realistically with every breeze. They were also a first-class defense. Anything trying to run through them would be cut to pieces by the delicate-looking but razor-sharp leaves.

A single torch burned outside the front door. The evening breeze tormented the flame, whipping it from one side to the other but never quite extinguishing it. Balif homed in on the torch like a moth.

The paved area before the ornate door was big enough to parade a company of infantry. A few stone benches dotted the expanse, finely carved out of the hardest purple porphyry, veined with red like blood vessels. The seats were splotched with lichen. Moss welled up between the seams of the pavement.

At the door Balif paused to look back over his shoulder. The plaza appeared empty, but the general surveyed it for a long time.

The great front door opened before Balif could grasp the brass knob. Waiting inside was Balif’s majordomo, Lofotan Brodelamath, impeccably turned out in his servant’s uniform. A soldier who had served more than half his long life with the general, Lofotan had followed Balif home when he retired. Balif did not ask him to come, nor did the old warrior request a position as the general’s servant. He simply came. It was his job, so long as he lived, to serve Balif.

“Good evening, my lord.”

“Hello.”

He stood with his hands over a polished copper bowl while Lofotan poured warm water over his hands. It was the homecoming ritual enacted in every elf home in the city, every day. In that evening’s case Balif called for a second rinse. His hands felt unusually soiled.

Lofotan did not ask about the day’s events. It was not his place. He did say, “My lord, there are two persons waiting to see you.”

Drying his hands on a snowy linen towel, Balif raised an arched brow. “Couriers or courtiers?”

“Neither, I should say. One has the look of a priestess. The other is a scribe.”

“I’ve not summoned either.” Discreetly checking the sash at his waist for the dirk concealed there, Balif crossed the dimly lit hall.

“In the morning hall, my lord.” Balif went to the room indicated.

Within, a single bank of oil lamps burned. While many in Silvanost relied on magical luminars to light their homes, Balif was old-fashioned enough to prefer flame. Seated in the circle of light by the lamp stand were two elves unknown to him. Hearing the general enter, the strangers got to their feet. A stylus and a writing board clattered to the floor.

As Lofotan said, the young female was dressed as a priestess, though without any badges or talismans indicating her temple. Her hair was long, dark and plainly cut. She had slim arms and long fingers but a curiously round face, not at all like the high-cheeked elf women of the city.

The other stranger was middle-aged with the blue-tinged hair of a western woodlander. His clothes were plain homespun with the green stripe of House Servitor worked in with the black cuffs of the scribal guild. Seeing his writing equipment on the floor, the visitor went down on both knees to retrieve it.

Balif approached. He said, “You don’t look like assassins.”

“Sir?” said the clerically dressed female.

He surveyed them with folded arms. “You didn’t come here to slay me, did you?”

The scribe stared blankly. Beside him the apparent priestess replied, “No, my lord! Why in the world would anyone want to harm you, my lord?”

At arm’s length, Balif paused, sizing up the strangers. “No reason. I make a poor jest. What are you called?”

“Mathani Arborelinex, at your service!” She bowed from the waist. The middle-aged scribe stiffly imitated her gesture. His black metal stylus hit the floor again.

“That’s a feast of a name,” Balif observed. “Are you known as Mathi to those with less time for the full treatment?”

“Yes, my lord, or Math, if you prefer.”

“Why are you here, Mathi?”

“The sisters of Quenesti Pah sent me from the Haven of the Lost, my lord.”

Balif understood. He was patron to several worthy causes, one of which was an orphanage run by priestesses of Quenesti Pah in the far west of Silvanesti. The Haven of the Lost was a refuge for victims of the almost constant border warfare between the elves and marauding bands of human nomads on the frontier. Anyone, from infants to adults, could find shelter there. After a certain age, residents of the haven were expected to support themselves.

“You are a ward of the temple?” Mathi bowed her head yes. “You are welcome. We shall discuss your case at dinner tonight.” Balif turned his penetrating eyes to the scribe.

“Who are you?”

“Treskan of Woodbec, my lord.”

“Why are you here?”

The scribe looked crestfallen. “I was told you required a scrivener —”

Balif turned away. “I can’t imagine who told you that. I have less than no need for a scribe. Good evening.”

He walked out, leaving the hall door ajar. Treskan was speechless, but Mathi followed Balif, saying, “My lord! Your servant says there is no one in the house but yourself, him, and a cook. Surely an important elf like yourself has need of a professional scribe?”

Balif laughed shortly. “Don’t confuse being well known with being important.” In the entry hall, Lofotan had been lurking by the door with a stout staff, gripped like a halberd. Seeing there was no trouble, he set it aside.

“My affairs these days are very simple. I do not need a scribe.”

The girl said to the scribe, “I am sorry.”

Treskan replied in a low tone, “Never mind. My hopes were not high. Now I shall have to relinquish my stylus to the guild.” Treskan started for the door.

Balif watched him go, staring at him until he reached the door. “Why will you have to relinquish the tool of your profession?” he asked, suddenly curious.

“I have been without employment too long. With this rejection, I shall lose my membership in the guild.”

“Try elsewhere in the city. Many households in Silvanost employ scribes.”

With a last clumsy bow, Treskan of Woodbec departed. Balif bade Mathi follow. They strolled across the soaring hall, footsteps echoing on the bare, polished walls.

Balif said calmly, “How long were you among humans?”

Mathi halted as if clubbed. “How did you know that, my lord?”

“Where were you captured?”

She looked somber. “In the west. Beyond the forest.”

Trailing behind, Lofotan said, “You were captured by the barbarians?” The girl nodded. “A slave?” She gave another nod.

Balif reached the far side of the monumental hall. “I would know more of this. You shall stay for now, as my guest. Lofotan, have an extra place set for dinner.”

Mathi went down on one knee. “May the goddess bless you, my lord!” She tried to kiss the general’s hand, but Balif was not having it. He ordered the girl to stand.

“Lofotan will find you quarters. Dinner will be at the eighth hour. Lofotan will fetch you then.”

Shadows were building fast. The interior hall had no windows to the outside, and it rapidly darkened as the sun set. The general of the armies of the Speaker of the Stars lit a lamp from a side table and, after a polite farewell, took his leave. Mathi watched the globe of light recede down a long hallway, finally disappearing around a corner.

It was only the seventh hour. She said to Lofotan, “What should I do until dinner?”

“Remain in your room. I will show you there now.”

Without another word, the old soldier lit a lamp of his own and gestured for the girl to follow. Lofotan started up a broad staircase in the center of the hall. When Mathi lagged behind, Lofotan sharply ordered her to keep up.

“This place is a maze, even in daylight. By night it’s a labyrinth not easily navigated.”

Mathi hopped up the steps. “Why is the house so dark and empty?” she said. She was whispering, but she wasn’t sure why.

“My lord is a great elf, but his needs and tastes are simple. This stone pile was urged upon him by the Speaker, but it is not the sort of place Lord Balif would choose to occupy.” At the top of the stairs, a yawning cavern of an upper hall opened before them. Lofotan’s lamp made little impression on the gloom.

“Once, two hundred servants lived and worked here. There were body servants and maids, grooms for the general’s horse and griffon, butlers and cooks and all their assistants. As the years passed, my lord found reasons to dismiss them one by one until only I and the cook remain.”

He led her down the mammoth corridor, flanked on either side by statues of marble and bronze. Some were in the stiff, archaic style of the era before Silvanos. More modern images, with features that changed with the light, unnerved Mathi as she passed by. The robes on the statues seemed to flow and flip in unfelt breezes. One elegant female figure tossed her head, mouth parted in silent mirth.

“How can you stand to walk here?” Mathi said, quavering.

“Ignore them. They’re only stone.”

At what seemed like an arbitrary point, the majordomo stopped. He pointed to a door. “You will sleep here. There’s a filling font in the antechamber. Whatever else you want, you must forgo or see to yourself.”

He turned to leave. “One other thing: don’t roam around-after dark. As I said, this place is a maze, and you may find unpleasant company.” Puzzled, Mathi asked him what he meant. “My lord sleeps in different parts of the house each night. If you disturb him, he may greet you with a blade in the ribs.”

Leaving the astonished girl alone in the dark, Lofotan returned to the stairs. His lamp faded until Mathi was submerged in the enormously dark house. Somewhere out of sight, a door slammed. Mathi darted inside the indicated door and shut it quickly.

Sunset streamed in the high windows. She was in a suite fit for a lord. Furniture stood around the main room in orderly ranks like disciplined soldiers, draped in ghostly white dust cloths. Mathi tugged her belt pouch around and dug out a small luminar. She spoke the illuminating word, simtha, and the crystal glowed to life.

As Lofotan promised, there was a font in the antechamber. A great conch shell had been set up as a basin. Arching over it was a golden tap shaped like a leaping dolphin. When Mathi touched it, water poured forth. She washed her hands, splashed more on her face, and drank a few handfuls before allowing the font to shut off.

She felt lost in such an enormous space. Holding the luminar by its silver handle, she walked through the great suite. Only the main room was furnished. The adjoining salons and bedchambers were empty, just frescoed walls and stone floors. She went back to the main room and pulled the cover off an elegant couch. Sitting in silence for a long time, Mathi nibbled the last of the rations she had brought from the country.

The sleeve rode up on her arm, revealing red scars. She tugged the homespun back over them. It was too soon to look at them. Worse reminders of her time in the forest still stung on her legs, but at least the long hem of her acolyte’s gown always covered them.

She set the luminar on the floor between her feet. It shone brightly, filling the space around her with hard, white light. Everything was going well, she kept reminding herself. She was exactly where she was supposed to be.

She dozed while sitting up on the couch. A loud click stirred but did not rouse her. It sounded again, and her sharp senses dragged her awake. She picked up the luminar, which had gone out. A vast tapestry of stars shone in the high windows. For a moment she heard nothing. A silhouette appeared, close to one of the glass panes. Whoever it was rapped gently for attention.

Slowly Mathi approached. At the last instant, she called the luminar to light. It blazed on, dazzling her and the mysterious figure outside. When her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw Treskan the scribe crouched by the window, one arm thrown over his eyes.

Mathi extinguished the light. She tried to open the floor-length window, but the catch refused to turn. Putting all her weight and strength on the handle only bent the brass.

Treskan had dropped his arm when the light went out. He tried to open the window from the outside but could not. By silent gestures he indicated to Mathi she must turn away. She did, afraid he meant to break a pane. There was a quick, small flash of light. The latch squeaked, and the scribe entered.

“Why are you here?” she whispered.

“I had to come back. I will lose my job if I fail to attach myself to Lord Balif.”

Mathi slowly shut the window. Feeling the catch, she found there was no lock on it. So why did it resist opening, and how did Treskan get in?

“Will you speak to Lord Balif for me?” Treskan begged. “You’re having dinner with him, are you not?”

“Yes, and soon.” Mathi looked down at the shabby scribe. They had traveled most of the way from the west country together for mutual company and protection. He was an odd fellow, seemingly useless one moment and amazingly erudite the next. She wondered anew how he got the window open.

Loud footsteps heralded the arrival of Lofotan. Treskan ducked out of sight. Mathi hurried to the couch and sat down demurely. The majordomo came right in without knock or announcement.

“My lord dines. He asks that you attend him,” Lofotan said. Before Mathi could reply, he turned his head from side to side, frowning. “You have had a window open?”

“Why, yes.” How did he know?

“This suite has not been aired in many months. The fresh air is quite distinct.”

Mathi went to the door. Lofotan remained, hands clasped behind his back. “How did you get a window open?”

“Oh, I tried one after another until one opened,” Mathi replied. He demanded to know which one. Outwardly blithe, Mathi took him to the exact door Treskan used. It opened under the majordomo’s hand.

“I see. Can you find your way downstairs by yourself?” He stepped through onto a broad balcony. It followed the bank of windows from one end to the other. When Mathi emerged behind Lofotan, she saw he had a short sword in his hand.

“Go back. Now.”

She did, retrieving her luminar along the way. Downstairs she followed her nose to the dining room. It was not the grand feasting hall she imagined, but a more modest, shelf-lined room she guessed was meant to be a pantry. Balif sat at a round table. A candelabra of sixteen tapers illuminated the scene.

Balif stood. “Come, girl. Sit down.”

There was only one other setting, so she sat there, at the general’s right hand. He poured spring water into an amethyst goblet.

“How came you to the Haven of the Lost?” Balif asked without any opening palaver.

She told him the story she had long rehearsed on the journey to Silvanost. Her family were beekeepers living on the edge of the great western forest. The only settlement near them was Woodbec, a military post three leagues from Mathi’s home. In the early morning hours, a band of humans on horseback raided them, killing her father outright and taking her and her mother prisoner.

Somberly he said, “And when was this?”

“Six summers past, my lord.”

“What happened next?”

Gazing at her empty plate, Mathi described how she and her mother were taken far to the north, on the open plain, and sold as slaves. Her mother could not bear her captive life and took the ultimate escape.

“How?”

“Fly agaric.”

There was no antidote for the poisonous mushroom. It was a slow death but a sure one. In silent kindness, Balif said nothing for a while. When Mathi was ready, she continued her story.

After that, Mathi’s human master, a warrior named Herndan, took her and his whole entourage east, to the Plains River. He got involved in a dispute with another human warrior, fought a duel, and was killed. All that was Herndan’s became the property of the victor, but Mathi used the confusion of her master’s defeat to escape.

“Tell me,” Balif said remorselessly.

“I am a good swimmer,” Mathi said. “I resolved to swim the river or die trying. The human males could not pursue me, weighted as they were with metal armor, so I was able to swim away with arrows flicking past my ears.”

Balif opened a covered silver tray. With tongs, he picked up a delicately poached fish fillet and laid it on her plate. The second, smaller fillet he took himself.

“I regret the arrows,” he said. “They are my fault.”

“How so, my lord? You were not there.”

He replaced the silver dome on the empty tray. “Humans have bows because I gave them to them. My apologies.”

Mathi didn’t understand. She pulled her fish apart with her fingers and ate with them too until she noticed Balif using a tiny two-pronged metal spear to get the food to his mouth. As she was provided with an identical tool, Mathi tried to emulate her host.

“I wandered along the eastern shore of the river, going south. I fell in with a party of woodlanders, who delivered me to the Haven. I lived there a year until the sisters of Quenesti Pah decided I was fit enough to go out on my own. They sent me here to seek your guidance, my lord.”

The general tore a loaf of flat bread in two, placing half on his guest’s plate. For a great lord of Silvanost, he certainly kept an ascetic table.

“The scribe, Treskan; you met him on the journey here?”

“Yes, my lord. He hails from Woodbec, not far from my old home.”

“What do you know about him?”

Mathi poked her cheek with the little spear points. Wincing, she replied, “Only what he told me, my lord. He has had much bad luck in his life. Three of his patrons died, one after the other, and he acquired the reputation in Woodbec of being bad luck. Hence no one would hire him.”

“Hah! Bad luck doesn’t frighten me. I’ll hire him. You may tell him that,” Balif said. Another cover lifted, revealed a bowl of fresh greens. Balif served Mathi. Oil and honey dressing was in the diamond cruet, he said.

Mouth open, Mathi did not know what to say.

“Food to your liking?” asked the general.

“How did you know —?”

“That the scribe is still about? My dear child, this house is protected by powerful conjurations. When someone breaks a door ward, the effect is noted immediately. Is he in the house right now?”

She nodded dumbly.

“Your suite?”

“Yes, my lord. Do forgive me! He’s desperate and I only meant to do him a kindness —”

“I understand. It is because of your kindness, your belief, that I changed my mind.”

Balif refilled her cup and his own. “This city, splendid as it is, is in many ways as cold and hard as the crystal towers soaring over us. Scarcely a week goes by that I’m not accosted by some worthy seeking favors, charity, or largesse. Lofotan has standing orders to throw such beggars out. Being from the Haven, you deserve every kindness, and by showing grace, you earn grace for your friend.”

Mathi wasn’t about to deny being Treskan’s friend. She barely knew him, but she was delighted to have done him a service.

Lofotan appeared as if on signal with a very chastened scribe in tow.

“You know record-hand as well as script?” Balif said, raising his voice to fill the room in commanding fashion. Record-hand was an abbreviated form of writing used to keep records of events. Treskan swore he knew it perfectly.

“You are retained. Lofotan will find you quarters. You may eat in the kitchen.”

The old soldier clapped a heavy hand on Treskan’s shoulder to pull him away. The scribe said, “Thank you, my lord! May Astarin and Matheri bless you – but wait! What will my duties be?”

“You will handle all the writing that needs to be done in the household, of course. Good night!”

Lofotan steered Treskan away. Balif parted his last bit of fish with his fork and said loudly, “If you ever enter my house illicitly again, it will cost you your head. Understood?”

Treskan stammered, “Ah, perfectly, my lord. Thank you for this chance!”

“You will surrender the ward-breaker you used to Lofotan too.”

“Already done, my lord,” said the majordomo, holding up a small metal and crystal talisman.

Dinner ended with Mathi hardly less hungry than when she started. Balif did not escort her to her room. He merely asked her to return there if she was finished.

Mathi got up and bowed to her host. “Thank you, my lord. May I ask one question?” Sipping spring water, Balif nodded. “What shall become of me?”

“That is for the gods to decide, is it not?” He smiled not unkindly. “I shall inquire around the city for you. What skills do you have?”

“My best talent is beekeeping,” she said.

The general asked if she had any special deficiencies.

Mathi lowered her head. “I do not get along well with domestic animals,” she said. That was a problem she never realized in her sylvan home, but while a slave of the nomads, Mathi discovered that their domestic animals could not abide her. Cows, goats, sheep, even dogs were restless around her. Birds took wing, and cats fled in terror.

“To what do you attribute such a reaction?”

“I do not know, my lord. Perhaps my scent disturbed them. I cannot say.”

“Very well, your warning is duly noted. Good night, Mathani. Remember to stay in your room tonight unless summoned by me or Lofotan.”

She bowed and departed. Mathi’s head was reeling with many conflicting thoughts. The mighty general was nothing like she expected. Kind but aloof, humble yet commanding, he seemed like an elf at war with himself. All his precautions – all his defenses – had to be in place to ward off a real threat. But from whom … or what?

Far off in the silent, empty house, she heard a sudden loud clang. Mathi was awake at once. Rapid footfalls echoed in the long hall outside her door. She picked up her luminar but left it unlit. Tiptoeing to the door, she cracked it open a finger’s width.

Something flashed by. She bit her tongue to keep from crying out. Mathi was sure what ran past was on all fours, such as a dog. There was a shout from the top of the stairs, a wordless cry of alarm. Mathi pushed the door shut, held her luminar up and spoke the word to make it shine. Then she flung the door wide and ran out.

Where the broad steps met the wide hall, two figures struggled in a deadly embrace. Both stood upright. Light glinted on a red metal blade. The taller one was Lofotan. He had a short sword in one hand as he grappled with a darkly clad opponent who seemed to be wearing fur robes. The old soldier’s eyes caught the glare of the luminar.

“Put out that light!” he cried.

His enemy turned to see who Lofotan was shouting at. In that instant Mathi saw his face. It was elf-shaped but covered with brown fur. Enormous dark eyes, all pupils and no white, reflected the light, glowing red as hot coals.

Mathi stumbled back, dropping the light. The luminar hit the floor and went out.

She heard rather than saw what happened next. Someone landed several hard blows, each one followed by grunts of pain. There followed the unmistakable sound of flesh being cleaved. A sharp howl filled the hall. Lofotan uttered a soldier’s oath. Then all was quiet, save for the elf’s labored breathing.

“Come here, girl.”

He had to call twice before Mathi gathered enough presence of mind to comply. “Bring your light,” Lofotan added. He coughed dryly. Mathi brought the luminar but did not activate it.

“Shine it there.”

The cone of light revealed the intruder dead at his feet, lying in a spreading pool of blood. He resembled an adult male elf except for the startling fur. Elves were not hirsute. They regarded humans and dwarves as beastly simply because they had body hair and beards.

Lofotan cursed again and stepped back out of the gore. Remembering that he was in the presence of a Haven girl, he apologized, saying, “Forgive me. It was stronger than I expected.”

The old soldier edged into the light. He was wounded. A long, bleeding gash ran from his left ear down across his throat. The front of his white tunic was soaked with blood. A patchwork of scratches covered his face.

“You’re hurt!” she exclaimed.

“It’s nothing.” He prodded the corpse with the point of his sword.

“What happened here?”

A new voice said, “It came to kill me.”

The servant and the girl looked down the stairs and saw Balif, bearing an oil lamp in one hand and a naked sword in the other. Lofotan instinctively straightened. Ignoring his hurts, he raised his bloody blade in salute.

“The other one got away,” Balif said, approaching. Mathi stared at the pair of unsheathed blades handled with such casual skill.

“Can this one talk?”

It was beyond speech. After a hard cut to the shoulder, Lofotan had run the beast through. It could answer only the gods.

Padding down the hall came more footsteps. Balif and Lofotan squared off, swords ready, until they recognized the scribe, Treskan. Judging by his appearance, he had been sleeping in his clothes. He took in the scene with wide eyes.

“My lord, shall I fetch the city guard?” Treskan asked. Death by sword was uncommon in Silvanost.

“This is no one’s affair but my own. Remember that. Whatever happens in this house is my affair and mine alone.” He sighed deeply. By the ruddy oil light, Balif looked aged and tired. “Let’s get this cleaned up.”

Lofotan held out an arm, blocking his general. “Don’t dirty your hands, my lord. Let us take care of it.”

“You’re wounded, my friend. The scribe is in shock, and this girl is too tender in years for such a task.”

Mathi held up her chin. “My lord, I was raised on a farm and lived many days as a captive. Blood is no stranger to me.”

Lofotan also dismissed his lord’s concern. “My wounds are nothing. Not like the Battle of the Burning Tree, eh, my lord? Come, scribbler. Lend a hand.”

Grimacing, Treskan took hold of one pair of the dead creature’s hands and feet. Lofotan took the other. Mathi went ahead with her luminar to light the way. They dragged the body to the top of the steps. Treskan suggested they roll it down the stairs, but Lofotan sharply squelched that idea.

“Do you want to mop every stone between here and the cellar? I don’t. Pick him up. Your clothes will wash more easily than a mile of white marble!”

They hoisted the dead creature to their shoulders and followed Mathi down. Balif trailed, carrying his lamp. In the entry hall, Lofotan directed Mathi down a side passage to another, narrower set of steps. Down the inky steps they went. Mathi could see nothing but winding stone stairs. She kept her shoulder tight against the cold stone wall and uttered a prayer as they descended.

“What is that you’re saying?” asked Lofotan.

“A prayer.”

“For this unnatural creature?”

“No,” said Mathi, struggling under the weight of the corpse. “I asked Quenesti Pah to guide my steps, so I don’t fall!”

The air grew cooler and damper. Far below ground level, the steps ended in a vaulted room crowded with barrels and draped shapes of uncertain purpose. They put the body down. Lofotan went alone to root around in the shadowed recesses of the cellar. Balif, standing on the last step, noticed the girl was trembling. Treskan the scribe scrubbed absently at the stain on his shoulder.

“Have you not seen death before?”

“Yes, my lord.” In her life Mathi had witnessed battles, murders, and all kinds of mayhem. “But I still shake at the sight of blood.”

Treskan remarked, “It was a heavy burden!”

“Burden.” Balif pursed his thin lips. “Try bearing the weight of a hundred such creatures.”

Mathi studied him. Was Balif boasting he had killed a hundred intruders like the one before them?

Lofotan returned, dragging an empty crate. They wrapped the body in a makeshift canvas shroud, put it in the crate, and nailed the lid on. Lofotan promised to have the crate removed later. The body would be taken out of the city unseen and buried secretly. Not even Balif or his majordomo would know where it would ultimately lie.

Mathi didn’t understand why they were acting like accomplices to a crime. Surely Lofotan acted in self-defense against an attacker of plainly unnatural origin. Why hide the incident?

“Too many questions will be asked,” Balif said calmly. “Guilt will be applied where none is needed.”

The four of them climbed the stairs to the entry hall in silence. Mathi’s mind was racing. If forces were arrayed to kill Balif, why didn’t the Speaker of the Stars send troops and magicians to protect him?

“Your head is full of questions,” Balif said sagely. “I understand. Some things cannot be explained in ordinary conversation. If you prove yourself worthy, the answers shall come.”

Balif made a graceful if weary exit. He did not go back down the corridor where he had previously gone. Having been disturbed once, he was off to find a different location to sleep.

“What if I don’t prove worthy?” Treskan asked.

“Then I shall personally cut your throat.” There was no animosity in Lofotan’s promise, just blunt honesty. Mathi believed him completely.

Wrung out, she returned to the couch in her vacant suite. Mathi was about to extinguish her luminar for the night when she spotted writing on the distant marble wall. It had not been there when she first came to the room. Someone had written it since —

The intruder. The intruder had been in the suite while she slept. Mathi walked slowly to the graffito. The runny red letters were not written with paint.

Honor demands honesty, it read. Survival needs secrecy.

Chapter 3

HONORS

A voice called out to her. For a brief moment, she thought she was back in the forest, but Lofotan’s gruff voice reminded her where she was.

“Up, girl. The sun may still sleep, but we who serve our lord must rise.”

Mathi sat up, stiff in strange places. The cunning couch, designed to be wonderful to look at, was not so wonderful to sleep on.

“Good morning?”

“The day begins. Come,” urged Lofotan.

“Is there water? I’m dry.”

“In the font.”

Lofotan was dressed in a spotless military tunic and kilt and heavy sandals. He wore an officer’s woven silver band around his forehead. No trace of the previous night’s blood remained, though the gash on his neck was still visible. Mathi padded behind him, pausing at the bowl for a hasty gulp of water.

“You have a light tread,” the old soldier remarked. “Were you born in the wildwood?”

Mathi explained her quietness by saying she’d had to step quietly around her human captors. If she disturbed them or drew unwanted attention to herself, she was usually beaten for it.

“Savages.”

He led her deeper into the house to Treskan’s room. The scribe proved harder to rouse. Lofotan’s battlefield bark hardly moved him, so the old warrior grasped Treskan by the shirt-front and shook him. The scribe awoke with limbs thrashing. Lofotan stepped back, out of reach. Treskan subsided after a brief struggle with himself.

“Arise, scribbler. My lord must be served.” Eyes clenched and mouth agape in a mighty yawn, Treskan followed.

The house was still cloaked in darkness. Unlike the dead hour when the beastly invader was caught, the predawn tingled with change. There was newness in the air. Early-morning flowers were open, releasing their scent to the rising sun. Shadows buried by the profound black of night slowly took on form again as the faintest rays of daylight penetrated the gloomy villa.

On the ground floor at the extreme rear of Balif’s grand residence was the domestic area. The kitchen, sized to accommodate the vast house, was lit by a few slender wax tapers. Pots banged and clattered. Holding forth in one corner of the enormous room was Balif’s cook, the only other soul who dwelled in the house. His name, Lofotan said, was Mistravan Artyrith.

“Lord Artyrith,” corrected the cook. He was younger than Lofotan, with fashionably long hair looped behind his prominent, pointed ears. The living embodiment of the Silvanost look, Artyrith had the angular features and pale hair and eyes considered handsome in the city.

Surprised by his claim to nobility, Mathi looked to the majordomo for confirmation.

“My lord’s cook has delusions. Pay them no heed,” said Lofotan dryly.

“Delusions? Who is heir to the ancestral estate of the Artyriths? Whose grandsire was chamberlain to the Speaker of the Stars before he was Speaker?” demanded the cook.

“If you can find an estate to be heir to, why don’t you go there?”

“It exists! My enemies have taken it over, my enemies —” At that point Lofotan made a gesture with his hand indicating he considered the cook insane.

It was plain the two often sparred over Artyrith’s airs. Mathi said, “I am honored to meet you, my lord.”

The cook smiled, showing impressive white teeth. He was quite striking in a rakish way, the sort of elf young females found charming but their parents found alarming.

“It’s welcome to have another elf of good breeding around. Lately the halls have been too crowded by big heads and large mouths,” he said. Lofotan gave him a warning look that set the cook grinning even more widely.

“Which of you is my new apprentice?”

“I am a scribe,” Treskan said flatly and yawned again.

“What about you, dear child?” he said, favoring Mathi with an incandescent smile.

“I don’t know, my lord. I could be. I am a ward of the Haven of the Lost —”

His smile vanished. To Lofotan he protested, “I was promised help! I’ve waited a long time!”

“You have longer to wait,” the majordomo replied. “Is our lord’s breakfast ready?”

Glaring, Artyrith filled a wheeled cart with white porcelain platters. On each platter he placed a single item – a perfectly peeled peach, pitted and quartered; a pyramid-shaped roll, still steaming from the oven; a puree of wild berries in a gossamer-thin silver shell. By each of those treasures, he placed a utensil. They were gold, blown in a molten state like glass until they were light as air and almost transparent. Mathi and Treskan had never seen such metal-work. The scribe picked up a spoon, marveling at its artistry. Artyrith snatched it from him and replaced it on the cart with great precision.

Last the cook set a weighty urn of spring water on the lower shelf of the cart. That was Balif’s morning meal, typical for a well-born Silvanesti. The fare was beautifully prepared and presented but extremely simple.

“Take it away,” the cook said. “If my lord wishes more bread, I have it, but that is the only peach. I can get more from the market after sunrise.”

Lofotan took hold of the cart rail. He ordered Mathi and the scribe to follow him. They found Balif in the east salon, sitting on a stone bench before a breathtaking bank of windows. The first rays of the sun were just hitting the panes. Mathi stopped at the doorway, staring. She’d never seen such a room. In plan the salon was serpentine, a great outward curve of the wall being balanced by a sweeping inward curve. The outer wall was glass from a low sill to the ceiling. Intended as an indoor garden, the salon was empty save for a few stone benches and what Mathi took to be pedestals where statues once stood.

Lofotan pushed past the gawking Treskan and Mathi. Balif was seated facing the windows, his eyes closed. At the sound of the cart’s wheels, he turned his head and opened his eyes.

“Good morning.” He glanced at the door where the newcomers were still marveling. “Still with us, I see. I half imagined you two would flee after our little adventure last night.”

“Still here,” Lofotan said. He arranged Balif’s breakfast on the stone slab beside him. Mathi slowly approached, marveling at the architecture. She stumbled over a high stone tile on her way to the general.

“Though empty, this place has its hazards. Be careful,” Balif said.

“I’ve never seen such a magnificent room!” said Treskan, trailing the girl.

“It was designed by the same architect who built the palace of the Speaker. He always claimed that it was better than anything else he ever built.” Balif looked to the windows. “Like many masterpieces, this one exacts a price of its owner. This room is uninhabitable once the sun comes up. All the glass traps the heat, turning the room into a furnace. The exotic greenery planted here at the Speaker’s order quickly withered. Tapestries and carpets faded then turned to powder under the glare. The only thing that endures in this room is stone.”

It was already warm, and the sun was barely up. Mathi easily imagined the place was like a fiery crucible at midday. Treskan asked why the general didn’t shade the windows? It would take acres of velvet to mask the enormous panes, but at least the room would livable.

“I prefer it this way.” Little beads of sweat stood out on his high forehead. “Sit down, child. Break your fast.”

Mathi was so startled by his invitation that she looked to Lofotan. The dour majordomo, standing behind his general, gave her a stern look whose meaning was inescapable.

“Thank you, no, my lord. It is more proper that I stand.”

A flicker of amusement flashed over Balif’s face. “Suit yourself.”

He ate the peach with swift, silent efficiency. When it was dispatched, he asked Lofotan what his day’s duties were.

“My lord has no demands on his time today,” was the reply. Treskan, stylus and writing board under his arm, looked crestfallen. The second elf of the realm, and Balif had no duties to perform?

Balif shrugged. “Just as well. If I had to sit through another military parade or inspect troops or griffons, I think I would rebel.”

The creeping sun hit the windows full-on. A blaze like fire flashed across row upon row of polished panes, mirrored and magnified. Balif’s morning sojourn in the sunrise salon was over. The elves quit the room.

“Such is my life in total,” he said as they strolled down the refreshingly cool, dark corridor outside. “A brief moment of glory in the sun then retreat into the shadows.”

As the elves crossed the entry hall, loud chiming filled the air. The front doors were made of bell-quality bronze. Someone was knocking for admittance.

“See who it is, Mathi.”

Puzzled to be doing Lofotan’s job, Mathi bowed and went to the front door. Halfway there it occurred to her that if it was another attempt on the general’s life, she was walking directly into harm’s way. All of a sudden the floor seemed to cling to her feet. Slowly she reached out to the ornate door handle.

The doors clanged again, a pleasant but loud tone amplified by the great vacant hall behind them. Lofotan and Balif stood side by side, poised to fight or flee. Treskan, still rumpled from his uneasy night, peered between them.

Mathi struggled momentarily with the unfamiliar door handle then tugged the panel open. Though the metal-sheathed door easily weighed a ton, it swung easily inward. Mathi’s pulse quickened when she saw a company of soldiers arrayed outside. An officer in brightly gilded armor raised a sheathed sword, pommel first, in salute.

“Greetings to the most excellent lord Balif, High General of the Realm, Protector of the Nation, and most loyal servant of our Great Speaker, Silvanos!”

“Hello,” was all Mathi could think to say.

“I bear this message for your master.” He presented the girl with a golden scroll case, exquisitely embossed with sun symbols and the glyphic monogram of Silvanos Goldeneye.

“I will convey this to the general,” Mathi promised.

Under the glittering helmet brow, the officer’s eyes were as cold and sharp as icicles. “I am to wait for a reply.”

Mathi shut the door. When she turned around, she found Lofotan and Balif on either side of the closed door, swords in their hands. She was so rattled that she dropped the royal message case.

“Steady on,” Lofotan chided, stooping to retrieve the tube. He and Balif returned their blades to their scabbards. “Assassins, as a rule, don’t arrive bearing messages.”

By some unseen hinge, the tube opened along its length. Within, a gold-colored sheet of parchment unrolled itself in Lofotan’s hands. Balif asked what it said.

Peering over the old warrior’s shoulder, Treskan scanned the message. “You are commanded to the royal residence at once,” he said.

“Does it say ‘residence’?”

Treskan looked again. “Why yes, my lord. Not the royal palace, but residence.”

Lofotan said, “What does it mean, my lord?”

Balif unbuckled his sword belt and gave it to his old comrade-in-arms. “The Speaker grows more subtle every day. Maybe he has some empty new honor to bestow. Maybe I will be arrested. Who but the gods can say? If I do not return, take the treasure I have hidden – you know where it is, Lofotan – and leave Silvanost at once. Don’t try to find me or help me.”

“My lord, I —” Lofotan began. Balif silenced him with a stern glance. “Yes, my lord. I’ll pay off Artyrith and go, as you say.”

“Our association may be brief,” he told Mathi, taking her hand gently. “Perhaps we will meet again.”

Balif asked how many soldiers were waiting outside. Mathi, whose eyes were quick, knew exactly.

“Thirty-six, my lord.”

“An honor company. How kind of the Speaker.”

His hand on the door, Balif said to Treskan, “Come along, scribe. There may be work for you.”

Lofotan protested. If anyone were to accompany the general, it ought to have been him. Balif firmly ordered him to stay at the house.

“No one else knows where everything is. Our late-night visitor must be disposed of too. Stay, Captain. Come, scribe.”

Before the general opened the door, Lofotan said, “My lord, are you dressed to be received by the Speaker?”

Balif was wearing the same clothes he wore to the Night Chamber the previous day. “Whatever fate Silvanos has for me I can meet as I am.” He smiled. Mathi observed the great general had an easy smile and used it often. “Guard the gates, Captain. I shall return soon or not at all.”

He threw open the door and strode out. The honor guard, idling on the weedy terrace, snapped to attention. Watching through the open door, Mathi had never heard arms click into place so quickly. Thirty-six elves in the immaculate livery of the Speaker of the Stars stood in rigid order, two parallel lines facing each other. Their officer, no less attentive, faced Balif.

“My lord! Good morning!”

“It is a good morning.” Balif’s tone was relaxed, but every fiber of his being was alert. He stepped down from the doorway, tugging on pale doeskin gloves. “This is my personal scribe, Treskan. He will be accompanying me.”

“My orders were to bring you alone, my lord,” said the officer.

“And my orders are that Treskan shall come. Do you dispute them?”

The officer opened his mouth to speak then thought better of it. He raised his sword hilt to his face in acknowledgment, turned on one heel, and snapped orders to his waiting troops. As Balif crossed the terrace to the street, thirty-six blades thrust skyward. The hiss of so much bronze being bared made Mathi flinch.

“My lord!” she called, stepping through the door. Balif paused and looked back. “My lord, allow me to come!”

He made no reply, so Mathi ran to meet him and Treskan. The guards’ commander protested anew. Enjoying the officious elf’s predicament, Balif agreed to let Mathi accompany him.

“My lord, this is a serious breach of protocol!” said the officer.

“Yes,” said Balif, not smiling.

Any other noble lord of Silvanost would have entered a fine carriage and ridden off to the Speaker’s palace with the honor guard following on foot. Balif disdained such airs. He remarked to Mathi that he had at one time been provided with a silver-chased carriage of the finest make, drawn by four matched white horses. He rode in it once then gave the horses to deserving soldiers of his army. The carriage went into storage and had not seen the light of day since. Ever since, he had walked where he needed to go. If his destination were far, he would hire a common carter to carry him.

Five steps behind Balif, Treskan made careful note of what he heard. The day had just begun, and already he had much to write about in his chronicle.

The square on which Balif’s grand house stood was fronted by three other imposing homes. When Balif reached the street, he chose to walk down the center of the lane, trailed by Mathi, Treskan, and the glittering honor guard. Gardeners and other servants working on the neighboring estates stopped their work and bowed as Balif passed. He walked serenely on, paying the honor no special heed.

At the end of the lane, he reached a busier thoroughfare, the Sunpath. That street led into one of the great byways of Silvanost, the circular street known as the Star Way. Everything in Silvanost was natural, Mathi noticed. As she walked behind General Balif, she got her first full view of the elf capital. Beneath her feet the paving stones were natural river stones, taken from the Thon-Thalas and fitted together with astonishing accuracy. Stones large and small nestled together with such unity that one could not be pried out without lifting a half dozen others surrounding it. Each stone was a different pastel color. Mixed together, the effect was very pleasing, like a well-made carpet of living rock.

On either side of the street were shade trees and flowering shrubs, guided by elf hands into living colonnades. Spread beneath them were hand-laid strands of white river sand. The people of Silvanost passed back and forth on their daily affairs. Beyond the shaded footpaths were the gardens of individual homes. From them rose phalanxes of fiery orange lilies, scarlet roses on thorny ropes of green, and golden daisies the size of warriors’ shields. All the flowers were not outsized, though. That would be too garish. The Silvanesti also loved miniature blossoms. Hyacinths and cyclamens, shrunk to the size of jewels, made carpets of color on many lawns.

Farther back from the street were the houses of Silvanost. The residents of the Sunpath were mostly artisans who worked in trades supervised by House Artisan. There the skill of the elves in manipulating wood and stone was well displayed. Mathi saw houses formed from living tree trunks, conglomerations of native boulders, and even some woven from leafy vines. The effect was not as primitive as it might sound. The elves loved vertical forms, and each home thrust skyward with exuberance. A glance might mislead a visitor into thinking a house was made of cut marble, but no chisel ever touched a Silvanesti home. Through natural magic and secret art, the people of Silvanost had learned how to shape natural substances into any form they desired. Only careful study could reveal that a lovely green townhouse was actually made of live ivy. A tower that resembled cut glass from afar might, close up, turn out to be polished quartz, the crystals mined and assembled like logs.

Not long after entering the Sunpath, the crowds lining the route began to multiply. Gardeners went to fetch their masters and mistresses. Artisans left their tools. Elf children – who seemed scarce to Mathi, compared to the children of a nomad tribe – came running from under bowers and arbors. Everyone wanted to see the celebrated general.

For his part Balif kept his course resolutely ahead. At times he acknowledged a familiar face with the slightest of nods, but the acclaim of the growing crowd he ignored. Mathi looked back. Stretching behind them, the street was filled with curious, excited elves. They crowded the honor guard, jostling the rear ranks until the soldiers started elbowing them back. The proud residents of Silvanost did not take kindly to such treatment. They shoved back. Before the procession dissolved into a riot, Balif halted.

He walked back among the guards, who had likewise halted. Ignoring their captain, he parted their ranks until he reached the rear of the company. There some angry elves stood apart, loudly complaining about their treatment at the hands of the Speaker’s soldiers.

“Friends, forgive me,” Balif said to them. His simple plea silenced everyone. The soldiers had expected he would admonish the townsfolk. The Silvanesti thought he would do the same to the guards.

“I am the cause of this disturbance. My apologies,” he said, facing the crowd. “Please do not trouble yourselves or the Speaker’s troops. They are here to honor me, nothing more.”

“Where do you go, general?” someone called.

“To hear the words of the Great Speaker.”

A murmur swelled in the crowd. Balif assured them, “Our Great Speaker seeks my counsel on some matter; that’s all.”

“May you live forever, Lord General!”

That cry was repeated by many throats. Balif surveyed the onlookers.

“Do not let your affection for me lead you to say things you may regret,” he said severely. “Save your hails for him who sits on the Throne of the Stars.”

“Better that you sat there!”

From where she stood, Mathi saw two reactions: the captain of the guard glowered under his ornate helmet, and Balif went pale. Without another word, he strode back to the head of the procession.

“Forward,” he said in a low voice to Treskan, busily writing. “And you, girl. Do not look around or say anything.” Mathi nodded. “At a walk, then.”

Down the Sunpath they went, trailed by the ever-growing crowd. Passing the grounds of the temple of Astarin, a troupe of pipers formed on the green came down. The musicians were young acolytes of the temple, dressed in green robes and bare headed, as befit their status as new servants of the god. They fell into place ahead of Balif, playing a light marching air. Mathi could not tell if the general was at all pleased. Wasn’t it Balif’s intention to draw notice? Why else take such a conspicuous route to the Tower of the Stars? Why walk down the center of a busy street?

It didn’t take long for her to imagine a reason: If I thought I was going to be arrested or killed, I would want a large, friendly crowd at my back too!

By the time they reached the Star Way, more than a thousand elves filled the boulevard. The pipers struck up an ancient air, “Sun and Stars,” and the crowd began to sing. Their voices made the hair on Mathi’s neck prickle. She had never heard such harmonious singing before. That was the magic of Silvanost, the city that rural elves believed was inhabited by the gods.

Since the procession was hardly stealthy, word of Balif’s progress reached the Tower of the Stars well in advance of the general. Everyone could see the bright white pinnacle ahead, the tallest tower in the city. What no one saw until they rounded the wide, circular lane was a phalanx of royal troops drawn up before the tower gate. Ranged behind them were two companies of cavalry. Overhead, griffon riders circled. Quite a few griffon riders, in fact.

The massed might, arrayed in perfect formation, caused the pipers leading the parade to falter. Their pipes fell raggedly silent when their lips dried. The divine chorus behind Mathi likewise sputtered and fell dumb. Everyone stopped and stared at the Speaker’s power, so openly displayed. All, that was, but one.

Balif shouldered through the Astarin acolytes, politely excusing himself as he went. Mathi and Treskan were lost in the press until the general called out to them to follow. Feeling a bit like a rabbit racing by a dog pen, Mathi hurried to catch up.

At the head of the troops lined up before the Tower of the Stars was a familiar face. Balif hailed his old comrade Farolenu, commanding the tower guard.

“My lord!” said Farolenu, once a master metalsmith. “I was ordered to defend the tower against a riot. Instead I find you leading a festival parade!”

Balif said, “Just a few well-wishers, old friend.”

Farolenu raised his sword in salute. “Face the honor!” he cried. The commander of all elf armies was present, and the warriors had to pay homage. Blades and spears rose skyward.

In response the crowd of Silvanesti chanted, “Balif, Balif,” in two long syllables like “Bay leaf, Bay leaf,” a pronunciation the general particularly disliked. Lofotan had advised Mathi that he preferred his name be pronounced “Bah-liff,” with the emphasis on the second syllable.

The captain of the guard led his honor troop forward. They had to break ranks and filter through the crowd, a path they plainly resented. Mathi and the scribe came with them, filling in behind Balif like mismatched shadows.

“The Great Speaker awaits,” Farolenu said, stepping aside. Balif mounted the shallow steps to the tower. The guard captain tried to restrain Treskan and Mathi from following.

Balif said, “Let them be.”

“The scribe perhaps, but a common girl cannot be admitted to the presence of the Speaker of the Stars!”

“I am of common birth. The fact that everyone calls me ‘my lord’ doesn’t change that. So either admit us both or deny us both. Do as you will, but do it in haste. The sun grows hot and my friends restive.”

Thinking of the crowd at his back, the captain relented. “On your responsibility, my lord,” he said grudgingly.

Balif went on. Very quietly he told Mathi and Treskan to stay three steps behind him and say nothing. Tingling with anticipation, the girl and the scribe readily agreed.

They climbed the steps between the enormous curled rails flanking the entrance. Made of white metal, they were brilliantly polished. Sunlight reflecting off them was almost painful. Treskan fell six steps behind when he strayed to get a closer look at the ornamentation. Without looking back, Balif urged him onward.

“Those are solid electrum,” he said. An alloy of gold and silver, the metal was notoriously difficult to work. The entwined forms were curled as naturally as shoots of honeysuckle but made of hard metal six inches thick.

They passed out of the bright sun into a cool antechamber. Farolenu and the guard captain were close behind. When Balif disappeared into the tower, another shout rose from the crowd. Mathi was close enough to the general to see his enigmatic expression. He might have been smiling, but his brow was deeply furrowed. Balif walked ahead, hands clasped behind his back and head lowered. Corridors passed by on either side. Court officials and favor seekers, looking cool and vastly self-important, lingered in the side halls, awaiting their chance to gain the Speaker’s ear. They stared at the elves who had the audacity – and influence – to walk directly into the monarch’s presence. For the first time, Mathi felt truly worried. Could she really stand before the Speaker of the Stars?

The arched passage opened abruptly into a great open area, the hall of the Tower of the Stars. The scale of the place diminished everyone. Mathi looked up and saw that the awesome height of the tower was lined with a spiral row of windows reaching all the way to the domed roof. The tower walls were faced with black basalt. The only light came from an open skylight, the Moonlight Shaft, at the very peak of the dome. There were two rows of galleries above the hall, capacious enough to hold the assembled lords of the realm if need be.

Amazing as the tower was, the floor was positively breathtaking. The floor of the great hall was covered with the finest mosaic Mathi had ever seen. Thousands of pieces of polished black jet were laid out to mimic the sky. Stars rendered in gold or silver dotted the floor in exactly the positions occupied by their heavenly counterparts. Most astonishing of all, tracks allowed models of the three moons to travel around the floor. A hidden mechanism under the floor kept them moving in the same place as the moons in Krynn’s sky. The floor of the Tower of the Stars was a giant orrery, an astronomical device by which the seasons could be tracked and the days of the year numbered. Such a complex mechanism was no less magical to Mathi than the invisible spells she knew protected the place.

Balif approached to where the orbit of Solinari crossed the floor. There he stopped. He went down on one knee, facing the throne.

“Great Speaker, I have come.”

Mathi raised her eyes from the amazing instrument at her feet. Silvanos Goldeneye looked down at them from his throne atop a two-level dais. Lined up on the lower level were five solemn figures, richly dressed and wearing silver-star headbands. They were the Speaker’s counselors, heads of the five noblest families in Silvanost. On the second level, at the Speaker’s right, were the high priests of the major temples – Astarin, E’li, Matheri, Quenesti Pah, and the Blue Phoenix. Standing at Silvanos’s left were two females. One was young and very beautiful. The other was older, quite handsome, but more modestly dressed than the other. Mathi assumed the elder female must be the Speaker’s wife, and the younger, his daughter.

“Balif Thraxenath, Chosen Chief of House Protector, First Warrior of the Great Speaker, son of Arnasmir Thraxenath of the Greenrunners clan, and loyal servant of the Great Speaker of the Stars, I greet you,” Silvanos said. His voice was deep and booming, though a lot of its power came from cunning acoustics in the hall.

Though the place was dim, the Moonlight Shaft cast its light on the Speaker’s throne. Mathi got her first good look at the founder of Silvanesti. He was, as his epithet said, golden eyed. Silvanos’s famous eyes were large and almost red in color. His hair was also red-gold and worn very long. He had a strong face but not a handsome one. Silvanos’s nose was long and aquiline, his chin sharp. The height of his ears was truly dramatic. Long of limb, his hands appeared half again as big as Balif’s, who was well built. Mathi got a good impression of the strength of will of the elf, who had forged the proud old line of the elves into a nation. Everything about Silvanos seemed typically elflike but taken to unexpected heights. Even his powerful voice befitted a monarch with an almost godlike command over his people.

“May I pay homage to your sister, the Votress of the Greenwood, and your royal wife?” said Balif. The younger woman smiled winningly. The elder one moved not a muscle.

Mathi felt a strong hand on her shoulder. Before she knew it, she was forced to her knees. Farolenu pushed her down along with Treskan then knelt between them.

“Avert your gaze,” he whispered. Mathi stared at the black floor.

“I have summoned you to undertake a new task of great importance to the nation,” Silvanos said.

“As the Great Speaker commands, so shall I do.”

From her place Mathi was puzzled. How could anyone as wise as Balif agree to a task he hadn’t heard about yet?

“Word has come that an invasion is under way in the eastern lands.”

Silvanos was referring to the land east of the Thon-Tanjan river. A mix of wild woodland and open plains, it was bound on the north by desert and on the east and south by the sea. It had no native population. Silvanos claimed the land for Silvanesti when he first took the crown, but little had been done to enforce the claim. The elves’ attention had been focused on the west, where nomadic humans constantly encroached on Silvanos’s claims to the great central plains.

“Humans?” asked Balif. The east was a long way from the heaviest concentration of barbarians. It was unlikely humans could have migrated across the elves’ northern territory without notice, nor could they cross the desert in any numbers.

“Not just humans,” Silvanos said, leaning back. “Another race … of small stature. My governor says the land is thick with them.”

“Send the army,” Balif said flatly. His tone made the Speaker of the Stars’ face harden like a marble statue.

“The army is engaged elsewhere,” Silvanos snapped. Balif did not shrug, but he might as well have. “I want you to go. Take a small band with you and survey the situation. Having just concluded a twenty-year fight for the west, I do not propose to lose the east by negligence.”

“Is that your order, Great Speaker?”

“It is. Go at once. Find out the truth of the situation, and bring your considered word back to me.”

Balif bowed his head. “It shall be done, Great Speaker. May I draw on the royal stores for supplies?” Silvanos said Farolenu would provide whatever Balif needed for the journey.

“Leave tomorrow,” Silvanos said. “I am anxious to have true knowledge of what’s going on.”

“Is tomorrow soon enough? I can leave tonight, if it please the Great Speaker. Better to meet the invaders as far from the royal city as can be done.”

Silvanos snapped, “You presume a great deal on my affection, my lord general! Save your sharp tongue for others worthy of it. I am not spoken to thus!”

“Forgive me, royal master. I meant no disrespect.”

Balif said the words, but Mathi did not believe him at all. He was mocking Silvanos’s pretense of importance. The mission could be done by any of a thousand reliable warriors. Why send the first general of the realm?

She heard whispers from the throne dais. Peering in that direction, Mathi saw the elder of the two elf women conferring quietly with the Speaker.

Silvanos shifted forward, perching tensely on the edge of his golden chair. “My noble sister reminds me that your wit, like your sword, is in my service too,” he said, trying to control his annoyance and only partially succeeding. “I trust you will use both as I command. Go with the sun, my lord general. May Astarin guard your steps.”

“I thank you, Great Speaker, and the noble votress as well.” Balif bowed low. “I shall return before long with what intelligence I can gather. Health and long life to you, Great Goldeneye.”

“And to you, Balif Thraxenath.”

There was something in the Speaker’s tone that made Mathi’s blood run cold. Anyone could hear the hostility between Balif and Silvanos sparking the very air in the Tower of the Stars. His farewell to the general dripped with irony. Mathi had been awed to enter the Tower of the Stars and look upon the face of the Speaker. After their exchange, what she wanted most of all was to get away, and the sooner the better.

Balif withdrew, shooing the girl, the scribe, and the captain of the guard ahead of him. By the time he’d backtracked to the entrance, Silvanos was deep in conversation with his counselors, ignoring the general’s departure.

When Balif emerged from the tower, the crowd was still there. They roared when he reappeared. Smiling, he raised his hand in greeting.

“Is it wise to encourage such disloyalty here?” asked Farolenu in a low voice.

“These people saved my life,” he replied. “This is gratitude, not disloyalty.”

They descended the steps. The mob surged forward, crushing the royal guards back. Fearing his soldiers would be trampled, the captain ordered his guards to shoulder their arms and give way. Cheering, the elves poured through the sullen warriors like floodwater.

Raising his voice to be heard over the din, Balif said, “I will send over a list of the supplies I need!” Farolenu nodded.

A slim elf girl, dressed all in white, emerged from the tower and darted down the steps. She slipped through the crowd with easy grace and pressed a note into Balif’s hand. Though she came from inside the tower, she continued on past Balif, melting into the throng. Balif cupped his hand around the missive and gave it a quick glance.

“Any answer, my lord?” Treskan asked, stylus poised.

“No. Go home, both of you. Tell Lofotan to prepare for a land voyage of three months’ duration. Have him send his list of needed supplies to Farolenu at House Protector.”

Treskan dutifully took down his commands. When he looked up to ask for more instructions, Balif was gone. The crowd didn’t seem to notice. They cheered the elves remaining on the tower steps. When at last they noticed their hero was gone, the elves peacefully dispersed.

Chapter 4

DREAMS

Mathi and Treskan returned to Balif’s desolate mansion. It was not a comfortable journey. She had never been in Silvanost before, and though Treskan vowed he could backtrack on the route they had taken readily enough, they lost their way more than once. On the way to the Tower of the Stars, no one bothered to look at them because they were in the shadow of the great Balif. Going back, they felt like everyone they passed could tell they were strangers in the city. Because they were obviously not from the city, many elves shunned them, ignoring their painfully polite queries for directions. Treskan’s awkward gait and rather coarse appearance caused an arched eyebrow or two, and Mathi’s rustic clerical gown gained looks of aesthetic disapproval, but no one challenged them. No one helped either.

By guess and by luck, they found the villa. It was more empty than usual. Lofotan was nowhere to be found. The scribe retired to an empty room off the main hall to transcribe his notes on Balif’s audience with the Speaker. Mathi roamed the vast halls, calling the majordomo without success. In the end she found her way to the kitchen. From far down the hall, she heard Artyrith laboring mightily, clattering cutlery and pans. He punctuated his struggle now and then with high-flown Elvish oaths. What elf obscenity lacked in earthy vigor it made up for with poetic ferocity. After hearing a few barrages from the cook, Mathi halted outside the kitchen, fascinated and horrified at the same time. What was that he said? Put the mixing spoons how deeply where?

The door shielding her from the cook flew open.

“The country girl! Why are you lurking in dark hallways?” Artyrith exclaimed.

“I am looking for Lofotan,” she replied. “Have you seen him?”

“I’ve seen no one since you two came down to collect the general’s breakfast.” His belligerent tone softened. “Did he like it, by chance?”

Mathi honestly could not remember. She said, “He liked it very well.”

“Strange, he usually eats like a songbird. Maybe feeling like a condemned convict improved his appetite.”

Artyrith grabbed a broom from the corner outside the door. Mathi noticed that the broom, like most artifacts she’d seen in Silvanost, was impossibly elegant for such a homely tool. The handle was made from a long, white bone, a wing or leg bone of some unidentifiable creature. At the other end, the broom’s head looked like a solid block of some kind of soft, gray material.

She followed Artyrith. The kitchen was well lit by assorted luminars – proof Balif never came down there. A transparent vase lay smashed on the floor. Saffron dust spilled out in drifts from the point of impact. Sighing, Artyrith started sweeping up the spill. He muttered something about how much gold per ounce the spilled powder cost.

“Why do you call the general a convict?” Mathi asked.

“Because death or exile hangs over his head like a sword. Have you not heard?”

“I’ve not been in Silvanost long, my lord.”

Having his pretensions polished made Artyrith beam. “Of course. You are a hopeless provincial.” She must have frowned, for the handsome cook explained, “No offense, my dear. One is either from Silvanost or not.”

So far the distinction did not seem much of an honor to Mathi. She saw Artyrith start to dump a pan full of broken glass and golden-red powder in a waste bin. Mathi objected. Why not sieve it, filtering out the bits of glass?

Artyrith was delighted. “Trust a practical peasant to know how to squeeze a coin!”

He placed a large copper bowl on the table and laid a slightly smaller sieve of the same metal on top of it. Dumping the spilled powder in the sieve, he noted with satisfaction that it passed through, leaving slivers of glass behind.

“Tell me about Lord Balif,” Mathi said. “I know the songs they sing about his courage and generalship. Who is the real one I owe my rescue to?”

The cook tapped the sieve to speed the powder through. “Ah, the general. No one is so talked about in Silvanost as our lord! Time was Balif was the second most powerful person in the kingdom, and without doubt the most respected. But something happened to change all that. It was that rogue, Vedvedsica.”

Artyrith’s voice dropped when he said the name, as if he feared invoking the magician by speaking his name too loudly.

“I have heard the name, but I know little of him,” Mathi said.

“He’s a blackguard of the first order. By attaching himself to Lord Balif, he gained much prestige. He lorded it over everyone for a very long time, and then he fell, blackening the name of his great patron when he toppled.”

Vedvedsica was a woodland wizard, once one of the leaders of a coalition of wild, self-taught mages known as the Brown Hoods, from the homespun robes they wore, Artyrith explained. When Silvanos Goldeneye was extending his rule over the elves of the wildwood, the Brown Hoods were his most serious opponents. The mages had their own candidate for Speaker of the Stars: Balif Thraxenath, hereditary clan chief of the Greenrunners. For a while it looked like civil war was brewing, but Vedvedsica performed a powerful augury ceremony for Balif to divine his future. After seeing what was in store for him, Balif willingly submitted to Silvanos and publicly proclaimed him Speaker. After that Silvanos had no serious opposition.

“What became of the Brown Hoods?” said Mathi. “Surely all of them didn’t follow Vedvedsica and Balif?”

“They didn’t. Once he was in power, Silvanos organized a quiet campaign to destroy the woodland magicians. Some were slain. Others were thrown in prison, while others were exiled to rocky islands in the southern sea. Vedvedsica organized the purge for Silvanos.”

Mathi sat down at Artyrith’s feet, folding her legs beneath her. By dropping a few more “my lords” to the talkative cook, she easily extracted the rest of the story.

Artyrith said, “Vedvedsica seemed unassailable then. He served Silvanos, and at the same time remained General Balif’s personal counselor. He put his magical skills to work for both of them. When their goals clashed, Vedvedsica’s intervention meant success for the one he chose to side with.”

The last of the spilled powder was in the sieve. Artyrith thrust the broom at Mathi. Only then did she recognize the head was made of feathers – hundreds of tiny, gray feathers embedded in a bar of solid bronze. How was such a thing made? And for common household use too!

Mathi asked Artyrith what brought the mage down from the height of power.

“No one knows but those involved. It is a capital crime to speak of it.” Artyrith drew a narrow finger through the salvaged spice powder. “What I have heard is this: Vedvedsica embarked on a personal scheme of a blasphemous nature. He duped our lord into aiding his work. When he was caught, he tried to buy his way out of punishment by offering the Speaker the head of the illustrious general, our master. The Speaker has never been comfortable with our lord. He’s too honest and too popular. He pretended to agree with Vedvedsica’s proposal then put the mage on trial for his life.”

Mathi all but dropped the broom. “That’s monstrous!”

“Your word, country girl, not mine.”

The conversation finally seemed to spook the loquacious cook. He suddenly professed to be extremely busy and shooed Mathi out of the kitchen. Head abuzz with new facts, she made her way back to the front hall. There she found Lofotan removing a cloak and wide-brimmed hat.

“What are you doing here? Where is our lord?” Mathi had to admit she had lost Balif in the crowd outside the Tower of the Stars. The old soldier did not appear concerned. When Mathi told him about the Speaker’s command that Balif investigate the infiltration of the east by foreign interlopers, the majordomo was elated.

“Good!” he said. “It’s about time we quit this wretched city! You cannot trust anyone here.”

Mathi said the general was ordered to leave at first light.

“It shall be done! You will help, girl. The clumsy scribe too.”

“My name is Mathi,” she replied. “The scribe’s name is Treskan. They’re not hard names to remember.”

Lofotan ignored her. He bustled in and out of rooms, collecting garments from chests and flinging them into the girl’s arms. When Mathi was staggering under the burden, Lofotan led her to a small room under the grand stairway. Neatly racked along the walls were swords, bows, quivers of arrows, javelins, and light lances. Lofotan spent some time examining the blades, checking them for straightness and their edges for nicks. He had selected three when he asked Mathi to come forward. Struggling under an armload of clothing, the girl tried to comply.

“Oh, drop all that.”

Mathi heaved the garments on the floor.

“Are you right-handed? Hold out your arm.” Bewildered, she did so. Lofotan laid a slim elf sword against her outstretched arm. “How can you have long limbs and such a short reach?”

Not understanding the question, Mathi let the observation pass. “What are you doing?”

“Measuring you for a sword.”

“I’m no warrior!”

Lofotan took a too-lengthy blade away and tried a stubbier one. “Maybe so but you can defend yourself if needed, can’t you? A party of five armed elves stands a better chance in the wilderness than a party of four.”

“Five?” asked Mathi.

“My lord’s cook is no stranger to the blade. The scribbler, though blessed with five thumbs on each hand, is sturdy enough to bear a blade.”

The shortest sword in the armory fit Mathi’s reach. Lofotan was looking for a shirt of mail for her when muffled chiming filled the empty mansion. He stood stock still, listening.

“Someone’s at the door.” Mathi understood by then that visitors were not common at Balif’s abode. Lofotan hurried out. Mathi was at his heels, still carrying the short sword by the scabbard.

Lofotan opened the small postern set in the monumental door. There stood Balif. He was not alone. A draped figure stood close by in the starlight, hidden from view by a heavy cloak.

“My lord?” Lofotan was taken aback.

“I have a visitor I wish to entertain in private. Everyone in the house will withdraw to the kitchen.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Seeing they were in the midst of preparations from the coming trip, Balif said, “Keep that sword, Captain. Fetch the scribe. Go with him and the girl Mathi to Artyrith’s domain. All of you must remain in the kitchen until I give you leave to come out.”

He reached through the postern, taking Lofotan by the wrist. “You will slay whoever tries to leave the kitchen without my permission.”

“Yes, my lord. What if we have another intruder?”

He let go. “I am armed,” was Balif’s terse reply.

Lofotan took the short sword from Mathi and saluted with it. “It shall be done, my lord.”

He herded the girl to the passage downstairs. Mathi looked back over her shoulder several times. All she saw was a draped figure entering the house. Balif shut the door. Mathi had the distinct impression the visitor was female, but she could not make out her face.

Artyrith feigned outrage when he heard Balif’s orders. Lofotan told him why they were imposing on the prickly cook.

“Ah!” said the handsome young chef. “She pays a final call?”

“Still your tongue, fool, or I’ll still it for you permanently.”

Artyrith might have snapped back at the blunt threat, but the sword in Lofotan’s hand discouraged discussion. He went back to rolling bread dough.

Lofotan went out and quickly returned with Treskan. The scribe stumbled along, all the time writing on his board with his black metal stylus. Mathi asked what he was writing about.

“Events of the day,” he said, not looking up from his work. “I am still describing Balif’s march to the Tower of the Stars.” Absorbed by his work, he didn’t notice Artyrith peering over his shoulder until a gout of flour dusted his instrument.

“What kind of writing is that?”

Treskan turned the board over so the cook couldn’t see it. “It is called ‘record-hand.’ It allows us scribes to record full words in just a few strokes of the stylus.”

“Ingenious.”

Artyrith returned to his pots and pans. Lofotan sat grimly in front of the kitchen door, arms folded across his chest. The bare sword lay on his knees.

Darkness crept into the kitchen. Mathi helped start luminars around the room. When Artyrith had the meal ready, no word had come from Balif. Lofotan wouldn’t let anyone out to see if their lord required dinner. With an expressive shrug, Artyrith offered the fine repast to Mathi, Treskan, and the majordomo. They ate the large, golden-green, squashlike vegetable, carved to resemble a capon. Artyrith had stuffed it with nuts and berries, seasoned with the same bright orange spice he’d salvaged from the broken jar that afternoon. Mathi ate slowly, wary of bits of glass. The food was excellent. Artyrith had a splendid nectar to wash down the imitation bird. It was light as water, with a slightly acidic tang. The nectar vanished on the tongue like dew off early-morning grass.

“Wonderful,” Treskan declared. “My lord, you are an artist.”

“You have an educated palate to match your writing skills,” Artyrith said, beaming. “Would that our lord shared your taste.”

“He doesn’t like your food?”

The chef shrugged. “Who knows? He never says he does or does not.”

Mathi drank only water. Artyrith tried to fill her cup with nectar, but she refused it.

“You do not take spirits?” he said, holding out the slim, brown bottle.

“Not even mead,” she replied. “My people sold honey to meadmakers, but I do not drink such things.”

Lofotan ate in silence. He downed glass after glass of nectar until the bottle was dry. Artyrith grandly opened another. The old soldier put a hand over his cup.

“No more,” he said. “I have duties to perform.”

“Fear not, my two-legged griffon. This Runo vintage is lighter than a sea-maid’s kiss. We could down a bottle each and feel nothing more than gentle warmth.” Lofotan was unconvinced.

The cook filled Treskan’s glass not for the first time.

“See, the rustic scribe is not afraid. Are you?”

Treskan drained the cup in one long gulp. He seemed quite unfazed by it.

“That’s the way! This isn’t mere drink; it’s medicine for the gullet!” Artyrith refilled his cup and Treskan’s. Seeing the pretentious cook and awkward scribe outdrinking him wounded Lofotan’s pride. He shoved his silver cup forward.

Artyrith gave Mathi a secret wink. He filled Lofotan’s cup to the rim.

By the strong aroma, the girl could tell how potent the nectar was. It had an airy taste, but the rosy glow in her companions’ cheeks hinted at hidden strength. Sure enough, by the time the second bottle of Runo nectar was finished, Lofotan flushed from collar to crown.

He lurched to his feet. His sword swung in a wide arc. Mathi had to throw herself out of its way.

“I must go,” the majordomo said in clipped tones. “Where is —?”

“Down the hall two doors, on the right.” Artyrith’s brilliant green eyes were glowing from within. Watching Lofotan walk unsteadily to the door, he all but laughed.

“Pompous old fool,” he said, slurring. “Another bottle and I’ll have him under the table.” He held up the empty nectar bottle and kissed the dusty glass. “Better elves than him have succumbed to this vintage! ‘Ruined by Runo,’ that’s what my grandsire, the great Lord Mistravan, used to say.”

He meant to set the brown bottle on the edge of the table, but he missed and sent it crashing to the floor. Artyrith stooped to pick up the shards. Letting out a sigh, he toppled on his side and lay still. Mathi circled around and found the cook passed out, lying on the floor with his hand draped across a chair. Across the table, Treskan had his head down, snoring.

Mathi swept up the broken bottle. Artyrith was out for a while. She waited. When Lofotan did not return, she crept out into the hall and listened. All was still. She went to the water closet two doors down and knocked softly. There was no response.

Lofotan had made it inside but had fallen into nectar-padded sleep. With sudden elation Mathi realized that she was free of all constraints. Her curiosity, inflamed by hours of enforced confinement, erupted full force. Who was Balif’s mysterious visitor? She knew the general’s first and only wife, Alsalla, had been dead for thirty years. Was Balif saying farewell to a secret lover, or was something more mysterious afoot?

Screwing up her courage, she removed her sandals. The priestesses at the Haven of the Lost had given them to her, but Mathi was never comfortable in them. Hiking up her clerical gown, Mathi tiptoed upstairs to the main hall. She didn’t have to search far to find Balif. Light spilled from under a closed door on the ground floor, betraying the general’s presence. It was the morning salon, where Mathi had cooled her heels that first day, waiting for Balif to return. She was in there long enough to remember the layout of the room. There was a balcony along the south wall of the salon, accessible from the second floor. Mathi eased upstairs. She found the door to the balcony and slowly pushed down the handle. The jeweled tumblers inside the door lock worked soundlessly. Mathi went down on all fours and crept in.

The balcony was more than ten feet wide, with a waist-high railing. Light streamed up from an array of oil lamps. Mathi wished there had been furniture in the balcony to hide behind, but it was barren. She slid toward the rail on her belly, feeling as if she were casting a shadow twenty feet high behind her. Carefully she approached the rail.

She heard voices. The elf speaking had a low, throaty voice, female but strong.

“— cannot believe it. He must be sending you away to save your life, not to harm you.”

Balif replied in his distinctive voice: “So you say. I have my doubts.”

“If he wanted you dead, you would never have left the Night Chamber,” his unseen companion insisted.

“Your brother is more subtle than that.”

Mathi almost choked on her own breath. Brother? Balif’s secret companion was the Speaker’s sister?

She did not hear part of what was said next. All she made out was “— your chance to win back the Speaker’s favor.”

“Who wants his favor? I enjoyed it for more than a century, and the lies of a convicted criminal were enough to lose it in one day.”

They were directly below her, beneath the overhang of the balcony. Mathi imagined they were at a table dining or seated on some of the few couches remaining in the mansion. She was startled to see Balif emerge from under the balcony wearing nothing. Mathi froze, realizing that she was intruding on a private moment indeed.

Balif went to a delicate amphora perched beside a silver lamp stand made in the form of a mimosa tree. He poured a measure from the vessel. The liquid was dark, not nectar.

“Do you want more?” he asked. The lady said yes. Balif pointedly did not serve her, but held out the amphora for her to help herself.

The mystery guest entered Mathi’s sight, decorously draped in a bit of silk sheet. It was the elder of the two women Mathi had glimpsed at the Tower of the Stars. So she was Silvanos’s sister, the Divine Votress of the Greenwood? Her name, she knew from common knowledge, was Amaranthe. Silvanos had made her Divine Votress, the highest of high priestesses in the land. The Divine Votress was an ancient office usually held by a very old female. Everyone knew Silvanos elevated Amaranthe to the sacred office to prevent her from marrying anyone. There was no one in all of Silvanesti the Speaker deemed worthy of such a close link to the royal family. Imprisoning his sister in the office was typical of the Speaker’s ruthlessness. Since she’d had no choice but to accept the office, Amaranthe evidently did not consider her vow of chastity binding.

She filled her cup and said, “Do as Silvanos commands. In a year or two, the scandal around Vedvedsica will die down, and he will find reason to recall you. Then we shall be together again.”

“And if he doesn’t recall me? Would you leave Silvanost? Could you live in some remote province, far from the city, to be with me?”

There was no hesitation in her answer. “You know I can’t do that.”

“Not even if I wed you before all the world?”

It was a bold offer. For a Divine Votress to marry was unheard of. For a member of Silvanos’s family to marry without his permission would cause a scandal greater than the one driving Balif out of Silvanost.

“I can’t,” Amaranthe repeated with less assurance.

“Can’t. Won’t. The words are different, but the result is the same. I mean less to you than your place near the throne.”

“Don’t play the wounded hero with me! You know how things stand. You know who has the power.”

Balif kissed her gently. “Yes, I know,” he said. “It isn’t us.”

She put her arm around his waist. At once she withdrew it, as if stung. Balif, lost in thought, did not notice. Slowly Amaranthe returned her fingertips to Balif’s back.

“Are you ill?” she asked. He denied it. “There’s something on your skin,” she said, frowning deeply. “Feels like … like hair?”

Mathi was listening so closely that when Amaranthe said that, she slid farther forward so as not to miss a word. Her forehead rapped smartly against the carved railing. Horrified, she ducked down and held her breath.

Balif strode out to the middle of the room and said, “You heard?”

Amaranthe drew the sheet close around her. “Someone is near!”

“Yes, on the balcony!”

If Mathi expected the guilty pair to run away or shrink from harm, she was gravely mistaken. With her cheek pressed hard to the floor, she saw Amaranthe vanish under the balcony. She returned with a wicked-looking dagger. Strange people, Mathi thought, who make love with daggers close at hand!

“Here,” Amaranthe said, putting the pommel of the weapon in Balif’s hand. “Find who it is and kill them.”

Mathi inched backward. Once in the deeper shadows at the rear of the balcony, she could rise and run. She was still prone when Balif leaped from the salon floor and grabbed the bottom of the balcony railing. To Mathi’s terror, he steadily dragged himself up. The dagger was clenched in his teeth.

She had no doubt she would die if the general caught her. Abandoning stealth, she scrambled on all fours into the shadows, creeping along the baseboard into the darkest corner of the empty balcony. She watched in growing alarm as Balif scaled the railing, throwing a lean, bare leg over the top. He took the dagger from his teeth. Staring into the shadows, he looked unerringly in Mathi’s direction.

“Whoever you are, you must die. Stand still, and it will quickly be over.”

Mathi steadied herself to leap. She reckoned she could make the rail in two bounds and be over and down before Balif could reach her. If the Divine Votress was not armed, she could get away and be out the door. It would be the end of her quest, but with luck she might yet redeem herself.

Balif advanced, holding the long dagger like a sword. Against the amber background of the lamplight, his usually blue eyes glowed blood red.

Chapter 5

LABORS

There was a clang from below. Half the light promptly vanished, throwing the expansive room into near darkness. Balif halted his advance. Looking back over one shoulder, he called out, “Was that you, Mara?”

“Yes, curse it! My cloak caught on the candelabra!”

More of the tree of candles went out, tilted as they were at too severe an angle. The princess of Silvanost struggled with guttering lights, hissing maledictions as the hot wax burned her fingers.

“Be still,” Balif said to his lover.

Mathi did not need to be cautioned; she was as still as she ever had been in her life. While Balif’s eyes had been averted, she used her fingers and toes to grip the stone wall behind her. Fortunately it was rough travertine, and she was able to pull herself up with the slightest of holds.

“Is anyone there?” Amaranthe called.

Balif did not answer. He glided through the deep shadows to the spot where Mathi had cowered. She had reached the ceiling and clung there, gazing down at the dim figure of Balif. The dagger gleamed dully.

He swept the air before him with the blade, to Mathi’s great relief. The general could not see her hiding above him. That’s why he struck out so blindly at the shadows.

“Mara, are you dressed?” She said she was. “Raise your cowl and go out to the hall. Wait for me there.”

In a swirl of silk, the Speaker’s sister departed. Balif backed to the rail, dagger held out point first.

“You have escaped with your life, for now. There will be another reckoning later.”

He put one leg over the rail then the other. Blade in his teeth, he leaped down to the floor. No more than a candle or two still burned. Mathi heard his bare feet cross the polished floor. Then the candles went out.

She let go, dropping hard on all fours. Time to move! Undoubtedly Balif would check the kitchen to see if everyone was there. Mathi had to be back before the general, or her lucky escape would be only temporary.

Fortune favored her again. When she emerged into the upper hall, she could hear Balif and Amaranthe arguing in hushed tones in the entrance hall. Smiling to herself, Mathi ran swiftly to the back stair and descended to the corridor outside the kitchen.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the warm, oven-baked interior of Artyrith’s kitchen. The aristocratic cook was dead asleep, numbed by his Runo nectar. Treskan had rolled over at the table, still snoring softly. (Who knew elves snored?) She skirted the slumbering scribe and went over to the sink. She waved her hand under the slender copper spout, and a stream of cool water trickled out. Gratefully she flung it on her face. She discovered the vein in her neck was throbbing.

Lofotan was still gone. Mathi sat down at the table where she had been before. There was enough nectar left in Artyrith’s second bottle for her to fill her mouth. She swirled the bitter liquid around and spit it out. Gods, she hated the taste of alcohol.

The door opened. Mathi slumped forward, one eye cracked. Balif stood there, barefoot and bareheaded, dressed in a sky-colored silk robe. He surveyed the room, face hard. Mathi could see the pommel of his dagger peeking out of the waist of his gown.

He walked slowly around the kitchen. Standing over Artyrith, he sniffed loudly. Finding the cook unresponsive, he moved on to Treskan. He nudged the scribe. Treskan snorted, turned his head away, and kept snoring.

Using the scribe’s change of tune as an excuse, Mathi lifted her head, feigning great drowsiness. Inside her heart was racing.

“Ah, Mathani Arborelinex. Just the one I came to find.”

“Me, my lord? What do you require of me?”

He picked up the empty nectar bottle, read the wax seal stuck to the bottom, and set it down upright.

“Have you been out of this room tonight?”

“No, my lord.”

“Someone was loose in the house. I tried to catch her, but she eluded me.”

She gripped the table hard to keep from visibly trembling. Still, she managed to say, “‘She,’ my lord?”

“I had a fleeting glimpse of a feminine silhouette.” The general appeared genuinely puzzled. “After my attention was drawn away, the intruder vanished from a closed room.”

Balif drew the knot tight on his sash. “Where is Lofotan?” Mathi explained the majordomo’s absence – the Runo nectar and Artyrith’s prank.

Balif was not amused. “I see. I remind you again to stay in this room, Mathani. I am only just learning about your life. It would be a pity to end it just at this new beginning.”

The girl merely nodded. With supreme grace, Balif said good night. He must have found Lofotan passed out down the hall, for the former soldier returned a short time later, white faced. Mathi greeted him with a cup of cool water. Strong nectar dried the throat.

Lofotan accepted the cup and swallowed the water swiftly. Eyeing the unconscious cook, his expression was murderous.

“You saw our lord?” Mathi asked innocently. Lofotan admitted he had. Though she hadn’t heard a single voice raised in anger, it was easy to imagine the dressing-down Balif had given his old comrade for deserting his post. Whatever he said, it had cut Lofotan to the core. The stalwart old warrior was badly shaken.

“You bore up well,” he said.

“I had only a sip.”

“It’s as well Lord Posturemuch is out,” Lofotan declared. “Else I would call him out to the field of honor for what he did!”

“Why pick on him? He’s no match for you,” Mathi offered.

Lofotan set down his cup, eying her. “That braggart, that proud, overweening imbecile, that …” He struggled for another insult and settled for, “That cook is also one of the most dangerous blades in Silvanost, believe it or not. If the time ever comes for us to fight, it will not be a light matter.”

Treskan groaned and stirred. Mathi filled a cup of cool water and set it by the scribe’s elbow.

Dawn arrived with a crash.

From the clang of metal and loud shouts, the girl’s first thought was that a battle was in progress. She opened her eyes. She was lying on one of the kitchen side counters, her head pillowed by a sack of flour. The luminars, which had all gone out once she and Lofotan stopped talking, were glowing brightly. Blinking, she sat up.

Artyrith, red faced, was tossing pots and pans into a wicker pannier. Another basket, already brimming with provisions, stood beside it.

“This is no way to travel!” he exclaimed. “Go now! Do this! Do that! How can I create decent meals under such conditions?”

“Who says your meals are decent?”

Mathi spied Lofotan by the door. He was dressed for the road – cloak, leather pteryges, and a finely wrought breastplate, carefully etched to soften its hard bronze sheen. A sword dangled from his left hip, and a war dagger from his right. He leaned one shoulder against the doorframe.

Artyrith still wore his wrinkled robes from the previous night. His hair was askew, and his face bore more distress than simply feeling harried. Ruined by Runo indeed. Seeing Lofotan’s insolent pose, he made an unpleasant suggestion to the majordomo. For once the usually dour Lofotan laughed.

“How about you? Are you ready to go, scribe?” he asked.

Treskan, very bleary, had only the clothes on his back, and said so.

“Go to the hall upstairs and wait upon our lord.”

Tired and stiff from her sojourn atop the kitchen counter, Mathi followed the scribe. They found Balif in the entry hall, dressed almost exactly like Lofotan. His armor was a little finer, but otherwise his kit was the same. Despite all the digging in crates and juggling of armaments, the pile of equipment Balif and his party were taking was very small – two panniers per elf, an easy load for a sturdy packhorse.

“Greetings, my lord,” Treskan said. “What do you require?”

“I require you to spell correctly and tell the truth,” he replied. When the scribe reacted with a blink and a stare, Balif hoisted a pair of loaded panniers onto his shoulder.

“Take these out and put them on the chestnut mare,” he said. “You do know about horses?”

He shifted the bags to Treskan, who grunted an affirmative. Knees bowed under the weight, the scribe shuffled to the monumental front doors. Only the postern was ajar, but he couldn’t fit through it with the panniers. Grasping the gigantic gilded latch, Treskan hauled the sixteen-foot-high bronze door open.

“Face the honor!”

The salute, shouted just a yard from Treskan, caused him to flinch and lose his burden. The loaded panniers crashed to the ground.

In the plaza before Balif’s mansion, six companies of warriors were drawn up in block formation. At the command, everyone raised his sword or spear to his face in salute. When they realized they were honoring the general’s clumsy scribe, the weapons fell with a musical clatter.

Strong hands boosted Treskan to his feet. Farolenu and another officer he didn’t know stood him on his feet.

Mathi peeked out the door. “Great E’li, what’s all this?”

“We’re here to escort the general,” said Farolenu. It sounded reasonable when he said it, but Mathi smelled the truth. Six companies of infantry would discourage the sort of popular parade that followed Balif to the Tower of the Stars.

Single warriors held the reins of five riding horses and five pack animals. With the help of some soldiers, Treskan got the panniers on the chestnut mare.

Lofotan emerged from the house. More careful, Farolenu waited until he saw who was coming before he ordered another salute. The veteran clasped hands with Farolenu.

Lofotan looked up at the sky. “A good day for travel.”

“The Speaker so ordered it,” Farolenu replied. “No rain to spoil the general’s departure.” From her humble place at the door, Mathi could not tell if they were jesting or not.

Complaining loudly, Artyrith appeared. No trews or breastplates for him. He wore a very stylish city-cut kilt and sleeveless tunic, topped by a bright scarlet cloak draped over one shoulder and pinned under the opposite arm. Standing on the steps with the imposing facade of Balif’s villa behind him, he looked more like the lord of the manor than his master.

Seeing the array of soldiery drawn up before him, Artyrith uttered a single pithy oath. The officers, Lofotan included, regarded him with supreme distaste.

Hatless, while Treskan, Lofotan, and Balif wore flat-topped, wide-brimmed travelers’ hats, Artyrith strode down the steps to the line of horses. He chose the best one, a dappled gray, and was about to mount him when Lofotan caught him by the elbow.

“Not that one. That is the general’s.”

The tall roan was the majordomo’s. That left the three ponies for the cook, the scribe, and the girl. Sniffing at the indignity of having to ride a short-legged nag, Artyrith chose the paint and swung nimbly into the saddle. Treskan stood by the dusty brown pony without complaint. He was an unsteady rider at best. At least with a beast such as that he didn’t have so far to fall.

Lofotan beckoned Mathi to take the last pony. She came on warily. Three paces away, the horses began to shift and snort. The pony left for Mathi rolled its eyes as she drew near.

“I warned my lord that animals do not like me,” Mathi said, backing away.

“Nonsense,” said Lofotan, dismounting. “The silly beast is just skittish.”

The silly beast was indeed skittish, and no amount of coaxing or handling by the expert Lofotan would calm it down. It began to look as though Mathi would be left behind or worse, have to walk.

Balif emerged, tying on his flat hat. Farolenu barked the command, and six hundred warriors snapped to attention, clacking their bronze greaves together as they stood straight as spears. The general of all the Speaker’s armies regarded his old comrades with a critical eye.

Farolenu stepped forward. “My lord! I wish I was going with you!”

“No, you don’t. It’s going to be terribly dull. Riding, camping, sleeping in the cold and the rain – no adventures, I fear.”

Farolenu was unconvinced. He knew his general too well. Where Balif went, things happened.

“I don’t understand why a suitable escort was not ordered,” Farolenu said. “The commander of all the Speaker’s armies deserves more company than one old soldier, an effete cook, a clumsy wordsmith, and a bumpkin.”

The cook retorted, “Your voice carries exceedingly well, my lord!”

“And your ears are keen,” Balif replied. “Fear not, my friend. I have the companions I deserve and wish.”

He glanced at the sky. The summer sun was well up. Widely spaced, bright white clouds drifted along. There was perfume in the air – the scent of all the flowers in the neighboring gardens.

“Time to go.”

“There is a problem, my lord,” said Lofotan. Balif queried him with a look. His majordomo explained how the pony left for Mathi to ride would not allow her on its back.

“So?” Balif patted the sturdy animal’s neck. He ducked under its low neck, running a practiced hand over the animal’s dusty hide. “Seems like a sound enough creature. Come here, girl.”

Mathi, loitering at a discreet distance, approached slowly. The ponies – not just hers – began to quiver and shuffle their hooves.

Balif removed his wide-brimmed hat and used it to cover the pony’s eyes. With a nod, he let Mathi know she should try to mount again. Holding the saddle pommel in both hands, she clambered rather clumsily onto the animal’s back. The pony pranced a little forward and back but did not buck.

“We need blinders; that’s all. Something in our girl’s complexion disturbs the beast.”

Lofotan went inside the villa and returned a short while later with a set of blinders, gray from long disuse. They were fitted to the pony’s head. Balif tied his hat on once more and gave Mathi her pony’s reins.

“Be kind,” he said. “Often we don’t know who we are carrying.”

His remark puzzled everyone, but at last the party was ready. Lofotan held Balif’s horse while he mounted. He wrapped the reins around his left hand and wheeled the animal around. Trotting back, he watched as Farolenu’s soldiers lashed the baggage panniers in place, looped the packhorses’ reins together, and gave them to the last rider in line, Mathi.

“Mind the reins,” Balif said. “We’ll be on short rations for sure if you lose those horses.” To her own surprise, the girl found herself promising to guard the animals’ leads with her life. What was it about the general that inspired such compliance? Mathi felt she would do anything the general asked. It was an unfamiliar and uncomfortable feeling, the urge to obey.

Without fanfare, Balif assumed the lead of his little party. He signaled his people to follow him and set out down the avenue at a slow trot. Lofotan was on his right, and Artyrith trailed straight behind. Treskan came next, his writing board and leather cylinders of parchment banging against his legs. Mathi urged her animal forward, but the pony was reluctant. The gap between her and the scribe widened. Farolenu circled back, asking what the problem was.

“The blighted beast won’t go!”

“Really?” Farolenu smacked the horse’s rump, sending it lurching after the others. Jerked into motion, the packhorses followed with their ears laid back and teeth bared.

Farolenu barked, “Companies! By the order, quick march!”

One by one the infantry broke formation and marched after the balky pack animals. When the last one left the square, silence fell over the great house of Balif.

Balif reached the main eastbound thoroughfare in Silvanost, called the White Strand. It ran straight as an arrow to the E’li Gate in the ring of fortifications surrounding the city. Along the way the streets were strangely empty. Bands of warriors in fours and sixes stood on every corner, bracing to attention as the general went by, but no ordinary Silvanesti could be seen. Silvanos was not having a repeat of the previous day’s triumphal parade.

There was one vehicle drawn up at the edge of the White Strand. It was a closed coach, finely made but devoid of any decoration, talisman, or heraldry. The gleaming pearl-gray coach was pulled by four horses of the same hue, perfectly matched. No one sat on the driver’s box. As Balif rode out onto the broad avenue, he passed the coach. Taking the brim in his hand, he doffed his hat to the coach. Curtains drawn across the windows never stirred.

Seeing the exchange, Mathi urged her balky mount to go faster. Drawing abreast of Artyrith, she said, “What was that about? Who do you think was in that coach?”

Looking straight ahead, the cook replied, “What coach?”

Lofotan also ignored the vehicle. Treskan frankly stared at it until the marching ranks of Farolenu’s elves entered the street. Once Balif was far down the way, a liveried driver appeared from behind the conveyance. He climbed onto the box, cracked his whip, and drove the mysterious coach away.

Then it struck her: Amaranthe. She had come to say good-bye after all.

Nothing else of note happened along the way to the E’li Gate. The massive panels were standing open. Pennants of the House of Silvanos whipped from the towers above the gate. Balif rode through, stopped, and turned his horse around. Lofotan and Artyrith did the same, keeping the same positions behind their leader. With the pack animals between them, Treskan and Mathi couldn’t manage such a tidy maneuver. They settled for clearing out of the way, pushing the pack train to the ditch on the north side of the road.

Farolenu halted his troops inside the gate. Alone he walked through to the general. He gave his hand. “My lord, I want you to know I have written to the outposts at Free Winds, Greenfield, and Tanjanost, advising them of your coming. They will render any assistance you need.”

“This was not Silvanos’s order, was it?” Balif asked. He gripped his old comrade’s hand firmly.

Farolenu said nothing. When Balif released his hand, the one-time metalsmith saluted as old soldiers do, placing his palm over his heart. “The gods bless you, Balif of the Plains.”

“Thank you, my friend. Somehow I doubt they will.”

He left the puzzled Farolenu and rode away, spurring his horse to a canter. The others hurried after him. Ahead lay the ferry station and the broad Thon-Thalas. The ferry crew was standing by. Their craft was a broad, flat-bottomed barge with three steering boards and a pole mast supporting a white lateen sail. There was much talk in the city of training giant turtles to tow barges back and forth across the Thon-Thalas, but so far that had not been done.

Balif’s party boarded the empty ferry. Normally that time of day would find a sizable crowd filing aboard, but there was no one else in the station. Lofotan queried the crew about it. Nervously, they avowed no knowledge, but it was plain the Speaker wanted Balif’s departure made as quiet as possible.

The horses were secured, and the baggage stowed. Sitting on the rows of benches in the bluff bow, Mathi watched with interest as the sailors cast off. The sail went up, and the steering oars were turned by practiced hands. Mathi asked why there were three oars instead of just one.

“The Thalas is wide and deep,” Lofotan explained. “Though the surface is placid, there is a terrific undertow from the city all the way down to the sea. It takes more than one rudder to steady a craft on this river.”

Balif removed his hat and let the river wind tussle his pale hair. “In the Dream Days, the people who dwelt by the river called it ‘Thon-Flaxis,’ which means Drowning River in the old tongue.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “It was common for the river tribes to use the river as a way of solving disputes.”

Sensing a story, Treskan unlimbered his writing equipment. Artyrith, feet propped up on the bench in front of him, idly asked how it was done.

“Two elves with a conflict or an affair of honor could ask for a trial by water. Each would enter the Thon-Thalas from the opposite bank and swim to the other side. If one drowned, the survivor was judged to have won his case. If they both drowned, the subject of their dispute was taken away from both clans and given to a disinterested party.”

“And if both survived?” Mathi wondered.

“There is no record of that ever happening,” said Balif.

“Our ancestors must have been savages to employ such practices.” Artyrith sniffed.

Balif replaced his hat. With great dignity, he withdrew to the stern of the barge, where he gazed at the city slowly diminishing in the distance.

“Fool,” said Lofotan in a low voice. “Don’t you ever govern your tongue?”

“What have I said?” asked the cook innocently.

“Did you not know our lord offered to swim the Thon-Thalas as proof of his innocence in the recent scandal? The Speaker forbade it, but our lord was sincere. He would have undergone the ordeal had the Speaker agreed.”

Shamed, Artyrith looked away and said nothing. Mathi made her way aft to where the general stood, one foot propped on the stern post.

“My lord, don’t be so troubled. I’m sure our mission will succeed,” she ventured.

“Perhaps it will. Stranger things have happened.”

He continued to watch the city shrink to the horizon. Mathi tried to say something encouraging. How dangerous could their mission be? They weren’t expected to fight off an invasion with just five elves, merely find out what was going on.

“Our mission means nothing,” Balif said. “Any subaltern with half a mind could do it. What troubles me is quite different.”

Grateful for the opening, Mathi asked what the general had on his mind.

“I cannot escape the feeling this is the last time I shall see Silvanost,” he replied somberly. “And all who dwell here.”

Chapter 6

EYES

Once he set foot on the eastern shore, Balif was a different elf. All his melancholy contemplation vanished. He supervised the offloading of their horses and gear with crisp efficiency, tipped the ferry crew with gold for their labors, and bade them farewell. When the barge was out of earshot, Balif addressed his companions.

“From this point on, we are not the Speaker’s eyes and ears, seeking foreign invaders in our land. Do you understand? We are travelers, nothing more. Our outward goal is to find sites for new villages for settlers from the west. Silvanost and the heartland of the realm are overcrowded. Our people need space and land. Is that clear?” Everyone agreed it was.

“I am the party’s surveyor. I am not a general. Anyone who addresses me as such will know my displeasure.”

All eyes went to Artyrith. “What?” he demanded. “Am I so loose-lipped?”

Balif cleared his throat and went on. “Lofotan is our engineer. You’re chiefly interested in water sources, quarry sites, and places that need bridging. Artyrith will be what he is, our cook. Treskan is my secretary. As we travel, he will create a record of our exploration that will pass the closest inspection – a very long, very dull catalog of watersheds, fields, and forests. I want anyone who reads it to fall asleep after half a page, utterly convinced by your record’s tiresome authenticity.” Treskan assured him that he could compile a log guaranteed to numb an ogre.

“In this masquerade, what role do I play?” asked Mathi.

Balif gave her a strange, probing look. “You could be my wife,” he said. At the girl’s consternation, he smiled and added, “But it would be more believable if you were my daughter.”

“How shall we call you, if not ‘my lord Balif’?” Lofotan asked.

“I shall go by the name the foresters gave me, Camaxilas.”

Mathi thought it all made sense, though it seemed a little elaborate, considering that they were still deep within the Speaker’s realm. Farther east, in the uncharted forests and meadows beyond the Thon-Tanjan, Balif’s precautions would be wise, but why enact them so early?

Artyrith thought the same way and had the impertinence to ask why.

“I want our pose ingrained in all of us by the time we reach the Tanjan,” Balif said. “Treskan’s catalog must already be detailed when we get there. Also” – he gestured over his shoulder with a sweep of one hand —” do not be fooled by where we are or what we are close to. This land is not the Speaker’s palace garden. There are many who do not relish his rule and do not love the Silvanesti in any case.”

That being so, why pretend to be the advance guard of a wave of settlement? Surely that would cause much resentment where they were going, Artyrith objected.

Lofotan said, “Sometimes a wise commander gives his enemy what he expects, just so he is free to do what he truly wants – the unexpected.” Mathi understood. If they tried to appear totally harmless, that would incite more suspicion than if they were merely mercenary intruders.

Everyone mounted. Treskan took the reins of the pack-horses to relieve Mathi for a while. Balif took out a small, leather-covered case. He snapped open the lid and held it skyward, turning in his saddle to catch the sun.

“What’s that?” asked the city-bred Artyrith.

“A sunstone,” Lofotan answered. A naturally occurring jewel, sunstone was used to show direction. By aiming the largest flat facet at the sun, light was scattered through the prismatic interior of the stone. A bright blue line at right angles to the sunlight indicated north.

Balif pointed to his right. “That’s our line of march, north by east.” He tucked the sunstone away and spurred his mount. The others hastened to keep up with him.

Through the next day, they worked hard to overcome lifelong etiquette and not constantly refer to their leader as “my lord.” Lofotan had the hardest time. He’d been with Balif for a century of campaigns. Calling Balif “my lord” was as natural to the old soldier as breathing. Artyrith had a much easier time. Breezy manners came easily to him, as he regarded Balif more as an equal anyway. Treskan simplified his problems by saying as little as possible. Mathi practiced calling Balif “Father.” The title took hold in a curiously natural way.

The eastern shore of the Thalas was lightly forested. For centuries the local elves had cultivated hardwoods and nut-bearing trees. Since the end of the savannah campaign against the human nomads, fruit trees had been added to the mix. Mathi could not see any pattern to their growth, but Balif assured her the abundant apple, cherry, and plum trees they saw were deliberate additions to the landscape. Elves did not plant trees in orchards, as humans did. Orderly rows of the same kind of tree would have struck an elf as crude and unlovely. The sunny landscape looked as natural as any lowland grove. True, there was little underbrush to clog the roots and impede the growth of the favored trees, but the hand of elf farmers was very hard to distinguish.

“Who owns this land?” Lofotan consciously bit off the usual “my lord.”

“This is the ancestral holding of the lords of Hestanthalas,” said Balif. The family name meant Hest of the Thalas.

“From here to the bay in the south is all theirs, granted to the family by the second Sinthal-Elish.” Even Artyrith was impressed. Such a large holding meant great wealth, power, and influence. Hestanthalas was an important name in Silvanost. Twice a lord of Hest had stood by the Speaker as his high councilor.

Treskan made notes as he rode. It wasn’t easy, writing while on the back of a swaying pony, but he had to take advantage of Balif’s order to compile a gazetteer of the region. The general wanted it as a cover for their mission, but a detailed description of the region would be invaluable to the masters of Silvanost. Little was truly known of the territory in the elves’ heartland. Maps trying to depict the eastern provinces of Silvanesti had frequent blank spots. Only the largest features – rivers, forests, mountains – were well marked. Treskan had a perfect opportunity to supplement the nation’s meager knowledge and earn points with Balif as well.

They didn’t stop for many miles. Noon came and went, and Balif rode on. He passed a flask of water back and forth with Lofotan, talking quietly about the terrain, the weather, and their previous journeys through the region. Artyrith, Treskan, and Mathi had to make do. The cook broke out food and drink, a sweet nectar that he said was from the Thalas delta. They ate in the saddle. Artyrith grumbled the whole time. While he talked, Mathi half listened with a vacant but sympathetic smile. The cook scarcely noticed.

The longer they rode, the more the trees thinned and eventually disappeared. They topped a low knoll, and Balif reined up. Spread out below was a wide, rolling plain. Unlike the largely flat savannah of the distant west, the eastern plain was hilly, cut by small streams and dry ravines. Thick, dark green grass as high as the horses’ bellies waved in the wind. Ahead of them there wasn’t a tree in sight. Hawks wheeled overhead, screeching. Everyone looked skyward, attracted by the noise – everyone but Balif.

“This is no elf’s land,” he announced. “Whatever the Great Speaker thinks, his power ends with the forest. From here on we shall have to be on our guard.”

“What about the outpost at Free Winds?” Lofotan asked. It was about six hours’ ride farther east. Should they make for it?

Balif nodded. “Free Winds it shall be.” He steered his horse down the shallow slope.

Free Winds wasn’t a town. It was a military post, a Silvanesti island in an ocean of grass. Besides a garrison of elves, there were traders, tax collectors, and other trappings of civilization, but the rule of the Speaker’s law ended outside the outpost’s stone walls.

They rode on. Over the course of the long, summer day the riders strung out according to their ability and the strength of their mounts. Balif forged ahead with Lofotan close at hand. Artyrith, though an accomplished rider about town, wasn’t used to so much time in the saddle. He labored to stay within sight of the leaders, but it was poor Treskan and Mathi who really struggled to keep pace. The pack train didn’t hamper them as much as did their lack of riding skill. By late afternoon Balif and Lofotan were over the horizon, and Artyrith was just a dot in the landscape far ahead.

Treskan tried to get his balky pony go to faster. He was afraid of being left behind, and said so repeatedly. Mathi feared he would start weeping if they didn’t catch up with the others. Thumping the pony’s ribs with her heels and shaking the reins to urge the beast forward, Mathi gradually became aware of the profound silence around them. Stretching high in the simple padded saddle, she saw Artyrith meandering through the grass more than a mile away. They were crossing the bottom of a large, bowl-shaped valley, ringed by low hills. The wind had ceased, and the ever-present hawks were no longer circling overhead. Mathi’s hand went slack on the reins. Her pony slowed then stopped. He fell to cropping the lush grass surrounding them. So did the packhorses. Feeling the drag on their reins brought Treskan to a stop too.

A dull red disk hung close to the horizon. Mathi had the sun at her back, but she shaded his eyes to better see the unexpected object. It was Lunitari, the red moon, uncharacteristically rising before sunset.

She felt a chill pass over her, as if the sun had been suddenly cut off by a passing cloud. The horses sensed it too. One by one they raised their heads and looked at the red moon.

A low rumble rolled over the valley. The sky was dotted with a few fluffy, white clouds, but no thunderheads were present. The packhorses began to whinny and shake their heads. Mathi didn’t pay much attention to their distress until it infected her mount. Treskan’s pony pranced in a tight circle, snorting loudly.

“Whoa, whoa,” he said soothingly. What had them spooked?

Mathi sensed it first. Something was lancing through the high grass about a hundred yards behind them. On all fours, it was moving fast. It wasn’t visible above the grass. She called out to Treskan, alerting him to the danger.

He yelped in alarm. The eastern lands were home to many beasts seldom seen in the well-hunted west: wolves, panthers, great plains bears. Treskan groped for his sword. He didn’t know how to use it, but having it in hand was better than nothing. Mathi had her sword too, thrust upon her by Lofotan, though she had never used such a weapon in her life.

Her pony reared, despite its blinders. Apparently the horses had gotten wind of the intruder. Mathi was not prepared to keep her seat. She fell off, hitting the thick mat of grass not too hard. Freed of its clumsy rider, the pony trotted away, whinnying and shaking its blunt head.

Mathi got up, throwing off her long riding cloak. Her sword was conveniently sticking point-first in the sod nearby. She tugged it free. Where was the menace?

“Over there!” Treskan called, pointing with his blade. Behind her!

The packhorses, tied together, were nearly mad with fear. They pulled and snatched at the rawhide lines binding them to each other. Curiously, the unseen creature had circled around the easy prey and was creeping through the grass toward Mathi. Then it stopped moving and growled. Low and throaty, its malign intent was unmistakable. Had it said, “I am going to kill you,” in well-inflected Elvish, Mathi could have not felt more threatened.

Sweat stung her eyes. Lashing out with the sword, she slashed out a circle in the grass to give herself a little better view. It was a desperate gesture. She was not a warrior. Neither was Treskan, who had lost his sword trying to keep his seat on his pony. Where were Balif and the others?

She heard the guttural growl again, much closer. By chance she’d been facing Lunitari floating above the horizon. Hearing the beast, Mathi whirled back to front and saw the sanguinary light of the red moon in the thing’s eyes. They were large, dark eyes, set in a face covered with dappled brown and gray fur. Hands shaking, Mathi lowered her blade.

“Stay,” she said as calmly as she could. “I am not an enemy!”

In answer the thing leaped headlong from a low crouch. Mathi backed away, shut her eyes, and held out both hands to ward off the creature’s lunge. She backed away until she tripped in the grass and fell backward. The beast let out a full-fledged roar. Even through tightly clenched eyelids, Mathi sensed a dark mass passing over her. She tensed for the tear of fangs and the rake of talons —

— and received instead a soft but weighty blow on the chest. She gasped, opened her eyes, and saw the beast was lying full length atop her. It was moving but feebly. She felt its last hot breath against his face.

Several pairs of legs came swishing through the grass. Strong with terror, Mathi heaved the body off. When she sat up, she saw three long arrows lodged in its ribs.

Balif, Lofotan, and Artyrith were walking up slowly. Treskan held their horses’ reins some yards away. The three elves approached in a wide arc with bows drawn. Dazed, Mathi didn’t even remember seeing bows among the baggage.

“Are you hurt, girl?” asked Lofotan. Mathi managed to shake her head no. She felt a burning sensation on her right cheek. Absently wiping the spot, she noticed blood on her fingers. She didn’t know if it was hers or the creature’s.

Artyrith reached the body first. Bow drawn, he nudged it hard with his toe. It didn’t move, but he planted another arrow in its neck, muttering an obscenity under his breath.

Balif arrived. He put his nocked arrow back in his quiver and lowered the bow. He knelt on one knee beside the corpse. “Roll it over,” he told Artyrith.

The cook levered the body over with his bow stave. When he beheld its face, the worldly Silvanesti backpedalled. Mathi’s breath caught in her throat. She gasped.

“What is it?” said Artyrith.

“One of Vedvedsica’s children,” said Balif. Hearing the mage’s name brought everyone’s eyes to the general. He looked down at what had so startled Artyrith.

It was like no creature he had ever seen. The beast-elf who broke into Balif’s villa his first night there had been elflike but covered in brutish hair. The creature before them was different. In general form it resembled a tawny panther, though leaner and with considerably longer limbs. Covered in light brown fur, it was tailless. It was also clearly female. White fangs protruded from its bifurcated upper lip. Strange as it was, it could have passed for an unhealthy breed of plains cat except for its face. It had a woman elf’s face, lightly furred, with ears on the sides of its head, a small nose, and elflike eyes. Open and staring, they were round like any elf’s, with brown irises.

Balif drew his sword and used it to lift the dead creature’s paws. It had fingers, five per limb, tipped with hard, yellow claws.

“What is it?” Treskan said, echoing Artyrith. His curiosity had overcome his fear, and he had crept forward to see what had been slain.

“An animal, magically altered to resemble an elf,” Balif said. He rose, still gazing at the creature. “One of Vedvedsica’s less successful efforts, I would say.”

That was the mage’s crime – whispered about, here and there, and scrupulously suppressed by every Silvanesti official and sage since. Vedvedsica had used his considerable magical skills trying to create elves out of common animals. But why create such abominations?

“Do you know this one?” Lofotan asked solemnly.

“She was called Urnya. She was a highland lynx at birth.”

Tears streamed down Mathi’s face, though not for the reason the elves understood.

“Why was it stalking us?” asked Treskan, agog.

“Not us … me.” Balif closed the staring eyes. “Some of Vedvedsica’s creations escaped the Speaker’s net. They have all the cunning of their motherkind, after all, and each has vowed vengeance on me.”

“Why you, sir? Why not a curse upon the Speaker, who ordered their destruction?”

“Great Silvanos dwells within a fortress, guarded night and day. I have only my wits and a few good comrades with me, and I did turn Vedvedsica over to the Speaker’s justice.”

The truth dawned on Treskan. That’s why Balif lived in such isolation. He had dispensed with servants and isolated himself from his kin to spare their becoming targets of the vengeful beast-folk.

“They hunted me in Silvanost,” Balif went on. “I thought we could outdistance them and reach Free Winds first.” He sheathed his sword. “Urnya always was fleet.”

Balif offered Mathi a hand. Shaking, the girl took it.

“Are you all right?” he asked gently. “Did the beast hurt you?”

She shrugged off his hand. “It’s nothing.”

He went to the packhorses, still tied together and trembling even though the threat was dead. They shivered and flecks of foam covered them as though they’d run ten miles. Balif hunted around and returned with two short-handled spades.

“Time to bury her,” he said. “Poor, unnatural thing, she at least deserves not to feed the crows.”

Lofotan took one spade. Mathi stepped forward and tried to take Balif’s tool. It wasn’t right that a great lord should bend his back digging a grave, she said.

Balif would not relinquish the spade. “I’ve buried many a comrade,” he said. “No one is too good to render this service to the dead.”

Artyrith, Treskan, and Mathi stood back as the two warriors dug a short, deep hole. They put the creature in and replaced the dirt and sod so carefully that it was very hard to tell where the grave was. Treskan remarked that no one would ever find the body.

“Oh, they already know she’s dead.” Balif’s handsome visage was streaked with sweat and grime. Artyrith offered him his flask of nectar. The cook wondered how anyone could know Urnya had been killed.

“They are beasts inside, even when they resembled us on the outside,” Balif said after downing a long swallow of nectar. “They can smell her blood on the wind. Ours too. When she doesn’t return with my blood on her claws, they will know why.”

Since leaving the woodland, Balif had known they were being followed. He purposely had rode far ahead to lure any pursuer into attacking the straggling pack animals. Circling back with Lofotan and Artyrith, they arrived in time to stop Urnya’s attack.

Sunset was fast at hand. “Come,” said Balif. “We’ll stay together this time. Treskan, you lead the way.”

Bows still strung, the three Silvanesti rode in a line abreast behind the pack train. Treskan preceded them on foot for a mile or two until they spied Mathi’s wayward pony grazing at the base of a hill. Remounted, they were able to set a better pace.

Dusk was unusually quiet. Crickets and peepers were still, and the whippoorwill did not sing its melancholy song. It was nerves of course, but Mathi felt a hundred eyes upon her as she guided her pony across a shallow stream. Running water would obscure their scent from the sharpest nose.

She heard a sharp call from behind. Twisting around, she saw Artyrith sit up high in the saddle, take aim, and loose an arrow into the gathering darkness. Balif asked what he saw.

“A pair of eyes, watching up from that thicket!”

A stand of high grass filled the base of a substantial hill north of them. Mathi looked but saw only lengthening shadows.

“Never mind,” Balif ordered. “Keep going. Free Winds isn’t far.”

“But what about the eyes?” demanded the cook.

Lofotan said, “You put an arrow between them, didn’t you?” Unwilling to deny his accuracy, Artyrith said he did. “Then we have nothing to worry about, do we?”

When the hills flattened out, they found themselves on a plain, higher and drier than the grasslands they’d crossed. Half an hour’s ride more, and they beheld a lone, steep-sided hill, rising up from the flat terrain. Twenty or so feet high, it was the only promontory around. Centered atop the hill was a curved stone wall, the outer defenses of Free Winds.

Artyrith gave a cheer. Balif rebuked him in a mild but definite way. The party rode faster. It was truly night. Every chirp, every chuckle by a night-dwelling animal made them flinch. None of them had any desire to meet another one of Vedvedsica’s children that night … or ever. The sooner they were safe behind stone walls, the better.

There was a wide, well-used track up the hillside. Mathi had to lean far forward to keep her seat as they climbed. The packhorses stumbled but kept going. At the top of the hill there was a narrow strip of level ground six feet wide, before the wall. To Mathi’s surprise, the trail ended against a blind expanse of stone.

Balif and the others arrived. Their horses were panting with fatigue. Finding the girl motionless before a solid wall, Balif asked what she was waiting for.

“There’s no gate!” she said, perplexed.

Artyrith said, “I shall ride around.”

Picking his way carefully in the dark, the cook disappeared off to the right. After a time, he reappeared on the waiting party’s left. It was his turn to look puzzled. “There isn’t a gate,” he declared.

Balif was amused. Cupping a hand to his mouth, he called out in a clear, strong voice, “Hello! Soldiers of the garrison, hello!”

A torch poked up, held by an unseen hand. “Who goes there?”

“A surveying party out of Silvanost! We need shelter for the night!”

More torches joined the first. “How many in your party?”

“Five, with ten horses!”

“Stand fast,” called down the voice. “We’ll lower the crane!”

Squeaking and creaking, a contraption of wood and rope rose above the battlement. As they watched, it swung out over the wall. It looked like a platform of planks with a waist-high railing. It was lowered by a single stout rope from a derrick leaning over the wall.

The platform landed with a thump. All four stepped up, colliding at the single entry through the rail.

“You go,” Lofotan said, deferring to Balif. The general got on. Artyrith and Lofotan collided, trying to enter next.

“We’d better not go together,” Balif said to his old comrade. “Lest we are both lost at the same time.”

“How could you get lost?” wondered Artyrith. Lofotan dryly observed that the rope could break halfway up the wall.

The cook got on, and their respective horses were led on next. When Balif shouted they were ready, the platform jerked skyward. It swung back. Balif and Artyrith vanished behind the wall.

Standing in the dark with Lofotan and the scribe, Mathi had a distinct sense of foreboding. She mentioned her unease. Lofotan affected calm.

“Trust the general. He’s no fool. I’ve never known him to unwittingly thrust his head into danger.”

Even so, the crane did not return for a long time. Weary, Mathi knelt in the dust. The horses snorted and nudged her, impatient for water and rest. Then without warning, the platform swung noisily over the battlement and descended for them.

Lofotan put Mathi and the packhorses on. Groaning and creaking, the apparatus hoisted them aloft. She gripped the rail tightly. Fortunately it was dark, and she couldn’t see the ground reeling beneath her. The horses huddled together as quiet as could be. When the platform reached its zenith, the boom pivoted, swinging the scribe and horses in a breathtaking arc. Below, torches burned, lighting a courtyard inside the fortress. Down came the platform. As she neared the ground, Mathi saw that the platform was operated by a gang of human prisoners in tattered rags and dirty breechcloths. They were chained by ankle and wrist with heavy, bronze fetters. Five elves armed with spears stood by them, while an elf in artisan’s robes gave orders to operate the machine. But where were Balif and Artyrith?

A well-dressed elf standing between two warriors greeted Mathi. “I am Dolanath Arkesian, governor of Free Winds.” Mathi gave her name and described herself as the daughter of the surveyor Camaxilas.

“Your father is within, enjoying our hospitality,” Dolanath said smoothly. He indicated an open, lit doorway in the central keep. “Go and refresh yourself.”

Warily Mathi complied. She glanced back and saw their packhorses being led off to a stable built against the outside wall. The crane squeaked into life a third time to fetch Lofotan, Treskan, and the last of the horses.

Unescorted, Mathi wandered inside. It was pleasantly cool inside the thick, stone walls. She smelled something savory and, going straight down the hall, came upon a dining room with a set table. Several chairs were askew, but the plates had been cleared away. There was no sign of Balif or the lordly cook.

She picked up a plate. It was made of that parchment-thin stuff the city elves called “porcelain,” shiny as glass and hard as metal. No one made porcelain like the Silvanesti. Silver urns simmered on a sideboard with fat candles beneath them. Mathi lifted the lids one by one. Fine fare: airy dumplings, clear soup, edible leaves flash-fried so quickly they didn’t lose any color but were as light and crisp as the finest wafers. Crystal ewers of nectar and fruit essence stood on a separate table, chilled in wet basalt buckets. All very hospitable, but something was not right by a mile. Balif would not absent himself before all in his party were inside.

Carrying a plate and a fine silver goblet, Mathi drifted to the table and sat down. No sooner had she done so than two elves appeared on either side. A wooden rod was jammed between her teeth. It tingled strangely and Mathi found that she couldn’t spit it out. Nor could she lift her arms from the chair or stand up. She was pinned down by some unseen force.

The elves picked her up, chair and all, and hustled her through a curtained opening. In moments she was dumped rather roughly in a small, plain room. The elves went out. The ominous sound of a bolt being thrown made it chillingly clear Mathi was a prisoner.

Chapter 7

IMAGES

The tingling sensation in Mathi’s gag slowly dissipated. When the tingling vanished, she spit out the rod and leaped to her feet. Trying the door proved futile. She was solidly bolted in. But why? No one in Free Winds even knew who they were – or did they? Was it some plot of the Speaker’s to get rid of Balif? Or was the abduction aimed solely at her? That, she decided, could not be. She was unknown to everyone – not above suspicion but well below it.

Unused to politics or court intrigue, she tried to untangle the situation. Silvanos was jealous of Balif, going back to the fact that Balif was once favored by many elves to be Speaker. Balif was Amaranthe’s lover, which would infuriate the highly moralistic Silvanos if he knew. Then there was the Vedvedsica affair. Though Balif had cooperated with the prosecution of his former counselor, Speaker Silvanos might want to hush up the blasphemous doings of the rogue magician by silencing all those who knew him, Balif included. Balanced against all those negatives was Balif’s undeniable service to the crown, defeating the Speaker’s foreign enemies. So which weighed more in Silvanos’s estimation? Mathi could not decide.

Hours passed. Whenever Mathi detected footsteps in the corridor, she pressed an ear to the door and listened. She heard nothing but strangers passing in silence. As it grew late, her weariness from their long ride began to tell. There was no bed in the room – in the cell – so Mathi found a spot opposite the door, lay down, and with some effort, dropped off to sleep. A luminar embedded in the high ceiling dimmed and went out.

It was black as pitch when Mathi heard a noise. It sounded like the scrape of wood on stone. Her eyes slowly opened, but there was nothing to see except darkness. Straining, she heard very faint movement within the room.

Fearing assassins, Mathi sat up and called out, “Who is it? Who goes there?” No one replied, so she repeated the demand more forcefully.

“Be quiet,” said a small voice. “You’ll wake the whole castle.”

“Who are you?”

“Just a visitor passing through. What did they lock you up for?”

“I’ve done nothing,” Mathi said urgently. “I only arrived this evening. My reception was cordial at first, but then they threw me in this dungeon!”

“Not very friendly of them.”

The voice sounded like a child’s, but the choice of words and the irony of the tone suggested an older person.

Feeling less threatened, Mathi sat up and said, “Do you have a light?”

“There’s one of those elf shards up here. How do they work?”

Mathi explained you had to know the proper word to excite them.

Her unseen visitor chortled merrily. “Excite, huh? What if I tickle it? Will it work then?”

Mathi spoke the word she knew to activate luminars. Some owners had secret words to start their lights, but when she spoke the common word, the foot-long crystal began to glow, dark red at first. As it grew stronger, the color became pinkish.

The girl looked around for her unseen companion. She saw no one. The cell door was still shut and locked. Who had she been talking to?

“Up here.”

She looked up, spotting her visitor at once. Clinging to the wood-beamed ceiling was a small person about two-thirds Mathi’s height. He was dressed in dark blue woolens and had long, auburn hair tied back in a single thick hank. The little fellow’s feet were bare.

“You’re the least nervous elf I ever met,” he declared.

“I should have looked up first,” Mathi said.

“Why?”

“I know that trick,” she said, remembering her escape from Balif. “Few people look skyward when there’s trouble.” “I’m not trouble. I’m Rufe.”

She looked puzzled. He let go with his feet and swung down. Letting go with his hands, he alighted easily right in front of the young elf woman.

“Name’s Rufe. You can call me Rufe.”

Face-to-face, Mathi tried to place her odd visitor. He was apparently male with a beaky nose; large, pointed ears; and very big eyes. He was definitely the oddest specimen of elf she had ever seen.

“My name is Mathani,” she said. “How did you get in here?”

“I squeezed under the door.”

The massive door was so close to the floor that it scraped when it opened. Nothing as big as Rufe could possibly pass underneath.

Rufe looked around. “Pretty plain. The others have nicer rooms.”

“What others?” Mathi said, seizing on his clue.

“Some folks down the hall. Locked up they are. I suppose they must like it.” Apparently having satisfied his curiosity, Rufe gave a little wave and said, “Bye! I’m off.”

“Wait!” Mathi grabbed him by the sleeve. Rufe looked at her hand, shrugged, and twisted out of Mathi’s grip so effortlessly that she ended up clutching her own arm instead. Treading lightly, the little fellow was at the door before Mathi could say or do anything about it.

“Get me out of here!” she cried. “I am unjustly imprisoned, as are my companions.”

“Really? I thought it was because elves don’t take kindly to impostors. Ain’t that why you’re in here?”

Mathi recoiled. How had Rufe seen through her pose as Balif’s daughter? Shaking off her surprise, she appealed to his sense of freedom. “Don’t let me languish in a cell,” she pleaded.

“There’s not much to do in here; that’s certain. Unless you’ve got some imagination, that is.” He pointed at the luminar, white and bright. “Can you bring that with us?”

Mathi climbed onto the only piece of furniture in the room, the chair she’d come in on. Stretching up high, she snagged the bright crystal with her fingertips.

“I have it!”

Stepping down, she saw Rufe was gone, but the door of the cell was standing wide open.

Delighted, Mathi ran to the door. The corridor was empty. Where had the little fellow gone to so fast? Remembering how they had met, she checked the ceiling. No, Rufe wasn’t there, but she noticed diminutive footprints in the dust, many sets running in both directions. Either Rufe had friends there or else he he’d been roaming the fortress at will for some time.

Mathi tiptoed down the passage, holding the luminar at arm’s length. Even though they were capable of blindingly bright light, luminars were never more than faintly warm to the touch. At the next door she found, she knocked softly and whispered, “My lord? Are you there?” Getting no answer, she tried the next. On her third try, she heard an answering hiss from the door she’d just left. It was Artyrith. Mathi slid back the bolt and pushed the door open with her toe.

Two strong hands seized the front of her gown. She was dragged forcefully forward, losing the light rod in the process. Whirled aroundand thrown down, Mathi found a foot planted on her throat before she even had time to protest.

A face bent low over. “It is the girl. Let her up.”

Artyrith stood back. Treskan helped Mathi stand.

Lofotan said, “My apologies for the rough welcome. Since we were forced in here, we haven’t found out who has confined us or why.”

Mathi compared her experiences with the others’. Lofotan and Treskan had been taken exactly as she was, at the dining table. The strange gag paralyzed them. The old warrior and the awkward scribe were stripped of weapons and carried to that room (larger than Mathi’s cell), where they found Artyrith already a prisoner.

“Where’s our lord?” she asked.

Artyrith said they were separated when they were dragged out of the dining hall.

“Of more immediate interest is how did you escape?” said the cook.

Mathi described Rufe in some detail as she had never encountered such a being before.

“Sounds like the race said to be invading the eastern province,” Lofotan remarked. He picked up the dropped luminar, ruby red and failing. “It’s cracked.” He hefted it like a club. “We must find our lord at once. He may be in worse danger than the rest of us.”

They pulled apart the chairs and divided the sturdy wooden legs among themselves. Hardly fine weapons but under the circumstances they would have to do.

Lofotan led the way, club in one hand and the dying luminar in the other. The passage outside ran straight another twenty yards then ended on a sharp left turn. They tried all the doors along the way but found no one.

“This will take all night!” Artyrith fumed. He slipped ahead of the cautious soldier and boldly grasped the latch of the next door. He flung it open, calling out, “My lord, are you here?”

Balif wasn’t in the room. But eight elf warriors were. They had stumbled into a guard room.

“Oh, E’li!” gasped Lofotan.

Artyrith uttered a wild yell and launched himself at the nearest soldiers. They scrambled to their feet, groping for arms they weren’t carrying. All their swords and pole arms were neatly racked on the back wall. Lofotan propelled Treskan forward to join the fray, while Mathi hung back.

Swinging his club, Artyrith connected twice in two sweeps. Down went an opponent with each blow. Lofotan kicked over a stray chair and threw the dark luminar at his closest foes. Treskan flailed around a bit, beating the air but not hitting any opponents.

By then the whole room was engulfed in a wild melee. Artyrith proved to be a remarkably adroit fighter. He dueled with his length of wood as if it were a sword, besting one warrior after another. Lofotan was as formidable as his age and experience could make him. He wasn’t as stylish as the cook, but he made no mistakes. Inept as he was, even Treskan held his own in the chaos, keeping warriors busy until his more martial comrades could deal with them.

Impressed by her companions’ skill, Mathi stayed by the door. She was no warrior, and she was certainly not fit to battle eight Silvanesti hand to hand. Lingering in the open door with a chair leg held tight against her chest, she flexed her fingers, nervous but unwilling to join the fray. She did shout warnings when Artyrith or Lofotan were in danger of being outflanked. The Silvanesti soldiers fought bravely, but they seemed reluctant to do the kind of damage Artyrith and Lofotan were willing to inflict. Sensing defeat, one of the warriors decided to get help.

Seeing him sprint for the door, Lofotan barked, “Stop him, girl!”

Not knowing what else to do, Mathi stuck her stave out at knee height. The rushing elf tripped on it and crashed headfirst into the stone wall outside.

When the rest were subdued, Artyrith came to see if the fleeing elf was taken care of. He picked up Mathi’s stick – she had dropped it during the collision – and handed it back to her.

“Well done.”

Lofotan helped himself to a sword from the wall rack. He tossed one underhand to the cook, who caught it neatly in midair. Treskan’s he pressed into the scribe’s hand.

“One for you, Mathi,” he said next. She shook her head.

“Take one anyway. If either of us loses ours, yours can be our spare.”

After inspecting the corridor, Lofotan slipped out. Artyrith followed with a swagger, and Treskan went behind him, nursing a bruised hand. Looking over the devastated room and its prostrate residents, Mathi turned and went through the door after her comrades.

Sword in hand, Lofotan strode the corridor with new authority. He flung open doors defiantly, loudly calling for Balif by his forest name, Camaxilas. He found no one but some startled civilians doing an inventory in a nearly empty storeroom. No one tried to impede them.

The passage ended at some double doors. Lofotan indicated to Treskan, Artyrith, and Mathi that they were to stand on either side of the doors and at his signal, open them simultaneously. When they were in place, Lofotan composed himself, resting his sword against his shoulder.

“Now!”

The doors flew inward with a bang. In they rushed, Lofotan leading with sword leveled.

The room beyond was a large one with a vaulted ceiling. A forest of candelabra brightly burned. Dominating the room was a large ivorywood table. It was set for dinner, but only two were seated: a noble-looking Silvanesti – Dolanath Arkesian, the governor, Mathi recalled – and their missing leader, Balif.

It took all of Lofotan’s control not to exclaim, “My lord!” when he saw the general. Artyrith was not so contained. He muttered one of his famous obscenities. Treskan merely gaped.

“What is the meaning of this?” Dolanath said.

“My journey companions,” Balif said, rising from his chair. “Come in, please.”

“What’s the meaning of overcoming us with magic and throwing us in cells?” Artyrith snapped at the governor. “Most inhospitable, I say!”

Dolanath looked to Balif. “Very unfortunate, I agree,” said the general. “I was on the point of winning your freedom when you burst in.” He could not help but smile. “Seems my companions could not be held, my lord governor.”

A rush of footfalls in the corridor announced the belated arrival of the governor’s guard. They surrounded Balif’s comrades, but Lofotan’s scowl and Artyrith’s expert sweeps of his blade kept them at a respectful distance.

“Peace, everyone,” Balif said. “Weapons are not needed.”

Reluctantly they allowed their swords to be taken away, except for Mathi, who gladly pressed hers on the closest soldier. The guards withdrew, closing the doors behind themselves. Dolanath offered the elves places at his table. Warily, Lofotan complied. Treskan went straight to the nectar urn. Artyrith circled the table, sniffing and tasting the proffered fare. He made faces or nodded, depending on what he thought of the dishes. Mostly he grimaced. Mathi sat at the far end of the table, as far from Dolanath as she could be.

“I beg your forgiveness, gentle elves,” said the governor, not sounding contrite in the slightest. “But the timing of your visit was unfortunate. We had no advance word of your coming, and you arrived in the midst of a siege.”

“Siege?” said Lofotan. “We’re not at war. I saw no army outside.”

“Nevertheless.” Dolanath sat down. “We are besieged and for some weeks now.”

The enemy was not an army or a mob of uncouth human savages. They were a seldom-seen horde of diminutive people, who had the uncanny ability to pass in and out of the fortress at will. Mathi’s ears pricked up: Who else could the governor be talking about but Rufe? Rufe and numerous friends, it seemed.

Vital stores had been looted, civilian traders picked clean, and nothing the governor tried to protect royal property made any difference, the governor explained. Desperate, Dolanath had taken the extraordinary step of detaining every visitor on the weak premise they might be allies of the mysterious invaders. Hence the unexpected seizure of Balif and his party.

Dolanath was an easterner, a minor member of the Hestanthalas clan. While he undoubtedly did know the name of Balif, he had not recognized the general. The governor simply revived Balif first, on the natural premise that he was the leader of his group. After some dinner and conversation masquerading as interrogation, Dolanath became convinced that Balif and his company were indeed on a mission to survey land for future settlement.

“You won’t have an easy time,” he warned. “Beyond the Thon-Tanjan, the land is infested with every sort of barbarian – humans of every size and color, centaurs, and those monstrous little thieves. Our outposts are few. There is no possibility I can protect you out there.”

“I thank you for your concern, my lord. No doubt you have noticed my friends and I can take care of ourselves.”

Artyrith laughed but the governor was not amused.

“Your companions are formidable, Camaxilas, but how will you fare against a thousand nomad cutthroats?”

Balif had fought armies of ten thousand human tribesmen and once even served under the barbarian chief Karada against a notorious band of human marauders. Mounted nomad raiders were not to be trifled with, but the general knew them and understood their ways. As for centaurs, they were mercurial creatures, violent one moment and weepingly sentimental the next. Balif could deal with them too if he must. Avoiding the issue of his experience with the elves’ enemies, Balif asked about the new invaders, the “little thieves” who had Dolanath so frustrated.

“They are the spawn of Hiddukel!” he declared. “They come near and seem innocent of evil purpose. Before you know it, your purse is gone, your food purloined, and your wits confounded. They must use wicked magic to cloud minds and steal with impunity!”

Before the siege began, Dolanath explained, there had been a wooden ramp that allowed travelers to enter and leave Free Winds. Guards posted at the foot of the ramp inspected everyone coming and going to make sure duties were paid and contraband not taken from Free Winds.

“Contraband?” asked Artyrith.

“By decree of the Speaker, it is forbidden to trade metals or weapons to humans,” Balif said. “Go on, governor.”

One of the little persons got into the fortress. He was seen but before anyone could stop him, he was inside. Since then chaos had reigned in Free Winds. No door remained locked. Treasuries were emptied or, more strangely, found intact but moved around. One humble dealer in herbs and roots found his coin box stuffed with gold, while a rich jewel trader had his entire stock vanish in a single night. The gate of the governor’s keep – supposedly the most secure place in Free Winds – was mysteriously opened; then just as unexpectedly, it was shut and locked. The keep was penetrated again then closed again despite a standing watch. Dolanath ordered it barricaded shut in case a storming party tried to enter in the confusion, and by dawn the gate was standing wide open once more with a bulwark of timbers fruitlessly intact behind it.

Mathi almost laughed. Rufe had already proven, to her, his uncanny talent for coming and going as he pleased; that, coupled with a penchant for pilfering, had reduced the governor of Free Winds to impotence. Her odd savior was obviously having a grand time at Dolanath’s expense.

Mathi’s amusement must have shown. Dolanath looked down his nose at the girl and said, “Do you find crime a jest, child?”

She sobered. “No, my lord. It all sounds more like mischief than crime, I would say.”

“You have not endured it. For me, a loyal servant of the Great Speaker, these torments have been like an endless battle. I have no visible opponent, no chance to employ tactics or counterattack. I can only endure losses.”

It was clear that whatever they might find farther east, there were already members of the new race in Free Winds. As long as Rufe and his kind found entertainment around the dreary, elven outpost, they would continue to make the governor’s life unbearable.

Balif pushed back his chair and stood. Thanking Dolanath for his belated hospitality, he excused himself for bed. Lofotan loyally got up, as did Treskan and Mathi. Artyrith lingered over his plate, trying to season the provincial meal with careful dollops of herbs, oil, and vinegar. Lofotan cleared his throat loudly. Artyrith got the message and rose to his feet.

“Ah, where do we retire to?” Treskan asked.

Balif said, “The rooms we were brought to will do.”

“Our cells? I trust the doors won’t be bolted on us again!”

Dolanath colored at the suggestion. It was bad enough that he had locked up civilized travelers from Silvanost. Being reminded of it hardly soothed his conscience.

The male elves returned to the larger room where Artyrith, Treskan, and Lofotan had been held. Mathi went alone to her smaller one. The governor’s servants brought in comfortable beds, an oil lamp to replace the broken luminar, a pitcher of water, and a chamber pot. Worn out from the long day, Mathi crawled into bed. Instead of immediate slumber, she found herself gazing at the ceiling, wondering how far Balif’s expedition would get with every hand in the country seemingly against him …

Something in the shadowed ceiling corner moved. Mathi’s first thought was that a monstrous spider clung to the ceiling there, but the something was far too big. It crept into the wider circle of light from the oil lamp, and she saw that it was Rufe, her liberator.

“Can’t you use the door?” Mathi hissed. “Great E’li, you get around like a cockroach!”

The little man dropped lightly onto the footboard of the bed. “Cockroaches don’t get around that easily if you ask me. Back in jail, are ya?”

“No,” she answered. “Go away.” She was so tired, eyes burning and limbs trembling with fatigue, and even though she was very curious about the little man, Mathi really didn’t want to bandy words with him just then.

Rufe hopped down and ambled to the door. Curiosity got the better of Mathi. She called out, “Wait!”

The little man froze in mid step. “Eh?”

“Are you the only one here? The only one of your kind, I mean?”

“Yep. Don’t tell the pointy-ears that, will you?”

“Why not?”

“It would spoil my fun. Besides, I might have to tell them about you.”

Mathi slowly sat up. With deadly coldness she said, “What do you mean?”

“You’re not one of them, are you? Not really, I mean.”

“Why do you say that?”

He inhaled deeply through his prominent nose. “You don’t smell like them. You see different from them too. Better somehow. I don’t know what you are exactly, but you’re not just a pointy-ear girl.”

She weighed her chances of catching and silencing him before he got out the door. Given Rufe’s agility, her chance of success was poor. “I’ll keep your secret if you keep mine.”

Rufe made an odd gesture with his left hand: he held it up, fingers wiggling, and said, “Finger break and I stay at home if I tell,” he said. He made it sound like a serious oath.

He went out quite casually, pushing the door open with the heel of one hand. Only after Mathi extinguished the lamp and tried to find sleep in the darkness did she realize Rufe had pushed open a door that only swung into the room. How was that possible? It bothered Mathi so much, she had to get up and inspect the door to be sure. She was right. The door opened only into the room. No amount of her pushing would make the door move the other way.

Puzzling over the little man’s baffling tricks, it took a long time for Mathi to fall asleep.

Spawn of Hiddukel indeed!

Chapter 8

PLAYERS

In the morning Balif set Treskan to work writing the phony survey of the country between Silvanost and Free Winds. Treskan worked with a will. He had much catching up to do, and writing was a welcome relief from brawling and riding a bony-backed pony for endless miles. He compiled a very detailed description of the terrain, flora, and fauna of the land between Silvanost and Free Winds. Balif looked over his shoulder now and then and complimented him on his thoroughness.

“Your hand is unusual. Is it the style of your school?” he asked.

Treskan rubbed his writing hand self-consciously. “Yes, this is a type of record-hand taught by my school.”

“What school was it?”

Treskan plainly struggled for a moment then said, “Eyes of Matheri, in Woodbec.”

Balif assumed an opaque expression. “I do not know that one.”

In spite of their unfriendly reception at Free Winds, Balif was in good spirits. All morning he bought maps from local traders and quizzed them about likely locations to build new settlements. To an elf the traders thought Balif was mad. One memorably claimed that building towns or starting farms in the area was like trying to plow the sea. The land was too wild to settle. In another hundred years, perhaps, the blades of the Speaker’s warriors would tame the land. But not in the foreseeable future.

By midday Balif was done pretending to be a surveyor. He dismissed the traders, giving them liberal amounts of gold for their trouble, and dispatched Lofotan and the cook on special missions of their own. Lofotan was to talk to any soldiers he could find off duty and get a military view of the local situation. Artyrith was to restock their provisions for the next leg of their journey.

“What will you do, my lord?” Lofotan asked. They were alone in their room in the fortress, so the honorific was safe to say.

“I have tasks of my own.” Mathi was surprised Lofotan did not press him on the matter. When the general didn’t want to be questioned, no one questioned him.

Mathi was to stay behind and clean the party’s kit. Basically that meant laundering clothes and mending whatever tears and splits they had acquired since leaving Silvanost. She did not object to the menial work. It was part of her role as the surveyor’s daughter. As for Treskan, Balif instructed him to find the fortress’s archives and compare what was written there to what Dolanath told them about the invasion of the little folk.

Waiting a good long time after the others left, Mathi got up quietly and went to the room’s sole door. The corridor was empty. She was about to steal out and follow Balif when she felt a tug on the hem of her gown – the back hem. Quick as a cat, Mathi leaped away from the strange touch.

Rufe was standing there, munching on a rather dirty carrot.

“Nervous neighbor, aren’t you?” said the little man, chomping. “Good reflexes, though.” Every so often he spit drops of mud on the floor.

“Who wouldn’t be nervous with people sneaking up behind them?” Mathi snatched the carrot from Rufe’s hand and poured fresh water over it, washing away the dirt. She held it out to the little man, who was no longer interested in it.

“Everybody gone?” he said, sauntering around the beds and piles of baggage.

“All but me.”

Rufe drew a finger across Treskan’s writing board. “You a scribe?”

She was about to snap, “Don’t touch that!” but decided the expression was wasted on the little man. She picked up the instrument and tucked it into Treskan’s bag.

“I’m not the scribe. His name is Treskan,” she said.

“He’s not a pointy-ear either. What a funny company you have! No one is what they seem.”

“What do you mean? What is Treskan, if not an elf?” Mathi said.

Rufe grinned. “A human in disguise.”

Mathi quickly shut the door. Her voice dropped to a whisper.

“Human? Treskan?”

“No doubt about it.” Rufe tapped the side of his plow-shaped nose. “This beak never lies.”

To no one in particular, Mathi said, “By E’li, what does that mean? A human masquerading as the general’s scribe?”

“General, eh? That’s interesting.”

The two words Mathi never wanted to hear from Rufe were that’s interesting. Only trouble would follow, she knew intuitively – catastrophe, cataclysm, the end of the civilization were not far off when a character such as Rufe gets interested in something.

“You must keep all this a secret between us,” she said.

He stuck out his tongue. It was a startlingly dark hue, almost purple.

“More secrets, bah. Why should I keep’em?”

Not having any leverage with the little man, Mathi had a sanity-saving notion. “Are you good at following people?” she asked. “I mean, without them knowing it?”

Rufe grinned. “I could trail the gods into the Land of Eternal Light and never be seen or sniffed!”

“Could you follow someone for me? I’ll pay you gold.”

The little man ran his small fingers around the rim of one of the elves’ panniers. Though tied shut with willow withes, the lid popped open.

“What good is gold? You can’t eat it, and it isn’t as interesting as a lodestone —”

“All right. What do you want?”

“Hmm. Can you get the scribe to write about me in his book?”

Eyes widening, Mathi said, “Certainly.”

“I always wanted to see my name in writing,” Rufe said. “Have him write my name down, and I’ll follow whoever you want.”

It sounded too easy, but Mathi agreed. When she told Rufe she wanted Balif trailed around Free Winds to see what he did and who he spoke to, the little man knitted his dark eyebrows and frowned.

“You want me to follow your boss? Why don’t you ask him where he’s been yourself?”

“I have good reasons not too. Will you do it?”

Rufe nodded his head four times. Mathi took out Treskan’s stylus and dipped it in a vial of iron gall ink she found in the scribe’s belongings. She found a scrap of foolscap.

“What is your full name?”

The little man took a breath. “Rufus Reindeer Racket Wrinklecap.”

Mathi bit her lip to keep from laughing. She wrote the outlandish name in blockish letters, the only writing she could do, then said, “What does ‘reindeer’ mean?”

“It’s a kind of large deer, found in icy climes,” he said. “Sometimes they fly.”

Flying deer? Mathi did not try to hide her smile. What could one expect from a little man but a little man tale?

Rufe took the scrap of parchment with his name on it and gazed at it with delight. Holding it like a sacred relic, he vowed to send it to his mother, to show her what his name looked like in real letters.

Mathi was about to ask about the little man’s mother when Rufe abruptly balled the slip of foolscap in one small fist and shoved it inside his baggy shirt.

“What’s your boss’s name?”

“Camaxilas.”

A twinkle came to the little man’s eye. “Gonna use what I tell you to get something out of him?”

“Not at all! I fear something is wrong with him. He’s too proud to tell me if he has any problems, but I want to know so I can help him if need be.”

“Uh-huh.” Rufe pulled on a pair of fingerless felt gloves, tightened the laces that held his trews close around his ankles, and pulled a faded brown cloth hood up over his head.

“See ya. I’ll come back tonight when the pointy-ears are sleeping.”

“Wait – don’t you want to know where to find him?”

“Don’t worry. If he’s in Free Winds, I’ll find him.”

He didn’t do his perplexing door-pushing trick. Rufe opened the door normally and went right down the passage. A moment later, his distinctly diminutive hand appeared on the left side of the doorframe, nudging the panel closed. Mathi had been looking at the door the whole time. She couldn’t imagine how the little man got on the other side of an open door without being seen, but he did.

Artyrith returned first, sneering eloquently at the quality of victuals available in Free Winds. Fear of theft and non-elf marauders had tightened the food supply to the point where the plainest fruits and vegetables commanded unseemly prices. Meat – mostly game collected from the plains outside the fort – was even more dear. The only plentiful thing was nectar. The cellars of Free Winds were brimming with casks, kegs, and amphorae. The hills southwest of Free Winds were dotted with vineyards, and the good weather had produced an abundance of grapes. Normally the nectar of Free Winds would be on its way west to Silvanost, but traders were keeping close to the fortress until an adequate number of soldiers was available to escort the caravans. Artyrith was able to secure a bountiful supply of nectar at a very cheap price.

Lofotan came back, looking grim and puzzled. He wouldn’t discuss what he had learned with a scribe and a cook, holding to his orders to report on the military situation to Balif first. But Balif was not there. Evening came then twilight, and the general did not return. Treskan came back from the fort’s archives, and there was still no sign of Balif. Tension grew. Artyrith wanted to turn Free Winds upside down and find Balif, but Lofotan held his companion back.

“You’re taking this well,” the cook said, noting Mathi’s composure.

“I trust our lord,” she replied. “He will return.”

Shown up by a mere girl, Artyrith said no more about it. Night fell. Governor Dolanath’s servants brought dinner for his guests. Noting Balif’s absence, he asked where Camaxilas was. He was in town on his own business was all Lofotan would say.

Dolanath said knowingly, “Free Winds has many soothsayers and dowsers. No doubt he is closeted with one of them, trying to find water or gold deposits along your route.”

No one in Balif’s party disagreed. It was easier to allow Dolanath to believe their lord was as shallow and greedy as he was. Expressing his good wishes, the governor withdrew.

Lofotan and Artyrith halfheartedly played at a game of Hounds and Foxes, but the cook was too good for the old soldier and won four games in a row. Treskan wrote and wrote on his journey chronicle until his eyes pained him, and he quit to sleep. Mathi watched him closely when his back was turned. Was the scribe really human? That would explain his clumsiness compared to true elves, but his makeup or magic spell was outwardly flawless. What was his game?

Peeved by his ill luck, Lofotan went to bed. Mathi begged off playing, so Artyrith retired too. Eventually there was nothing to do but turn in. Mathi took one of the lamps to her small room and lay down to sleep. Some time later she felt something warm and lingering on her face. Her ear itched intolerably. Grunting, she put a hand to scratch her ear and found a face there, a face not her own.

Bolting upright, heart racing, she was about to shout for help when she realized who it must be. “Rufe! Rufe?”

“Here, boss.”

She loosed a pithy curse, one she had learned from listening to Artyrith. “What are you playing at? Can’t you knock on a door like a civilized person?”

“Didn’t think you wanted me showing myself off in front of the elfies.”

True enough. “Where have you been all day?”

“Keeping an eye on your mighty boss.” It turned out Balif had gone to two places, according to Rufe. The second stop lasted all day and into the evening.

“Where did he go?”

“To a healer. White-headed elf named Urolus, Doctor of Physic.”

What? There was something wrong with Balif’s health? Mathi got up in total darkness and groped for a splint to light the lamp. Rufe’s small hand snatched the splints away.

“Some things are better said in the dark,” he said ominously.

Mathi sat down on the bed. “Tell me everything.”

“I picked up your friend at the Gables.” Those were houses and storefronts on the north side of the settlement. “He was hunting for a sawbones from the start. He went inside the Gables and spoke to one, but he must not have liked what he heard’cause he came back out again and went on. I followed him good. But when he got to Urolus’s, he stayed and stayed. Took a long time, kind of boring.”

Urolus was a Silvanesti physician who had come to practice in the provinces. He was widely reputed to be the eldest elf in Free Winds, a position that gave him a certain status in the community.

“I don’t suppose you know what they talked about?”

“’Course I do. I was on the job, wasn’t I? I remember it all.” The little man, hidden in the dark, lapsed into a perfect imitation of Balif’s voice: “‘I am here to consult you on a personal matter, learned friend.’”

His mimicry was remarkably good. At Mathi’s request, Rufe repeated a large portion of the conversation between Urolus and Balif. Apparently the little man spent his time literally eavesdropping; he clung to the roof edge of the doctor’s second-floor consulting room, listening through a closed shutter.

Balif had a strange complaint. He had a single symptom that he couldn’t explain, nothing else, but it was such an odd symptom, he didn’t know what to do about it. When Urolus pressed him to be specific, the general finally removed his cloak and traveler’s robe. The doctor examined him, exclaiming upon the strange nature of Balif’s malady.

“Well, what was it?”

“They didn’t say, exactly,” the little man replied. “And I had to squirm around to see. There was some kind of problem on your boss’s back. The old sawbones saw it too and said, yep, it’s really there.”

“What did you see?” Mathi pressed.

“I want a horse.” The change of subject was so abrupt, Mathi was thrown off balance. “I want a horse,” Rufe repeated. “A black horse.”

Blinking in the darkness, Mathi promised to get the little man the biggest, blackest horse she could find.

“And a saddle with silver tacks all over it.”

“Yes, yes!”

“I’ll call the horse Nui, after the dark moon —”

Mathi wanted to throttle him. Raising her voice too much, she demanded that Rufe reveal what he’d found out.

“He’s got hair on his back.”

It didn’t sound like much, but to a wellborn elf of Balif’s stature with body hair was strange and a definite stigma. Elves usually didn’t have any, not beyond what grew on their heads. Mathi remembered the Speaker’s sister, Amaranthe, had noticed something was amiss with her lover back in Silvanost. Apparently the problem had grown worse, driving Balif to seek medical advice.

“Is that all?” asked Mathi.

“Yep. They went on and on about it, like it was a case of boils or worse. The pill-roller wanted to know if there was any human blood in your boss’s background. He was polite about it, but he as much as said your boss must have a hairy human among his ancestors. Your leader denied it up and down. ‘Then you are afflicted,’ quoth the doc.”

“Afflicted? Did he use that exact word?” Rufe avowed he did. Mathi pondered that. Did the healer mean Balif was afflicted with disease, or did he mean the general was afflicted by some malign power?

“What did the doctor do for him?”

“Put stinky stuff on his back to make the hair fall out.”

What indignity. Mathi almost felt sorry for the noble elf. She asked where Camaxilas was at that moment.

“In bed, I guess. When do I get my horse?”

Mathi juggled several different lines of thought at once. She meant to stay close to Balif. What began as a simple task to keep track of the famous general had become a greater mystery. Was there more to it than simply growing body hair? Embarrassing as that might be to a pure-blooded Silvanesti, it hardly spelled the great general’s doom from her point of view.

“My horse?” insisted Rufe.

“You’ll get your horse.” Mathi held out her hand, forgetting in her reverie that she was sitting in total darkness. Nonetheless, the little man’s small hand found hers and pumped it vigorously.

Rufe broke his grip. Mathi had the impression the little man was leaving. She called out in a loud whisper, “Wait! How would you like to do more work for me?”

“What kind of work?”

“Watching, listening, like what you did tonight.”

She could almost see the little fellow shrug. “Whatever you say, boss.” Then he was gone.

Mathi lit her lamp. She tried to sort out everything Rufe had found out and what it meant for her. The word afflicted intrigued her. She was sure her comrades had no inkling of Balif’s trouble. She had no way of communicating with those she left behind except by leaving certain signs on the trail. Perhaps if she stole a bit of Treskan’s parchment and ink, she could write a brief note; her friends were not great readers, but there were those among them who would understand. Once on their way again, she would get a slip from the scribe and leave word to the others.

She yawned and stretched. It was very late. The small hours of the morning were just that, a time when the smallest things seemed large or loud. Mathi rubbed her burning eyes. Her hand strayed down to the neckline of her acolyte’s gown. She hated the clinging, stifling clothing. If she had been sure of the door, she would have stripped it off and slept naked, as she preferred. But her hand touched something small and hard hanging from her neck, hidden by the outer layer of the gown.

Mathi fumbled through her clothing and found a small object on a silken cord around her neck. She had never seen it before, and it had not been there earlier when she came to bed. It had shown up some time since Rufe awakened her.

Rufe! She should have known. The light-fingered little man must have put the necklace on her while she slept. She’d felt nothing, but there it was. Mathi fished it out. It was an intricate bit of yellow metal, probably gold, wrapped around a sizable green gemstone. It wasn’t pretty exactly, but it had an air of importance and precision about it. Where had it come from, and why did Rufe give it to her?

She padded across the cold stone floor to the door. Just as her hand touched the handle, she realized she had no way of finding the little man or even of contacting him.

A tremor ran through her. What if the necklace belonged to Governor Dolanath or worse, Balif? If caught with it, her life would be forfeit. She almost snatched the thing from her neck there and then, but something stayed her hand. There was no need for haste. Rufe would return. Mathi owed him payment for his services. When the little man showed up next, she would return the necklace to him. She prayed to her lost god that the fool little man didn’t steal it from someone too vengeful. The idea of her mission ending in prison or on a gibbet was both horrifying and laughable, but Rufe had a way of making horrible, laughable things happen all the time.

She heard soft footfalls in the passage. Thinking Rufe was prowling around, Mathi flung the door open and hissed, “You there! Where do you think you’re going?”

Crouching a few steps away was someone much larger than the little thief. In the feeble light of the hallway, all Mathi saw was a hunched-over figure silhouetted against the pale illumination filtering down the passage. What riveted her to where she stood were the interloper’s eyes. They glowed from within with a vibrant red the exact shade of blood.

“You should not be here,” she hissed. “Go back! Wait until he’s in open country.”

The shadowy creature sniffed. Mathi had a clear impression of wet nostrils twitching as the sanguinary eyes bore straight through her. There was no recognition in them, no understanding that Mathi was a sister, a being like him.

She backed up a step. It was clear if she moved that it would leap upon her and rend her to bits. Bracing herself, Mathi ducked inside her room and slammed the door. She braced her shoulder against it. Where was that sword, that useless sword Lofotan pressed on her?

She heard it come close to the door. There was the slightest scrape on the outside panel; then the sniffing began again, down at the gap between the door and the floor. Mathi held her place, pushing against the unresisting door. The thing snuffled from one side of the gap to the other then withdrew. Sweat trickling down her forehead, Mathi braced for an attack.

The door handle descended ever so slowly. It was a simple bronze handle, turned to fit a round socket through the door panel. Mathi grabbed the latch and held it up. More and more force was applied from the other side. She couldn’t hold. She couldn’t keep the door shut.

Leaping back, she ran to the side chest and found the sword Lofotan gave her. Gripping it with both hands, Mathi squared off, facing the door. She hated fighting a brother, but when her brethren got to that state, such reversion to primal form, they were beyond reason. If he came through the door for her, she would fight.

The handle swung down to the end of its arc and stopped. All that was needed was the slightest pressure to push the door open. It didn’t happen. With equal slowness, the latch returned to its closed position.

Six feet away Mathi could not hear if the creature had gone. She waited as long as she dared then rushed the door and peeked out. The gloomy passage was empty. She ran pell-mell to the room occupied by Balif and the elves. Mathi pounded on the door. Lofotan admitted her, sword in hand.

“What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded.

Balif was lying on his bed, a linen blanket up to his neck. He pushed up on one elbow but did not stand. Treskan held a lamp and Artyrith a sword just a few steps behind the majordomo.

“One of those creatures was at my door!” Mathi gasped. In a trice Lofotan and Artyrith were in the hall, checking both directions. Balif rose and donned a light robe. He was unarmed.

“Where did it go?” said the cook.

“I don’t know.” Mathi described her strange encounter. Artyrith relaxed his ready stance.

“You woke us because you had a nightmare? The one we slew in the grassland is still in your mind.”

“No, it was real. I was awake, writing, and I heard something in the corridor —”

Lofotan went down to Mathi’s room. The door was standing open. There was no sign of any intruder.

“If there was anyone, they’re gone now,” he said.

“How could a beast like that get into Free Winds?” added Artyrith.

“It’s most unlikely,” Balif agreed. “I think my daughter has been awake too long. Sleep, Mathi. We leave early on the morrow.”

Mathi watched her companions return to their room. Only when they were gone did she reenter her room. She was just closing the door when she saw the scratches. Deep, parallel lines scored the dark wood just above the floor. There were four distinct lines, as far apart as fingers.

Chapter 9

FOES

The next day dawned gray and windy. Wrapped in cloaks, Balif’s party led their horses off the crane platform. Artyrith and Treskan held the reins while Balif and Lofotan removed the last of their baggage from the crane and restored it to the packhorses.

Governor Dolanath sent his best wishes but did not turn up to see his visitors off. Fresh outrages had occurred during the night. Several healers in Free Winds complained that their shops were broken into, all from skylights or roof vents. Valuable drugs and healing instruments were scattered around, but little or nothing was taken. Even stranger were the reports of a large, wild animal loose in the streets adjoining the citadel. Guards on duty and late-night revelers had all seen a sizable beast prowling the darkest alleys. It fled on approach despite its size, but no one was able to corner it. Like the healers’ break-ins, the incidents caused no harm but sent waves of unrest through the provincial town. It was as if the walls of the fortress were a sieve through which danger passed at will. Balif and his companions heard the tales as they prepared to go. Mathi said nothing about the beast reports, but descriptions of the creature sounded exactly like what she saw in the passage outside her room.

“Don’t mention it to Dolanath,” Balif had told her. “He isn’t long for his seat anyway, and a report like yours will hasten his departure.” A governor who couldn’t keep the Speaker’s peace and enforce the Speaker’s laws could not expect to retain his post.

Mathi gladly stayed mum. She was sure the disturbance of the healers was Rufe’s doing. As for the creature inside the fort, she decided it was a rogue member of her unhappy clan. They were all set upon Balif’s trail. Urnya had lost her ability to think when she reverted to her animal form. She attacked the first elves she came across, not knowing Mathi was a sister under the skin. The male creature, whom Mathi did not recognize, had entered Free Winds. He had enough mind left to hear Mathi and obey, but for how long?

The ground where the crane landed was worn down to dirt. Mathi shielded her eyes as the wind stirred up the soil. Balif mounted his horse.

“Say farewell to Free Winds,” he said. “We shan’t see civilization again for some time.”

Artyrith laughed shortly. “Civilization? This rock pile?”

As they rode down the hill, Mathi wondered about her little hireling. She had seen no sign of Rufe all morning. The little man had agreed to work for her, but Mathi couldn’t see how Rufe could do any work if he wasn’t with them. She had figured out a complete explanation for if Balif found the little man. But it appeared Rufe had reneged on their deal.

On level ground the wind scoured them, bowing the knee-high grass until the gray underside of each leaf showed. The effect was eerie. A vast plain of grass, normally green and alluring, had become a gray, wind-tossed sea. The horses kept their heads down. So did the riders.

Consulting his sunstone, Balif set out northeast. The great bend of the Thon-Tanjan lay in that direction, but there was nothing in the way of settlements. Other elven strongholds, such as Tanjanost or Greenfield, lay farther south. Having encountered a small sample of what contact with the little folk could do to a stable garrison, the general decided to forgo visits to the other outposts and seek the invaders as directly as possible. Balif’s stated intent was to cross the Tanjan at Savage Ford, just below the fork in the river where the Plains River joined the Tanjan. Fords were few on the fast-flowing river. Once across the river, they would bear south into the largely unmapped forest surrounding the Tanjan river delta. After quartering the countryside there, the elves would make their way back to Silvanost along the coast.

They rode in and out of noisy squalls. Warm rain, almost oily in its feeling, quickly soaked their cloaks and seeped through to their robes underneath. The unhappy sequence went on most of the day. By midafternoon, the rain was gone but the wind remained.

Lofotan, riding point while Balif dictated some observations about the land to Treskan, found it first. The endless grass ceased. Cutting across their line of march was a path so wide and so thoroughly trampled that the tough turf was worn down to bare soil.

“Here! To me!” Lofotan called. The others cantered to his side.

Balif twisted in the saddle, taking in the road. It ran northwest to southeast, disappearing in one direction under a hill and curving out of sight in the other. He rode across it slowly. His horse took twelve steps to cover the path from side to side.

“What does it mean?” Artyrith asked.

“A lot of feet have passed this way,” Lofotan answered grimly. “Feet, hooves, and more.”

“Human feet?”

The old soldier didn’t reply. Balif came slowly back. Wind whirled eddies of dust around his horse.

“The Speaker is only partly informed,” he said. “There is a migration under way, but it isn’t new. This path took months to make.”

Far to the northwest lay more plains, then the Khalkist Mountains. Beyond them was the great savannah, home to thousands of rapacious human nomads. Evidently large numbers of nomads had been coming that way undetected for some time. It was astonishing, finding a trail so large only a hundred and fifty miles from Silvanost. The Speaker had to know, as soon as possible.

Sighting down the center of the road with his stone, Balif concluded it ran more or less directly to Horseriders’ Ford, an easier crossing than Savage Ford, but farther away. That made sense. By sticking to a single path on the open plain, the invaders had avoided detection – until Balif’s party came along.

“Lofotan, I want you to return to Free Winds,” Balif said. News of the interlopers’ trail had to reach Governor Dolanath right away. He lacked the troops to close the road, but he could carry word to Silvanost. It would take an army to stop the flow of humans into the elves’ eastern lands.

Using Mathi as a shield against the wind, Balif composed a terse message to the governor. Lofotan slipped it inside his cloak and saluted his commander.

“Don’t wait for a reply,” Balif told him. “Put the note in the governor’s hands, and return at once. We will rendezvous at Savage Ford in ten days.”

“I can make it in six,” Lofotan declared.

“So you could, with clear days and an open path, but there is more afoot out here than just a well-worn road. Ten days, Captain. If by the eleventh day you have not seen us, go back to Silvanost. Lay what we have found before the Speaker of the Stars.”

Mathi felt oddly sad watching the dour Lofotan ride away. He was not a noble sort, as was Balif, or amusing, as was Artyrith, or useful, as was Treskan. But Mathi did respect him, even though his absence would make her ultimate goal easier. She would leave word along the trail for her brethren that one of the warrior elves had left the party. That being the case, the chance to complete Mathi’s mission – the abduction of General Balif – might come sooner than later.

They waited until Lofotan was out of sight. The general turned his horse around and said, “Now onward.” Hardly was it said when Artyrith pulled up short, staring hard down the western end of the dusty track.

“Trouble,” he said.

“Move,” said Balif. “Now.”

They got off the road. Artyrith found a small hollow concealed by tall grass. He and Balif dismounted and began tugging their mounts’ halters, forcing the horses down on their bellies in the grass. Mathi started on the pack animals once her horse was down. Soon only Treskan and his pony remained.

“Get out of sight, scribbler!” the cook exclaimed. “Can’t you hear them coming?”

Not having the senses of an elf, Treskan couldn’t. He swung down and stood back as Artyrith got his pony to kneel in the hollow. Balif was watching the horizon. Mathi could see and hear nothing but the wind.

“How many, do you reckon?” asked the cook.

“More than forty but less than a hundred.”

Artyrith cursed a bit and crouched in the grass between his pony and Mathi’s. He drew his sword and laid it pommel first between his feet. From his pony’s saddle, he yanked out his bow stave, which he proceeded to brace while sitting, a feat Mathi would have said was impossible. Only Balif remained standing. The wind tugged at his yellow hair and whipped his cloak behind him like a flag.

When Mathi finally heard hoofbeats, Balif dropped silently into the weeds. They huddled there, still as could be. Even the horses sensed danger and stayed quiet.

The riders came into view. Mathi didn’t count them, but there probably were about fifty of them, humans clad in uncouth furs and leather despite the summer heat. Their hair was worn long, in every color known in the human race. The only way to tell the males from the females was by the heavy beards the men wore. Most of them carried long spears and an assortment of armament strapped to their bodies or their horses. Too numerous to be scouts, they had to be a raiding party, detached from a much larger band a day or so behind them.

They were noisy. Mathi was chagrined that she hadn’t heard them sooner. They talked loudly as they waved their weapons around, and their horses jingled and pranced. It was soon clear the humans weren’t just being clumsy or foolish. They were escorting an unruly band of prisoners.

Near the rear of the party, a cloud of dust obscured a few of the figures on foot and lying in the dirt. The riders shouted abuse at them and prodded them with their spears, but the procession had come to halt and would not get going again. A useful gust wiped the dust away, and the hidden elves saw whom the nomads had captured.

They were little men like Rufe. The three of them had dark hair pulled back in ponytails; prominent noses; and tattered, dusty clothes. They looked enough like Rufe to be his siblings.

“On your feet. Up! Up!” a black-bearded man was shouting. He waved his spear sideways, indicating the east. “Get up and move, or we’ll slaughter you where you lie!”

The little man said something Mathi couldn’t hear. Whatever it was it made Black Beard furious. He lowered his spear and jabbed it into the nearest one. The little man flung gouts of dust from his hands, rolled over, and lay still. Mathi heard chains clatter. She looked to Balif. The elf was watching intently, as silent and unmoving as stone.

“One dead! Do the rest of you want this too?” The man shook the bloody spear point under their noses.

One of the little people stood up. He or she – it was impossible to tell at that distance – bowed mockingly, uttered an unheard retort, and hit Black Beard in the face with a stone he had concealed in his small hand. With a roar of fury, the man spurred his horse and impaled the little man, lifting him clear off his feet. The victim clung to the spear shaft, and the raging nomad had to drop his weapon. Amazingly, the spitted little man stood up, thumbed his nose at his murderer, then toppled lifeless into the grass beside the road.

Mathi was horrified. She knew the nomads were savage, but she’d never witnessed such barbarity. Outnumbered by forty armed humans, nevertheless she looked to Balif for an answer. The elf’s face was white and set like marble.

There was a yell behind Mathi. Alarmed, she spun around and saw the wrapped bundle tied to one of the packhorses burst open. Out burst Rufus Reindeer Racket Wrinklecap, evidently stowed away ever since leaving Free Winds. He had long knives in either hand. Waving them and shouting incoherently, he charged the human host.

Mathi heard Artyrith utter a single pithy expletive. The cook straightened his back, drew his nocked arrow, and let fly. Black Beard got the shaft through his neck and toppled lifeless from his horse.

The nomads milled around for an instant, confused by the sudden turn of events. Wildly screeching, Rufe ran at the last captive little man, not the humans. Some of them spotted Artyrith in the grass and pointed at him with swords and spears. The cook coolly placed a second arrow in the chest of a burly warrior on the opposite side of the group. Nearer nomads didn’t notice and thumped spurless heels against their horses’ flanks to get them going. Half a dozen rode at Artyrith. When they were broadside to Balif, the general popped up out of the grass and shot the last human in the charging pack. Artyrith got the second rearmost, and Balif the next until a single nomad armed with an inadequate sword was charging Artyrith alone. The cook got on his horse and snatched at the reins to make it stand. He dodged the man’s clumsy thrust – the human’s straight blade was not designed for mounted fighting – and put an oak shaft in his ribs so deep that the fletching was buried by the nomad’s fur vest.

Balif stayed on his feet, picking off the thoroughly confused nomads. Ten of them were down, and the humans had no idea how many more deadly archers there might be in the grass. They broke. Wheeling their horses around, they rode hard back the way they came, leaving their dead and wounded behind.

Mathi got up, shaking. Artyrith stood guard from the edge of the road while Balif and the scribe went to Rufe. He was standing over the last captive, knives outthrust in both hands. His eyes were shut tight.

The shackled little man tugged Rufe’s jerkin. Dolanath’s bane cracked on eye.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hello,” said Balif calmly. To Mathi he said, “Do you know this person?”

Mathi admitted they had met before. “I didn’t know he was with us,” she said lamely.

Artyrith came trotting up. “You could have gotten us all killed!”

“Coulda but didn’t. Why cry for bread you didn’t bake?” said Rufe. He tucked away his wicked-looking knives and picked up one of the prisoner’s manacles.

“Riveted,” he said. “Can’t pick a lock where there ain’t one.”

“Never you mind.”

The captive grasped his own hand over the knuckles and bore down, grunting. Mathi watched him squeeze his bound hand until it was small enough to slip through the bronze ring. So that’s how little men were able to escape bonds so easily! She wondered if she was the first outsider to see it done.

“Thanks, brother,” said the little man. He stood up. Slightly taller than his savior, his hair was lighter too, more golden, though caked with dirt. His nose, though prominent, was less of a weather vane than Rufe’s. By little-man standards, he must have been considered rather handsome.

“What goes on here?” asked Balif.

“I’m the Longwalker,” said the little man. He held out his hand in human fashion. Balif knew the custom and shook the little man’s grubby hand.

“What’s a Longwalker?” asked Treskan.

“He’s a high and mighty fellow,” said Rufe. “The leader of his people.”

“You mean a chief?” Balif said.

Rufe nodded then shook his head. “Yes. No. The Longwalker leads the way for his people on the march. He makes the trail the others can follow. But he’s not a king.”

Balif and Artyrith cocked their heads in unison. “More horsemen coming this way. We’d better be gone.” Balif agreed. He offered his hand to the Longwalker, who grabbed hold and climbed on in front of the elf. Mathi did the same for Rufe, and together they faded into the grass. Artyrith and the scribe went ahead while Balif brought up the rear. As his horse walked single-file behind the pack ponies, Balif faced backward and leaned down over his horse’s rump. He brushed up the stalks of grass behind them, sometimes weaving the tips together with deft fingers. The effect was to erase all but the tiniest traces of their passage through the grass.

Announced by a whirlwind of dust, the nomad avengers halted at the scene of the earlier fracas. The dead were examined and the wounded treated. Listening in total silence, Mathi concluded that their presence was compromised. When the humans recovered elf arrows from their comrades’ bodies, they would know a party of armed Silvanesti were around.

As if reading her mind, Artyrith smugly whispered, “We weren’t here.” He and Balif had supplied themselves with centaur arrows at Free Winds, he explained. In the bloody confusion, the nomads might convince themselves they were attacked by a war party of centaurs instead of two elves and a crazy little man.

They stole away, grateful not to be noticed. The Longwalker contently rode with the general, but after a short distance, Rufe dropped off Mathi’s pony and slipped away in the weeds. Mathi started to call him, but fearing the humans might hear, held her tongue.

Not until they were half a day north of the road did Balif speak again. He reclaimed the lead from Artyrith then stopped the procession when he reached a small stream.

The horses watered themselves. Balif said, “Where is the other little fellow?”

“Run off,” Mathi reported.

“Explain how you know him, child.”

She described how she’d found Rufe prowling the fortress and sort of hired him. She admitted that Rufe was the author of the governor’s troubles, but since she had never met a being like him before, she had asked Rufe to come with her, ostensibly as a guide, but also as a living example of the kind of people currently flooding the eastern province of Silvanesti.

Balif listened without expression then asked his passenger: “Who are you people?”

“We have as many different names as the people we meet. We’ve been called golighters, halflers, tweeners, and wanderfolk. Among ourselves we are just People, although the human horse riders call us ‘kender,’ which in their tongue means ‘those who all look alike,’” the Longwalker said. “Which we don’t.”

“Where do you come from?” asked Artyrith.

“From the sunset.”

“Where are you going?”

“To the sunrise, by way of any place we haven’t been before.”

Artyrith clucked his tongue at the poetically evasive answers, but Balif accepted them as offered. The elves and Mathi passed around a water bottle while the horses’ finished. Without warning, the Longwalker slipped off the general’s horse.

“Wait,” said Balif. “Stay with us. I would know more about you.”

“I thank you for your help,” the little man replied, “but my feet itch too much to ride. Gotta walk. Farewell.”

Before they could do anything, he was in the high grass and gone. Mathi called loudly, “But what is your name? Your given name?”

“Serius Bagfull, your lifelong friend,” his voice came back, drifting over the grass from no real direction.

From two mysterious companions there remained none. Balif said, “Mathi, from now on you must get my approval before adding anyone to our party. Our mission is secret, after all.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I do thank you for making contact with these newcomers. What did they call themselves? Wanderfolk? I see now how they could have driven Governor Dolanath to distraction.”

He looked over the sea of wind-tossed weeds. It was evident from his expression that not even he, a full-blooded elf, could detect any sign of the departed Longwalker.

Balif continued to call them wanderfolk for some time. Treskan adopted the name kender and used it in conversation and his notes. In time the elves forgot Balif’s term and used kender too.

Chapter 10

CROSSINGS

The sea of grass thinned out as they approached the Thon-Tanjan, becoming isolated tufts of tall grass in a sea of stony loam. Tracks appeared in the bare soil, lots of them. Not an hour passed that the elves didn’t spy other wanderers entering the great bend of the river. Many were humans, mounted and on foot. Balif said that the people he saw walking concerned him more than the riders. Nomads traveled constantly, moving their families and herds wherever water and forage was best. No one in a nomad clan walked unless they were in dire straits. Humans on foot meant emigrants, settlers. They were looking for a place to stay. Speaker Silvanos would not tolerate them on land he claimed as his own. There would be war.

In addition to humans, they also saw centaur bands in the Tanjan bend. The Silvanesti had never had too much trouble from the horse-men. They were even more footloose than human nomads, and if they caused trouble, a few flights of griffon riders usually sufficed to drive them out. Balif confessed he had never seen centaurs in such numbers. While the humans seemed to be moving west to east, the centaurs were coming down from the north. After a full day of watching horse-men streaming south, Balif resolved to speak to them.

“Is that wise?” asked Artyrith. Even from a distance, it was easy to see the centaurs were armed.

“Nothing about this journey is wise,” Balif replied. He smiled wryly. “That’s why it will succeed. No one expects us to behave so foolishly.”

He took a moment to don his most impressive outfit, white silk robes with a cloak made of cloth of gold. At the general’s insistence, Mathi, Treskan, and Artyrith smartened up, though there was little the scribe or the orphan girl could do about their poor wardrobe. Tidied as best they could, they abandoned stealth and rode forth as if they were lords of all they surveyed.

It didn’t take long to make contact with the centaurs. They found a band of close to a hundred males trotting along the bank of a dry wash ravine. They were a swarthy breed, dark coated and dark skinned. Balif noticed that they wore a lot of seashell ornaments. That meant they were a coastal clan. Why were they so far inland?

The outriders spotted Balif’s party. It was hard not to, what with the general’s golden cape billowing in the wind. Centaurs broke off in small groups, fanning out on either side of the elves. Everyone but Balif watched their movements with concern. It looked very much as if they were being surrounded, and there was no Rufe in a blanket to distract a large party of dangerous opponents.

The main band of centaurs, forty strong, descended the ravine bank, crossed the dry bed, and climbed out, coming straight for Balif. At a strategic point atop a rocky outcropping, Balif halted. Artyrith and Treskan drew up one either side. Mathi halted behind him. She had to admire Balif’s presence. Sitting there on his horse, dressed like a great lord of Silvanost, he looked fit to command any situation.

Whooping and whistling, the centaurs made a ring around the trio. Mathi rubbed her sweaty palms together and tried not to stare at the array of weapons around her, stone axes, mauls, bent and dented swords taken from metal-making foes. The centaurs often carried two weapons at once, one for each hand. Their favorite tool was the one they had invented, a long-handled club of dark, dense wood with a ball-shaped head. Swung in wide circles by madly galloping centaurs, the knob could easily crack an elf skull wide open.

The centaurs jostled each other, making loud whistling sounds through their teeth. Visible over their heads were an array of totems, or standards, brandished by the chief’s champions. With some shoving and loud rebukes, the champions bulled their way through their comrades. The totems were poles fourteen feet high with crossbars lashed along their length. Important spiritual and magical artifacts were fastened to the crossbars: skulls of slain enemies, crystals, shells, bits of metal chain gleaned from a despoiled caravan, and odder things such as dried hornets’ nests or painted gobs of molded clay.

When the champions reached the front, they made a lane for their leader. A centaur chief was always the eldest male in the clan, and he was ancient. His hair and coat were dappled with white. His left rear leg dangled off the ground. The muscle had been cut in some long-ago fight, and upon healing it had shrunk so much that the chief’s hoof no longer touched the ground. In many barbarous societies, a damaged warrior might have been turned out and abandoned but not among the centaurs. They esteemed the wisdom – and cunning – of the aged.

The seashell centaurs were beardless, either by heredity or custom. When the chief emerged from the pack, he limped up to the splendidly dressed Balif.

“May the sun shine only on your back,” he said gruffly. His voice was low and raspy. Mathi saw why. He had a huge scar across his throat, an old one.

“My greetings to you, mighty Chief,” Balif replied. “You honor me with your words.”

“Sky-folk are alone?”

“We three are part of a larger company, sent here by my great lord, the Speaker of the Stars. In his name I greet you. I am Balif, son of Arnasmir Thraxenath, of the Greenrunners clan.”

The champions around the chief muttered and shifted. The general’s name was well known and carried weight even out there.

“You are welcome, son of Arnasmir, but I must ask, why are you here?”

“I came to see you, Chief.”

The old centaur blinked his liquid brown eyes. He put a thumb to his own chest.

“Yes. You are Greath, are you not?” Balif pronounced the centaur’s name to rhyme with teeth.

The centaur spread his hands. “Greath I am. Have you seen our faces before, sky-folk?”

“Never, mighty Chief, but even in the Speaker’s land we know the name of Greath.”

The ancient horse-man made a horrible face. He was smiling. Mathi saw his front teeth had been knocked out long past.

Having made the old chief smile, Balif went on. “Mighty One, my great lord, the Speaker of the Stars, hears grave things about this land, his land.” All three elves watched closely for signs of resistance to the claim. Greath was in such good humor, he let it pass.

“It has come to the ears of the Speaker that many folk from outside his realm have entered his land, to pass through and to live. Those who pass through go with the Speaker’s blessing. Those who settle on his land without his leave are not welcome and will face his displeasure.”

The warriors shook their knobkerries and dented swords. They were proud creatures, not easily intimidated. Greath let them grumble a bit then silenced them with a bob of his shaggy gray head.

“It is not the way of the Hok-nu to grow in place like trees,” he said, naming the centaur tribe. “We have left our place of wandering, the land of Vesh, to seek grazing for our families.” Vesh was the centaurs’ name for the great northern coast.

In spite of their ferocious appearance, centaurs were vegetarians. They lived off roots and shoots of trees and grasses, enlivened by fruit in season. They regarded cultivated crops as travesties of nature and would often burn gardens full of produce rather than eat such unnatural bounty.

“The land is your land, as the Great Speaker knows,” Balif said. “Those who pass through the Great Speaker’s land are not the Great Speaker’s enemies, but there are those who come to take that which belongs to the Speaker of the Stars.”

“Vay-peh.” That was centaur dialect for humans.

Balif nodded solemnly. “Not only vay-peh. The wander-folk too.”

Mention of the kender caused the assembled centaurs to grimace and prance. More than a few looked back over their broad backs, as if to find Rufe or the Longwalker skulking there.

Mathi had not seen such reaction in centaurs before. They were very bold in their emotions – love, fear, hate, joy – but that was new. At the mention of kender, the Hok-nu were disturbed.

“We have met them. They are troublesome,” Greath declared.

“Do you know where the little people come from?” Balif asked.

Greath pressed a palm to his forehead, the centaur equivalent of a shrug. “It is said they came out of a crack in the ground, like vermin from a wound. Nothing is a barrier to them, not water, not the brown land, not the high mountains of Khal.”

With much flowery language, Greath explained further that the kender had been seen lurking around for the past four seasons, but the summer brought a torrent of them. At first the centaurs had no problem with them, but lately the newly arrived little people had taken to pilfering the centaurs’ meager possessions. That they would not tolerate.

“Him, little man.” The old chief hiked his dusky thumb at a totem held behind him. Balif, Mathi, and Artyrith followed his finger and saw a small, white skull attached to the lowest crossbar. The forehead had been crushed by a knobkerrie.

Sensing he would learn no more from the centaurs, Balif presented Greath a gift, a brightly polished bronze knife with a gold hilt and a round beryl stone in the pommel. The old roughneck was greatly pleased.

“You are Greath’s friend!” he vowed. “The people of Balif are the friends of the Hok-nu!”

“It warms my heart to hear you say so, mighty Chief. I will tell my lord, the Speaker of the Stars, the passage of the Hok-nu into his land should not worry him. You will return to the coast by autumn?” Flipping the shiny blade back and forth, the centaur chief agreed. “Then I shall tell my great lord, the Speaker, to be easy in his mind about his friends the Hok-nu.”

The assembled centaurs gave Balif their version of a rousing cheer. They reared back on their hind legs, pawing the air with their front hoofs and ululating deep in their throats. It was an uncanny sound.

Greath galloped away surrounded by his standard-bearers. In orderly files the warriors followed until Balif and his companions were alone on their windy outcropping. Mathi suddenly realized she had been holding her breath. She let it out in a long sigh.

“Amazing,” said Artyrith. Mathi couldn’t remember so long a time the garrulous cook had remained silent. “They actually smell as badly as they look.”

“They are honorable folk,” Balif replied. “Far more so than most humans.” His handsome face appeared weighed down with sadness. “It grieves me to assist in their destruction.”

He admitted Speaker Silvanos would never allow centaurs, Hok-nu or not, to graze in his territory. Once Balif’s report reached him, he would summon the fearsome griffon riders of Silvanost to harry the horse-men out of the country.

Mathi said, “That is not just!”

“It is the Speaker’s will,” said Artyrith.

Balif watched the dust trails rising from the departing centaur horde. “The Speaker’s will can be shaped by what the Speaker knows.” He gripped his reins so hard the leather creaked. “Or does not know.”

They rode on to the ford. Because of the delay with the centaurs, they were unlikely to reach Savage Ford before dark, but Balif pressed on. With each mile, he rode a little faster, forcing the others to keep up. Treskan and Mathi, handicapped by the pack train, dropped back. The cook stayed with them, and together they watched Balif diminish in the distance as the gap between them widened.

Artyrith called to his master in vain. Annoyed, he reined up and watched Balif canter away. “What ails him?” he said, blotting sweat from his face with the back of one gloved hand.

“He pities for the centaurs,” Mathi suggested.

“They’re little better than beasts,” Artyrith replied. “Not fit company for our people!”

Inwardly Mathi wondered what Balif was up to. He felt bad about the centaurs’ future, no doubt, but he was not so emotional that he would let his anger or grief cause him to abandon the rest of his party. The three of them shared a quick drink – tepid water for Mathi, solid swallows of surplus Free Winds nectar for Treskan and Artyrith – and started after their wayward leader.

At least his path was easy to follow. Balif rode straight as an arrow through every clump of wire grass and scrub in his path. Then they found more troubling traces smeared on the foliage. Artyrith found blood on the leaves, still fresh enough to flow.

Artyrith rubbed the drops between his fingers. “This does not smell like elf blood,” he declared, puzzled.

“Is it from his horse?” asked the scribe.

It was not horse blood, either. Mathi yearned to sniff the traces herself. Her nose was keener than an elf’s, but she wasn’t prepared to answer the questions her prowess would raise.

Wrapping the reins around his fist, Artyrith urged his horse to a gallop. Mathi and Treskan had to follow as best they could, leading the stubborn pack ponies.

The bowl of the sky was blue streaked with crimson as the sun sank down to a well-earned rest. Wind was kicking up out of the north. A bank of dark clouds was building there, promising a wet night.

The terrain began to change rather quickly from uplands to riparian. Rocks and boulders dotted the landscape. Real trees reappeared for the first time since leaving the elves’ homeland.

Mathi’s pony stumbled into a draw and refused to climb the other side. Treskan started down after her. The pack-horses half tumbled in too and voiced their displeasure loudly. While the two tried to calm them, they heard another horse approaching fast. Treskan tried to draw his sword – it took three tugs to free it from its scabbard – and had only just gotten it out when a long-legged saddle horse hurtled around the bend in the draw, riderless. Mathi watched open mouthed as it passed. It was Balif’s horse. The saddle was torn to shreds and smeared with blood.

Hastily Treskan dismounted, tied the pack animals to a tree, and got back on his pony. Thumping his heels, he steered his horse after Balif’s fleeing mount. The general’s horse was almost out of sight. Mathi tried to get her blinkered pony to gallop, but the wise beast declined, shuffling off at an indifferent trot.

The wind picked up, driving in the storm from the north. The crimson sunset disappeared under a veil of clouds. The wind blowing down their backs was hot. Silent flashes of lightning threw the ground ahead into bright relief for an instant; then everything faded into the stormy dusk.

She rode a mile or more, blundering along the sandy bottom of the draw. Saplings and tree branches tore at her. Mathi had to throw an arm over her face to protect her eyes. Lightning flared again, followed by a growing hammer of thunder. By the flash she saw Treskan had caught Balif’s big horse up ahead. Mathi urged her mount on.

Her pony stumbled in a drift of sand, falling nose first. No equestrian, she was hurled headlong over the animal’s head and hit the ground. Something snapped loudly. Rolling head over heels down a short, steep bank, Mathi came to rest flat on her back. Her pony walked past, nickering loudly. It sounded as though the beast were laughing at her.

A dark figure on horseback loomed over her. “Are you all right?”

“I think my back’s broken,” Mathi answered. “I heard it snap.”

“Blink your eyes.”

Lightning snapped overhead. Mathi saw her interrogator was Lofotan. She bolted to her feet, exclaiming in surprise.

“No one with a broken back leaps around like that,” the old soldier said.

“The general’s horse! Did you see it?” asked Mathi.

Lofotan pointed. Off to his right, Treskan sat on his pony, holding the reins of Balif’s mount. It was shivering and foam flecked.

“Let’s find yours,” Lofotan said.

Together with Treskan they went up the draw and found Mathi’s pony cropping fronds. Returning to where the pony tripped, they spotted a fallen pine branch.

“There’s your back,” said Lofotan. Mathi had heard the limb snap and thought it was her back.

Mathi reclaimed her reluctant ride. It circled away from her, rearing more than a pony its size ever did.

“What’s the matter with the nag?” Artyrith shouted, coming over on foot. He seized the pony’s halter and held on. Eventually the disturbed creature calmed enough for Mathi to mount.

“Where’s General Balif?” she said.

Lofotan didn’t know. He was coming up the south bank of the Thon-Tanjan, looking for his comrades, when Artyrith appeared, riding like a madman after the general’s horse. Between the two of them, they cornered the terrified runaway, but still there was no sign of Balif.

They backtracked to the pack train. Everything was present except their leader. By the intermittent glare of lightning, they examined Balif’s horse.

The smooth leather saddle was scratched in long, parallel lines on either side of the seat. There were smears of blood on the saddle and on the horse. The quivering creature had a bad wound on the right side of its neck, four deep gashes side by side. It didn’t take eagle eyes to see they matched the scratches in the saddle.

“A predator must have attacked our lord, knocking him off his seat. It then mauled the horse before the horse got rid of it,” Lofotan said. “We’ll have to trace the trail back and find our lord.”

Artyrith strung his bow and hooked a full quiver on his belt. Lofotan armed himself with a spear of unusual style. It was shorter than a standard horse spear, with a thick shaft and a bronze crossbar set back about a hand’s span from the keen bronze head. When Mathi asked, Lofotan said it was a bear spear.

“Are there bears in this country?” Artyrith asked, but Lofotan let the cook’s question go unanswered.

Mathi remembered the phantom she had seen at Free Winds. The creature Lofotan expected to find was no bear. Another one of Vedvedsica’s children had trailed them from the outpost and struck when Balif was alone and vulnerable. Inwardly she shook with anger. Or was it relief? If the traitor Balif was dead, her task was finished, even if it did mean her effort had come to naught.

Rain began to fall in big drops. Lofotan ordered them all to stay behind with the baggage. Treskan and Artyrith erected the tent and picketed the pack team to some surrounding trees. Artyrith laid a fire in the entrance of the tent, angling the canvas flaps to protect the flames from rain and wind.

“Keep it burning and stay awake,” Lofotan warned. “Whatever attacked our lord may still be out there. Do you have a weapon?” Mathi and the scribe had their swords; that was all. “You’d be mauled to pieces by the time you got a chance to stick it with that.” He gave the scribe a standard spear.

“That will keep the beast a little further away,” he said.

The old warrior and the cook rode off just as the rain started lashing down in earnest. Mathi and Treskan huddled by the fire, the spear laid across his knees. The scribe got out his writing board and recorded the day’s events.

Mathi asked him what he wrote. He read his last lines aloud:

We have arrived at the Thon-Tanjan at last, but our leader is missing. From the evidence, it appears one of the beast-creatures has attacked Camaxilas, either killing him or carrying him off. It hardly seems possible, slain by an animal transformed to resemble an elf. It does not seem just that he should pass out of Silvanesti, only to perish in the wilderness like this …

Mathi looked up. Rain was coming down in torrents. The horses huddled together, starting noisily when lightning flashed or thunder boomed.

Still, Treskan read, if Camaxilas has survived the attack, where is he?

A fat drop of water landed squarely in the center of Treskan’s words. The ink ran, ruining the empty space below the scribe’s previous lines. He tried to blot it dry, putting his spear aside to better reach the page. At that exact moment, the creature that had stalked them all the way from Free Winds landed on all fours between them.

Treskan was speechless with terror. The sodden creature was a mass of matted, dripping fur. By firelight Mathi could see its dark eyes veined with red and a hint of fang protruding from its black lips. It squatted on its haunches, leaning forward on its front claws. Breath steamed from its pug nose.

Treskan’s hands closed around the spear shaft. His movement was too obvious. The creature bared a black lip, snarling.

“Don’t,” whispered Mathi. Another breath in the wrong direction, and the thing would tear the scribe to bits.

“What can we do?” said Treskan in the faintest voice.

“Listen to me,” she said to the monstrous visitor. “Begone now. Run away before the elves return and slay you. You have no reason to be here. What you want, who you want, is well watched.”

Treskan stared.

Mathi ignored him and went on. “He’s not an elf anyway.” To the scribe she said, “Hold out your hand.”

“What?”

“Hold out your hand to him. Let him smell you!”

“Are you insane?”

“Do it or die!”

Trembling, Treskan put out his left hand. He never got it closer than half an arm’s length, but the black nostrils flexed deeply. Slowly the creature uncoiled itself, withdrawing from Treskan’s imminent death.

“Go now. Seek out the others. They will tell you what is happening. Do you understand? Your being here violates our covenant with the Creator. Go!”

An arrow whizzed out of the darkness and struck the ground, quivering, by Mathi’s right knee. The creature sprang away, snarling. Mathi snapped to one side, and Treskan rolled the other way. She saw the creature running away into the stormy night. A spear flew in a heavy arc and hit the ground behind the fleeing beast, not even tangling its feet. In a moment it was gone, though a silent blink of lightning highlighted it as it loped off into the storm.

Artyrith and Lofotan appeared.

“Which way did it go?” shouted the cook.

Shaken, Mathi pointed in the true direction. “There! Next time don’t miss, my lord!”

“I didn’t miss. I was only trying to drive him off. If I hit him, he might have torn you limb from limb.” Lofotan rode off after the creature.

“Any sign of the general?” said Treskan.

“None.” Artyrith was grim. He took a long swig of nectar. “We couldn’t find a trace! We did locate the spot the creature jumped on his horse, but there was no sign our lord fell off or was carried away!”

Crash! Thunder put emphasis to the cook’s words.

“What shall we do?”

“It’s pointless to hunt in a storm,” Artyrith said. “We can’t see, and we can’t smell anything but rain!”

“What’s Lofotan doing, then?”

The cook was almost respectful. “He won’t give up. He’ll ride through the storm until he finds Balif or kills the beast – maybe both.” He sighed wearily. “I had better join him. He’ll never let me hear the end of it if I don’t!”

Alone again, Mathi and Treskan sat together by the struggling fire. Much had been revealed between them in the brief, tense moments when they faced the beast.

“You are not an elf,” he said after a long silence.

“Neither are you. Why are you here?”

“I cannot say. You must trust that my presence is totally benign. I mean no harm to you, the general, or anyone. I am a scholar on a mission of learning,” said Treskan. When Mathi did not reply in kind, he said, “And you? You are one of those beast creatures.” Still she said nothing. “More presentable, more civilized, I see, but still one of them.”

“Civilized? Civilized?” She laughed bitterly. In her dark mirth, Mathi leaned forward quite far. The odd necklace Rufe had left on her swung free of her rain-soaked gown.

“My talisman!”

Treskan’s hand darted out to snatch the little artifact. Faster by far, Mathi caught his wrist first.

“Yours? How do I know that?”

“I brought it with me from my homeland. I must have it back!”

Mathi closed her free hand around it. “The little man, Rufe, took it from you and gave it to me. I don’t know why.” She pulled the string over her head and gave the talisman to Treskan. He looked vastly relieved to have it back.

“Is it magic?”

“You could say that. It’s worth more than my life.”

She caught his hand holding the talisman in both of hers. “Then swear to me on your precious artifact you will not reveal me to the others. I will swear the same for you.”

Treskan hesitated only briefly. He clasped his free hand around hers.

The storm blew itself out after midnight. Stars winked in one by one until their usual millions were displayed. The scribe and the orphan girl passed the night awake, saying little, wondering who would return to them – Lofotan, Artyrith, Balif, or the indestructible beast that was haunting their steps.

Chapter 11

SURVIVORS

The first ones to arrive at the soaked and misshapen tent were the kender. They came up from the ford in no certain order, no definite formation. There were more than two dozen of them, bare headed and empty-handed. Aside from the fact they were more than a hundred miles from any sizable town, the little people looked as if they were out for a morning stroll, not a strenuous migration.

They found Treskan and Mathi huddled together by the smoldering remnants of their campfire. The first ones walked by, eyeing the pair curiously. Some waved a greeting and kept walking. Twenty passed before the first stopped to speak.

“Lousy night, eh?” It was Rufe.

Mathi blinked red-rimmed eyes at the apparition. “How can you be here?” she mumbled.

“I go where my feet and my fate take me,” he replied cheerfully. Hunkering down in the muddy grass, he poked at the dead fire. “Truth is, the Longwalker asked me to look after you. He said you were in trouble.”

Treskan stood up. From his waist down, he was soaked with mud and cold rain.

“Filthy night,” he said sourly. “Unless you have a tub full of hot water in your vest, you aren’t going to help me much.”

Rufe lifted each side of his vest in turn. No bathtubs in his pockets, his winking eyes seemed to say. “Where are the others? The mean one, the snobby one, and your boss?”

Mathi had no idea. She described the night’s events, carefully omitting her newly forged pact with Treskan. Rufe listened, nodding his head from side to side every so often.

When Mathi was done, he said, “Can I see the horse? The scratched one, I mean?”

“Why not?” Treskan threw off his sodden cloak and outer robe. He stripped to his last garment, a short-sleeved tunic held on by a fabric sash tied around his middle. Mathi would have liked to have gotten rid of her wet clothes too, but modesty forbade. Squishing, she followed as Treskan led the kender to the picket line.

Balif’s horse was there. Rain had washed the blood from its neck but the scratches were still evident, red and raw through the animal’s sleek coat. Rufe patted the horse on the ribs and walked under its neck, glancing sideways at the wound. He grabbed the saddle ring and hoisted himself up, picking at the torn leather with his free hand.

“It’s scratched,” he said.

“Amazing. How did you figure that out?” said Mathi crossly.

“Scratched by nails.” Rufe dropped to the ground. He held up one hand, fingers curled. “Like this, only bigger.”

Mathi got a glimmer of what the kender was getting at. She went to the horse. It shied from her until Rufe calmed it with soothing words. Making her hand a claw like Rufe’s, Mathi held it over the parallel tears: four lines, four fingers. The scratches on the left side of the saddle matched the spread of Mathi’s left hand. That meant —

She asked Treskan to climb into the saddle. The horse stirred under the scribe, not liking his weight and carriage. Mathi told him to lean forward. When he complied, his left hand lay over the scratches on that side; his right hand lined up on the other side too. The tears were made by someone sitting atop the horse. Leaning farther forward, the wounds on the animal’s neck aligned perfectly with Treskan’s hands again.

“Gods’ preserve us,” he muttered. He knew who the beast was that Mathi saw in Free Winds. The same creature had visited them during the night. A lot of little pieces of a very large puzzle suddenly took on form and shape. Suddenly Treskan feared for Lofotan and said so. If he met the beast, he might not be prepared for what he found.

Bored, Rufe went down to the river. He plunged in, swimming vigorously against the swift current. The Thon-Tanjan was shallow and rocky above Savage Ford, deeper and slower below. He ignored Mathi’s calls and swam farther out, rolling onto his back and turning his face to the warm morning sun.

Mathi ran to the riverbank. Treskan dismounted and followed with labored tread, lost in thought. He almost walked into the water, he was so distracted. Fortunately he bumped into a kender by the river’s edge and stopped.

There were little folk everywhere. Mathi wound her way through them to the stony beach, cupped her hands around her mouth, and called urgently to one bathing kender in particular. At length Rufe returned, wringing the water from his breeches.

“What is it, pointy-ears? You want a turn in the river? You’re pretty dirty —”

“Quiet, you fool! I’ve had a revelation!”

Rufe shrugged off the girl’s insult as excitement. Mathi got his attention when she told him who had attacked them. The bedraggled kender whistled in disbelief. He denied it. The open air had affected Mathi’s mind. The sooner she was back in a nice, comfortable house, the sooner her head would clear.

Mathi cursed his stupidity. “You showed me the answer! Balif’s saddle was clawed like this!” She bent her fingers, raking an imaginary saddle. “The horse was hurt like this!” She extended her hands and made violent clawing motions. “Don’t you see? The creature was on the horse’s back. The only one who could have injured the horse was Balif!”

Treskan had arrived at the same conclusion. Joining Rufe and the girl, he said, “We must find the general.”

It didn’t take long. As Mathi and Treskan stood by the line of tethered horses, a pair of riders came over the rise, standing out bright and clean against the new day’s sky. It was Lofotan and Artyrith. Something white and lifeless lolled against Lofotan’s back. He had found his commander.

They ran splashing through the mud, meeting Lofotan halfway up the hill from the copse of alders where the pack-horses were tied.

Naked, Balif was slumped against Lofotan’s back, held in place by a broad leather belt passed under his arms.

“The general – does he live?”

“He lives.” Lofotan was hollow eyed. “Whatever else can be said, he breathes yet.”

He unbuckled the strap. Treskan and Mathi caught Balif and lowered him to the ground. Rufe ambled up, cheerfully munching an apple, oblivious to the others’ glaring looks.

They examined Balif. He was naked and covered with cuts and scratches, though none serious. His worst injury was a large bruise on the left side of his jaw. Mathi noticed the mark.

“You struck him?”

“It was necessary.”

Artyrith swung a leg over the pommel of his saddle and dropped lightly to the ground. Kneeling, he grasped Balif by the shoulder and turned him half over. Down the center of Balif’s back was a distinct stripe of coarse, brown fur. What made it doubly shocking was its totally alien nature. No elf had fur down his back, and worse, the color was totally unlike Balif’s own fine, blond hair.

“What does this mean?” Treskan said, recoiling.

“The beast that’s been following us from Free Winds is no halfling monster of Vedvedsica’s,” Lofotan said. “It is our lord.”

Artyrith stood up and stepped back from the unconscious Balif. He rubbed his hands together, never taking his eyes off the fur stripe.

“How can this be? The greatest warrior of the age, a halfling beast?”

Lofotan snapped, “No finer stock of our blood ever lived than Balif, son of Arnasmir! If he is different now, it is because he is accursed!”

Artyrith had a riposte on his lips. One look at Lofotan, and he kept it there. He stared at Balif’s back. “Accursed? By the mage?” He reached for an obscenity from his extensive repertoire and found none. “How long will it be before we are all accursed?”

“Since when is evil magic contagious?” Mathi said.

“If Vedvedsica wanted us hairy, we would be by now,” Lofotan said dryly.

Artyrith protested. The magician was in custody. He couldn’t cast spells or compound curses while in the Speaker’s hands – could he?

“This has been coming on a long time,” Mathi said. Lofotan demanded to know how she knew that. Mathi had to frame a reply that protected Rufe, her hired spy.

“The general complained of being unwell at Free Winds. I understand he consulted with healers there,” was all she would say.

Lofotan got down. “We must find a cleric, who can lift the curse from our lord.”

“No one can lift a dead magician’s spell!” Artyrith declared. He had gone quite pale. Like Lofotan, he assumed Vedvedsica had been executed for his crimes. Only Mathi knew the true fate of the mage. Her distant brethren were in secret contact with their creator. Vedvedsica lived, though he was confined in a walled keep on a tiny island south of Silvanesti.

“How do you know it can’t be done? Are you a priest?” Lofotan said.

“Everyone knows a dead man’s magic is unbreakable!”

Lofotan said, “I will not bow to superstition.” To the scribe, he added, “Fetch clean water and some clothes.” Treskan hurried to comply, but Rufe turned up with the items first. Lofotan set to work washing the mud from his master’s face.

Squatting in the grass, Rufe examined Balif’s hand, as Lofotan eyed him warily. The kender turned it back and forth, scratched his nails with his own small ones, and sniffed his palms.

He was still at it when Balif said, “Everything in place, my friend?”

Anyone else would have leaped a yard at being address so suddenly. Rufe chuckled. “What happened to your claws?”

“Mind your tongue!” Lofotan barked.

“Peace, Captain,” said Balif. His voice was hoarse and strained. “My claws, friend wanderer, did not survive the night, I am happy to say.”

“You mean you were more of a beast last night than you are now?” Again Lofotan warned the kender about his manners.

Balif frowned. “The question is not without merit,” he said mildly. “While the storm was building, I was seized by a terrible urge to escape, to hide from every beam of light. I rode ahead, all the while transforming into the creature you saw. The poor horse went mad at having such a beast on his back. He tried to buck me off. I did all I could to stay on, but I lost by grip. The rest of the night I spent dodging my majordomo and my cook, both of whom were intent on killing me.”

Without turning his head to see, Balif raised his voice and added, “I saw you, Mathi, seated by the fire. I tried to tell you who I was, but I could not speak.”

“I did not know you, my lord, but I could tell you were no ordinary animal.”

He sat up, unconscious of his exposed state. “You spoke to me. I remember that you did but not what you said. I wanted to … harm you, but something in your words dissuaded me.”

Balif said he had eventually lost all power of coherent thought, lapsing completely into animal mode. When he awoke, the sun was shining overhead and Lofotan was carrying him to a waiting horse. He was naked, and his body ached as if he’d been beaten with rods.

“I found you sprawled in the grass, passed out,” Lofotan said. “Nothing would rouse you.”

He helped Balif stand. Mathi and Treskan held up the sleeves of a clean robe. Balif struggled to raise his arms. While he did, Artyrith whirled up on horseback.

“My lord!” he said, choked. “My lord, I am bound for Silvanost. I, therefore, bid you farewell!”

“What?” Lofotan exploded.

“I was hired to cook for one the most illustrious lords of Silvanost. When you took the Speaker’s command and set off on this journey, I went along, as befits a noble retainer. But now —” He reined his agitated mount in a circle. “Lord, if you are accursed, I cannot help you!”

Lofotan spat, “Coward!”

“If we were in Silvanost, I would challenge you for that insult!”

Lofotan repeated it. “It is easy to be brave in the city. Show your mettle here, pot-tender! Draw your blade or stand by your lord!”

Artyrith threw a riding glove in the grass at Lofotan’s feet. “Return that to me in Silvanost, and I will prove who is the coward!” With a final curt salute, he dug in his heels and rode swiftly away.

Lofotan shouted after him until Balif quietly asked him to cease. Artyrith rode due west, finally vanishing over the horizon. There was a long silence as everyone digested his sudden, surprising abandonment.

“He’ll never make it,” the old soldier swore finally. “Nomads will gut him like a trout!”

“He may reach home,” Balif said, grunting as he tried to walk. “He is a resourceful fellow.”

“Stiff-necked, overbred city fool,” Lofotan muttered.

Apart from the fur on his back, Balif looked the same. Mathi clasped his arm to help him walk, carefully noting his nails were quite unclawlike, as Rufe had discovered.

Shivering, he drew the robe close around his lean body. “So, my friends, we are down to three,” he said.

“Four.”

“You, little man? Since when do you belong to this company?”

“Since she started paying me.” Mathi tried not to look guilty. She failed.

They packed up their gear. Balif was too weak to help, so he sat in the grass and outlined his plans since his affliction had come to light. They would cross the Thon-Tanjan as planned and proceed with their mission.

“But, my lord, what about your condition?” asked his loyal retainer.

“At night you will bind me with chains a safe distance from the horses – and from you.”

“That’s not what I meant, my lord. Shouldn’t we seek a priest or sage who can help you?”

“Few are the practitioners who can reverse Vedvedsica’s spells,” Balif said calmly. “Gods willing, we will carry out the Speaker’s task and then find a cure for me … if one exists.”

Privately Mathi was in turmoil. She had no idea the Creator had cast such a spell on Balif. His sense of justice was worthy of a poet – to slowly turn the great general into a beast for his betrayal of Vedvedsica’s beast-children; that was godlike thinking. It wasn’t just the transformation and the loss of mind and faculties that would haunt Balif; it was knowing the horror and ignominy Balif would face in Silvanost if he ever returned.

But would he return ever? The last thing a proud, nobly born elf would want would be to display such an affliction to his peers. Artyrith’s revulsion was moderate compared to what Balif would encounter there. After all, Vedvedsica’s creatures, though innocent of their own origins, were rounded up, slain, or shipped off to eternal exile for simply existing. Balif was a victim, but under Silvanesti law, even the accursed were liable for exile or worse if their existence was deemed an affront to nature.

She helped Lofotan boost Balif onto his horse. The abused animal accepted his rider without a qualm. Mathi decided the horse was more tolerant than Artyrith.

They rode slowly down the sandy hill to the fast-flowing Tanjan. The ford was a series of pools and channels bounded by boulders that allowed travelers to pick their way across. Lofotan went first with the pack animals. Rufe the kender perched on the back of the last pack pony, looking back to the south bank where the other elves waited.

“Strange little fellow,” Treskan remarked.

“How do creatures like that get by in the world?” Mathi wondered.

“Oh, we manage.”

The scribe shouted with alarm. He and the others were surrounded by kender. They had arrived so quietly that neither he, Mathi, nor Balif had detected them. Among them was the Longwalker, a head taller than any other kender present.

“Excellent, friend,” Balif said. “You have a great talent for astonishment. Is it magic that allows you to move with such stealth?”

“Oh no,” the Longwalker said. “Most people just don’t pay good enough attention. That’s when we come and go.”

“Are you crossing the river?”

“I think so. The riders will soon be here, so we had better.”

By “riders” he meant humans. Glancing around, Mathi saw that many of the kender had injuries: sword cuts on their heads and shoulders, bruises on their faces, and battered hands. It turned out that the nomad band the elves had encountered earlier had returned in force. They were sweeping the bend of the river for kender, centaurs, and anyone else not of their band. Greath and the Hok-nu were fighting back, but the kender, being kender, chose to move on.

“How far behind are the humans?” asked Balif.

The Longwalker polled his comrades. Kender had little use for measurements of time or space, so no one had an adequate answer. “Close” was the best they could agree on.

Treskan took Balif’s reins. “Come, my lord.”

Lofotan gained the north bank and led the stubborn pack team ashore. The water had been cold, so it was good to get out in the summer sun. He saw the others linger on the far shore a while, surrounded by a large group of kender. Then they entered the shallow ford. The kender followed, and Lofotan was able to get a clear view of their progress. Being short and lightweight, they might have had a hard time crossing, but kender ingenuity prevailed. They waded where they could, clasping their hands together atop their heads. When the water grew too swift or deep, they clung together in living chains. The kender on the far end of the chain detached themselves one by one, clinging to their comrades as they crossed the hazard. First over was last to arrive. With a minimum of fuss, no equipment, and with considerable speed, the little folk were across the river.

Their escape was timely. Trios of riders appeared on the high ground overlooking the river. They had followed the clear tracks to the water’s edge, noting the last kender clambering out of the ford on the other side. Balif, Lofotan, Treskan, and Mathi sat on their horses in plain view too.

Lofotan said, “My lord, we should withdraw.”

“Not yet. Sometimes it is wise to let the enemy see your banners.”

He was right. Knowing there were Silvanesti around instead of wandering bands of kender made the humans hesitate to pursue them. The deadly work Artyrith and Balif did at the grassland trail was bearing fruit.

Leisurely, Balif turned his horse away and rode up the bank to the sandy flat above. At that point the Thon-Tanjan was a boundary between the fertile green plains south and arid land north. That was an expanse of desert that stretched from the Khalkist Mountains in the west to the eastern ocean. North of the desert was a land little known to the Silvanesti. East lay the disputed territory, bound on three sides by water and on the north by desert. It was good land, well watered by local streams and heavily forested along the watercourse. On official maps in the capital the elves called it “Silvanoth,” which literally rendered meant “Silvanos’s Holding,” implying it was the personal property of the Speaker of the Stars. No one living there called it that. The kender called it Treetops, in honor of the very tall trees growing there.

With trembling hands, Balif sighted with his sunstone. Southeast was their course. Treskan and Lofotan rode on either side of him, keeping a close eye on their afflicted leader. Mathi followed behind, exulting in her creator’s scheme. She wished she had known what was going to happen. Still, it explained why she had been sent to attach herself to the general. Mathi thought Balif was going to be kidnapped, to face the judgment of those he had betrayed. However, it seemed her role was to observe and report the metamorphosis of the mighty Balif into a wild beast.

So why did her joy prove so fleeting? With the sun hot on her face, Mathi soon lost her pride in her creator’s deed. Balif was a betrayer, responsible for many deaths and suffering among her brethren. But why could she not rejoice at his plight? Why did the sight of his frail figure, jouncing along on horseback, fill her with stirrings of pity?

The kender band around them waxed and waned as they went. A few, including Rufe, hitched rides on the packhorses until Mathi caught them rummaging through the baggage for souvenirs. Then Lofotan ran them off.

Balif grew stronger as the day went on. He ate and drank prodigiously, considering his usually abstemious habits. Nectar, water, dried meat, and pressed fruit went down with ravenous intensity. He ate like an elf long starved. No one questioned him on it, but Lofotan and the others took note.

They made good time across open country on the east bank of the river. The ground was rising, growing hillier as they neared the forested region south of the ford. When approaching the line of trees, their kender escort all but disappeared. Even Rufe departed at some unseen moment, leaving the foursome to ride on alone.

“Now that our small friends have gone, I have some things to tell you,” Balif said. Lofotan halted his horse to listen, but Balif bade him ride on.

“If this transformation of mine grows worse – and I expect it shall – you must take steps to protect yourselves and our mission,” he said. “You must restrain me each night.”

“But will you assume beast form every night?” asked Treskan.

Balif didn’t know. The previous night might have been a harbinger of things to come, or it could have been triggered by some unknown factor. Perhaps the thunderstorm provoked his metamorphosis, or the positions of the moons in the sky. Who knew?

“In any event, protect yourselves.”

“I will bind you hand and foot each night,” Lofotan vowed.

“Not enough.” Balif’s strength was enhanced when in beastly form. Rope would not hold him. Had they any chain?

“I have a few lengths in the baggage,” said Lofotan. It was heavy logging chain, used to drag timber behind a sturdy horse.

“Use it.”

His old comrade objected. Binding with chain was undignified.

“So is rending your friends to bits with claws and fangs.”

Chain might injure the general’s wrists and ankles, Lofotan added.

“Do it, nonetheless.”

“We will do as you command, my lord,” Treskan said. Lofotan looked at the reins in his hand and said nothing.

Before dark, they carefully chose to camp on a hilltop amid a thicket of overgrown myrtles. They were unloading the horses when Balif turned his head sharply and announced that he smelled smoke. So saying, he alerted the others, and they smelled it too, even Treskan with his less-than-keen nose. Lofotan climbed the tangled branches of the tallest myrtle and quickly spied the source of the smoke.

“There’s a large column of smoke rising from the next ridge,” he called down. It was a single, thick spire, probably a large campfire. Wildfire smoke would rise from many smaller points.

“Humans?” Mathi wondered aloud.

At her elbow Rufe said, “Yes, a big camp of them.”

She started at his sudden proximity. “Don’t do that!” she cried.

“Do what?” asked Rufe.

Balif laughed heartily. He hadn’t done so all day. “Have you scouted them already?” Balif said. Rufe admitted he had. He had “found” a few items too, things he hadn’t seen before.

Balif held out his hand. Reluctantly the kender put his spoils on display. He had a stone knife made of obsidian. It was too finely made to be a nomad’s tool. The shell inlay on the handle make it look like a cleric’s blade. Rufe had an amber necklace, a beaded headband, and most remarkably, a full-length arrow that he pulled out through his collar. It was so long, it must have gone straight down to his foot, but no one noticed him limping before he pulled it out.

“Let me see that.”

Balif examined the arrow closely. The shaft was daubed white, had a bronze head, and used soft, gray-white feathers for fletching. Balif paid special attention to the feathers.

“Ghost owl feathers,” he said, frowning. The ghost owl was unknown in Silvanesti territory. Its range was in the Plains River Valley west of the Khalkist Mountains. The nomad band must have come from there.

“Maybe they traded for arrows with bands further west?” Mathi asked. Balif said no. Among nomads, every archer made his own arrows, matched to his bow. Whoever made the arrow had access to ghost owl feathers. The invaders had come a long way.

“Do we move on?” Lofotan asked. Rufe could not give them any guess as to the size of the nomad party, but there must have been many to merit such a large campfire.

Balif said, “No. We stay here.” Night was close upon them. They were right under the nose of the humans, but if they kept quiet, they ought to be able to pass unnoticed.

Everyone ended up looking at Rufe.

“What?”

“You know, my lord, it might be worthwhile to have a look at this human camp. Governor Dolanath and the Speaker will need an accurate count of the invaders,” Lofotan said.

Balif was reluctant. He finally agreed to send Lofotan, Mathi, and Treskan to reconnoiter the nomads’ camp. Rufe would stay behind to guard their camp – and him.

“I do not trust the little man, and what good is the girl if a fight comes?” Lofotan protested.

“You insult our friend Rufe. He comes and goes but always comes again. Mathi is quieter than the scribe and has good eyes.”

Mathi would have preferred to stay with Balif but no matter. A spy mission might give her a chance to leave a message for her friends, whom she knew must be shadowing their party.

“Go right after dark,” Balif said. He had lived among and fought against humans a long time and knew their ways. “After sunset they will be eating, washing, or falling asleep.” Going later would only put them up against alert watchmen.

They huddled among the myrtles, eating silently. Lofotan and Balif were in their element, Mathi observed. Hiding in the trees like thieves, eating cold rations, dueling with danger – that was their chosen life. Treskan obviously missed his bed and three squares a day. At least the nectar was good. Rufe managed to pass the time without chattering. When he was done eating, he put his head down on his knees and went to sleep.

Everyone was awakened later by gentle prods. Mathi was surprised that she had slept. It had not been her intention, but slumber crept up on her before she knew it.

It was a clear night, with strong starlight and no moons yet risen. The wind moved to and fro, changing directions in little puffs this way and that. They were dangerous conditions, Balif observed. Starlight could reveal them even to human eyes. The deceptive wind could mask important scents or send theirs wafting in unfriendly directions.

“Shall we stay here?” asked Lofotan. Balif said no.

Before they left, Lofotan had his commander sit with a sturdy myrtle sapling between his knees. Balif put his arms around the trunk. Lofotan wound chain around his wrists and ankles, securing the ends with twists of wire.

Plainly unhappy with having to truss up his revered commander, Lofotan put a skin of water on Balif’s lap. Even chained, he could reach it. He gave Treskan a sword, warning him not to clank or clatter as they approached the nomad camp. The scribe, very unmilitary with the weapons in his hands, swore he would not.

After apologizing to his commander for the fourth time, Lofotan took Mathi by the elbow and propelled her into the darkness. Rufe gave Balif a wink and sat down beside the general. He launched into a tale of his wanderings. It promised to be very long and very strange.

Lofotan, Treskan, and Mathi soon were swallowed by the night. Beyond, the eastern horizon was alive with the glow of a mighty campfire in the same spot they had earlier seen the smoke.

Chapter 12

HUNTERS

Mathi, Treskan, and Lofotan walked parallel a while, wading through knee-high scrub toward the fire-lit hill. The old warrior moved like a cloud, hardly stirring the leaves as he passed. Mathi slipped along, trying to match the elf’s deftness. Treskan had a harder time. If Mathi hadn’t already known he was a human in disguise, she would have figured it out. His progress was labored and noisy.

The route wasn’t easy. Roots tripped their toes, thorny branches ripped their elbows, and insects swarmed around their faces. The ground was a hazard covered with fallen tree limbs. She avoided them all, but Treskan stepped down on an unseen burrow. The turf broke loudly, and the scribe sprawled on his hands and knees. By the time he got up, Lofotan was standing over him.

“Give our position away once more, scribbler, and I’ll take you back and chain you to our lord!” he hissed. Treskan swallowed hard and swore he would be more careful.

They began to hear voices. Without warning, Lofotan angled toward some good-sized trees off to the left. They were dogwoods, very old and gnarled. He climbed the twisted trunk. Casting around, Mathi and Treskan saw others and hauled themselves up as well.

Two nomads appeared, laughing and talking loudly. Each carried a large canvas bucket. They passed right under Mathi.

“— he said he could do it, so I said try. He strung his bow and zzup! Put an arrow in the buck’s brisket. The crazy thing kept boundin’, and we ended up chasing it another mile!”

“Daxas never was a good bowman,” said the other.

They stopped on either side of a freshly dug hole in the turf. Dumping out the buckets, they retraced their path and disappeared in the cleft between the hills.

They swung down. Treskan clamped a hand over his nose. “What was in the hole?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“Offal,” Mathi whispered. The humans had butchered a deer and disposed of the parts they didn’t want. The smell of blood made Mathi tingle in ways she had not experienced in a very long time. She found herself staring at the noisome pit until Lofotan called her away.

Rather than follow the two nomads, Lofotan went up the dark side of the hill to the summit. With great care, Mathi and Treskan shadowed him, trying to step in the same spots as their leader. They arrived at the top soundlessly. They found the old warrior crouched by a boulder. Below, a broad hollow lay spread out before them. Lofotan pointed down at the fire-lit expanse.

The camp was large indeed. It filled the hollow from end to end. Surrounding the sprawl of rude tents was a palisade of spears driven butt-first into the ground. Nomad spears had metal or stone end caps that allowed them to be driven in like stakes. Inside that fence lay tents, pens, and corrals, laid out in disorganized fashion. Lofotan said nomads shared their tents with up to five comrades. Counting the shelters, he reckoned they were looking at a camp of more than one thousand. They could not see any children or elders. That meant one thing: it was a war party.

Lofotan spotted odd pens in the camp. Tied to stakes inside one pen were eight centaurs, heads bowed and legs folded. Beside them was another pen with a top made of lashed saplings. Something stirred within the dark confines of the makeshift cage: more captives, obviously smaller than centaurs.

Lofotan signed for them to follow. He had seen enough. Sliding backward on his belly, he eased back into the darkness. Mathi was about to join him when she heard a sound that made her blood turn cold.

Dogs were baying inside the camp. Mathi froze. They hadn’t counted on dogs. Sure enough, a pack of ten hounds came springing through the lanes between the tents, each one baying to be first after their prey. Nomads left their bowls and cups when they heard the animals’ commotion.

“No time for stealth,” Lofotan said, rising to his feet. “Run!”

Mathi and Treskan tried. She fled down the hill, kicking high to avoid branches and burrows. In an instant she lost sight of her companions. She didn’t have any time to wonder where they had gone before the pack was at her heels. More than a dozen deerhounds with long, thin legs; white teeth; and tails like whips came bounding after her. They spilled right and left, seeking to cut her off. Running downhill helped, but Mathi soon saw flashes of gray and brown ahead of her. The dogs had her ringed in. She dragged at the sword Lofotan had foisted on her, trying to draw it as she ran. Heavy tramping in the grass to her left turned out to be Treskan, running for his life.

The animals in front of her halted with fangs bared. She ran right at the closest one, sword upraised. It was a brave beast and stood its ground. Mathi sent its head flying with a single swing. A dog behind her bit at her leg but got only the hem of her gown. Mathi shortened it by a head as well. Treskan swung wildly at the hounds swarming around him. They darted in after each swing, got between his legs, and brought him down in the high grass.

The pack was closing in on Mathi too. Where was Lofotan? Torches appeared at the top of the hill. The nomads were coming. Where was Lofotan?

She waited for the comforting snap of a bowstring and the flicker of deadly arrows foiling her pursuit. None came. With horror Mathi remembered it was Artyrith who was the superb archer.

A lean, muscular hound leaped at her, catching her sword hand in its jaws. The dog’s weight spun her around, and two more jumped on her, catching hold of her cloak. She staggered as they tugged hard in all directions. Mathi couldn’t raise her sword with the dog on her arm. The hand guard saved her hand from being mangled, but it also gave the hound something to hold on to. A fourth animal clamped on to her dress. With a cry, Mathi went down.

She expected to be savaged. Deep in her soul she had flashes of such a fight – hounds surrounding her, yellow teeth snapping, the baying of the pack as it closed in. It was night then too, and Mathi had drowned the lead dogs one by one when they tried to seize her in the midst of a swift-running stream. There was no water there, only stars and bloodthirsty hounds and the smell of smoke.

Whistles split the night air, and the dogs kept tight hold of her, but they didn’t tear her flesh. The torches grew brighter. She smelled pine burning. A band of nomads, their faces black against the sky, stood around her.

“What is it? A brace of rabbits?”

“A couple of those little thieves, damn them!”

Fire was thrust in her face.

“No! The elder kind! And female!”

“This one too!”

More whistles in short, sharp blasts made the dog pack back off. Hard hands took hold of Treskan and Mathi and dragged them to their feet.

“Who is you?” asked one of the nomads in poor Elvish. “Why you here is?”

“My name is Mathani Arborelinex,” she replied in their own tongue. One of the benefits of living on the fringes of elf society was that she had come into contact with many races. Mathi understood a good part of eight tongues, including Ogrish.

“Hey, Vollman, two of your dogs are dead,” called out another human.

One of the nomads holding Treskan’s arms gave the limb a wrench. The scribe yelped. “Kill my boys, will you? Maybe I’ll take an eye or a finger for each one you slew!” The one called Vollman jerked a long-bladed dagger from his belt.

Treskan struggled in the grip of two brawny nomads. Mathi fought hard until a similar weapon was pressed against her throat. She felt her heart contract to a small, hard knot.

“Be still or be dead!”

“Stop it, Vollman. They will answer questions for the chief first. Then we’ll decide what to do with them.”

With buffets to the head and kicks in the backside, Mathi and Treskan were marched to the nomads’ camp. Glancing left and right, she saw that her captors were fiercely tattooed men with light-colored hair worn in tight braids. They wore deerskins beaded with bold designs. Metal was a mark of status, she guessed. The leader of the party that caught her wore a crescent-shaped strip of brass around his neck and had yellow metal plugs through his earlobes.

In camp, a crowd of nomads had gathered to see the night’s catch. A few were women, warriors too, but most of them were men of fighting age. Mathi and the scribe were driven like wild stags to the door of a large, dome-shaped tent.

The gorget-wearer called out, “Chief! Come out! We caught us something!”

The chief came out. He was the tallest man Mathi had ever seen, nearly seven feet tall. He was darkly tanned, but in the torchlight his eyes were slate gray. His head was shaved except for a single long lock on the back of his head, which he wore thickly braided and pulled forward over his shoulder.

“What’s this?” His voice was as big as his frame.

“We found these elder kind hiding in the bushes,” said the man called Vollman. “She speaks our tongue good.”

“Oh?” said the giant, advancing a step until he towered over Mathi. “I never met a big-ears who could speak our language well. Maybe you’ve spent some time around people, yes?”

Mathi didn’t answer. She wasn’t being sullen or stalwart; she was just scared. The chief took her silence for resistance. He backhanded Mathi so hard that she fell backward into the arms of the surrounding nomads. Laughing, they boosted her back on her feet. Mathi tasted blood.

“Where do you come from?” the chief bellowed at Treskan. His mumbled “Silvanost” was the wrong answer.

“Spying on us, yes? How many elder kind have we seen on our journey, Nurna?”

A muscular young nomad said, “Three, four, chief. Always on hilltops far away, watching us.”

“Collecting news for their king, yes?” To the men holding the captives, he barked, “Search them!”

They did with brutal thoroughness. Her gown was torn in several places. She did not scream, and the violation did not go any further. They found the secret mark of the brethren under her right arm. The blue tattoo surprised the nomads. They had never seen an elf with marks before. There was some excitement when they found Treskan’s stylus – it was metal and nicely turned – and the talisman Rufe had taken and Mathi had returned. The jeweled gold ornament got everyone’s attention.

Vollman claimed the talisman against the loss of his two deerhounds. There were a few protests, but the lofty chief awarded the trinket to Vollman. Mathi had nothing of the tiniest value on her: a few scraps of parchment purloined from Treskan, some charred wood to write with, a few beads, and a wooden amulet carved in the image of Quenesti Pah, part of her disguise as a former resident of the Haven of the Lost.

The chief examined the small harvest taken from the prisoners. Aside from Treskan’s talisman, there was nothing very rich or revealing about any of it.

To Mathi he said in passable Elvish, “Is this all you got?”

“I am just a poor traveler,” Mathi replied in the same language.

The chief threw the trinkets on the ground. “They know more than they’re telling. Tie them to the cage.”

They dragged them to the roofed-in box in the center of the camp they’d seen earlier, the one made of lashed-together saplings. Mathi was shoved face-first against the rails. Her wrists and ankles were tied with thongs. Treskan was slammed into place beside her.

From within the dark cage, a pair of eyes met hers. Mathi could not tell whom she was seeing, but she heard a whisper say, “Tell them what they want to know. They’ll lash you to death if you don’t.”

Nurna appeared with a rawhide whip. Mathi felt her knees give way. She had not bargained for such treatment. Where was Lofotan? How could he leave her to the savages?

Nurna nodded and two nomads tore the cloth from Mathi’s and Treskan’s backs. She clenched her eyes shut and braced herself for the sting of the lash. It didn’t come. Trembling, she opened her eyes. Twisting her head around, she saw Nurna and others speaking together with hushed urgency. One nomad ran off. Nurna came closer, coiling the whip in his hand.

“Too bad,” he said. “May the great gods pity you.”

Before she had the slightest understanding of what was happening, Mathi and Treskan were cut loose and thrown into the cage. They crouched on their knees – the roof was too low to allow her to stand – and watched in amazement as the nomads dispersed.

“Merciful gods,” he muttered. What stayed their hand? Mathi had no idea.

“You heard the man,” said their unseen companion. “They pity you.”

“Who’s there?” Mathi said sharply, drawing closer to Treskan.

“A brother.”

Their fellow prisoner crawled out of the shadows on his hands and knees. Treskan drew in a loud breath. The stranger’s hands and forearms were covered in short, stiff fur. Where a man or elf had nails, their companion had curving, yellow claws. His face emerged from the deeper darkness. Mathi must have stared too hard, for the creature halted his advance.

“Forgive me. As another mistake, I thought you one of us,” he said. His Elvish was excellent, and his accent urban. If an elf closed his eyes, he would think he was speaking to an articulate resident of Silvanost.

“I am one of you – one of us! Who are you?”

“Taius.” The name rhymed with bias.

“I am Mathani Arborelinex. This is Treskan.”

Taius laughed or coughed. It was hard to tell through the fangs and fur. “He’s not what he seems either, is he?” Neither of them answered. Taius said, “You still use a Silvanesti name?”

“Why not? You do,” Mathi replied.

Taius withdrew into the shadows again. “I no longer claim Silvanesti as my race.” He chuckled, an unnervingly beastly sound. “Do you know your mother and father?”

“No, but I know my creator.”

Taius’s eyes glittered in the dark. “Say not the name.”

She tried to remember if they had ever met. The children of Vedvedsica’s art had been scattered, by design, all over the kingdom. Mathi lived in the western woodland, not far from the provincial town of Woodbec. Judging by his accent, Taius had dwelt in the city.

“But why did they spare us the lash?” Treskan said.

“When they tore open your clothes, they saw the truth.”

“Truth?”

It struck Mathi like a thunderbolt. Her elf form was her greatest advantage. Among all her brethren, she was chosen for the mission because her appearance was the most perfect. One by one, the others had begun reverting to their original beastly shapes. When she left the brethren’s hidden camp for Silvanost, she was outwardly as elflike as Balif or Artyrith. But the change was affecting her too. Her characteristic fur was slowly returning. The nomads saw she had elf features but with body hair. Treskan was in the same condition but for different reasons. His elf image was wearing thin in the wilderness. The nomads assumed the two of them were —

“Half-breeds,” said the voice.

Mathi was so relieved to escape the flogging that she didn’t care about her degeneration beginning. Being mistaken by the nomads for a half-elf was an unforeseen benefit. Hating and distrusting elves themselves, they had a certain sympathy for half-elves, who were despised by the Silvanesti and officially persecuted by them.

“What about him?” Taius said.

Treskan replied, “I am a scholar, trying to broaden my knowledge of the elves.”

“You’re a long way from a library.”

“You must help us escape!” she said urgently. “I am on an urgent mission for our brethren!”

Taius sprang at her, alighting scant inches from the crouching Mathi. Long teeth bared in a fierce snarl, his hot breath played on her face like flame.

“To the abyss with the brethren and all our kind!”

Mathi pushed her face closer until their noses almost touched. “I thought we are all kindred.”

“The brethren abandoned us in the city. So did the Creator. He gave us, his children, to the Silvanesti. They hunted us down like —” Had he intended to say animals? Whatever his intent, Taius thought better of it. “They hunted us, killing all who resisted. The rest were spirited away to oblivion.”

“So too our creator,” Mathi said.

“You lie! For his betrayal of his children, the Nameless One was spared!”

Mathi told Taius what she had been able to glean from Balif about Vedvedsica’s trial and condemnation. She went so far as to tell him about Balif’s voluntary exile from Silvanost on the pretext of scouting the eastern province for information about nonelf invaders. Though he had no knowledge of what Vedvedsica was doing, Balif had provided help to the magician. After Vedvedsica’s fall, Balif offered to take full blame for the scandal, but Silvanos would not allow it. How could he tarnish the name of Silvanesti’s greatest hero with such horrible pollution?

“Balif? The general is here?”

“He is near.” Because Taius was so unstable, Mathi decided to not disclose her mission to him. At that time the fewer who knew, the better.

“I bless the name Balif,” he said, despairing, to Mathi’s astonishment.

“What is your story, Taius?” Treskan asked. “I am in General Balif’s employ, but I did not join him until after the trial of – of the Nameless. Who are you, and how came you to be here?”

The beast-elf relaxed his threatening posture. He had actually served in Balif’s guard during the Forest War. In those days his beastly traits were hidden by Vedvedsica’s magic. He thought he was an ordinary elf until the transformation spell worked by the magus began to fail. He tried to hide his condition as long as he could, but it soon became impossible to conceal. Dozens of others like him had mixed in Silvanesti society, serving as soldiers, scribes, artisans, and performers. Some had even married full-blooded elves and had offspring.

Mathi was shocked. Offspring of the brethren and elves? She had not heard that before. Did Silvanos know? Did the Sinthal-Elish, the assembly of great nobles, know?

“They know. And they will never speak of it. It is their greatest shame,” Taius said.

There was a dimension Mathi had not suspected. What great families were mingled with the blood of the beast-elves?

Treskan said, “How did the nomads take you?”

Taius’s eyes glittered in the dark. “I had just brought down a kill, a yearling doe, when their dogs caught my scent. I couldn’t shake them off, so I turned to fight. I was netted like a partridge. When the humans saw what they had caught, they put me in here.”

With sudden violence, Taius leaped upward, grabbing the cage roof with his hands and feet. He shook the willow lattice and roared. The bars held. From a distance, they heard laughter and taunts from their captors.

He dropped lightly to the ground and retreated to the darkest corner of the cage.

“I wonder why they put us together?” Mathi wondered aloud.

“The centaurs they’ve taken are tied in an open pen. The freaks they cage.”

Taius would not speak anymore. Wary of their mercurial fellow prisoner, Mathi and Treskan moved to the opposite end of the cage, where firelight made a dim haven from the darkness.

She dozed. She could not rest. Every sound teased her awake. Passing nomads coughed, hacked up phlegm, or talked loudly, and each disturbance jolted Mathi awake. Treskan sat slumped against the bars, asleep or brooding. Taius was absolutely silent.

Time passed. She didn’t know how much. In the small hours, something hard thumped against the back of her head. She thought a nomad was amusing himself, flinging stones at the half-breed. When the blow was repeated, she turned angrily to insult her abuser.

No one was there.

Daybreak was closer than sunset. Most of the nomads were asleep in their tents. She could see random hands or feet poking out of open tent flaps. The campfires had burned down to embers. Now and then an alert human loped into view with a polearm on his shoulder.

After a watchman passed, another stone came whirling out of the night. Mathi saw it come from the deep shadows between two tents. It was a round, water-washed pebble tumbling end over end, and it struck her square on the forehead.

Like a ghost, a lean figure bereft of color slowly emerged from the tents. It took Mathi a moment to realize it was Lofotan, wearing a long, gray cloak that reached his knees. He moved with all the grace of his race, sidling up to the cage with such calm that not even his breath could be heard.

Starlight gleamed on a length of sharp bronze. Two strokes, and the hide lacing holding the cage closed was gone. Then, without a word or gesture, Lofotan wafted back to the black gap he came from.

Mathi shook Treskan. He started, fists clenched, ready to fight. Mathi hissed at him to be quiet. She stood, head and shoulders bent down by the low top.

“Up,” she whispered. Treskan obeyed.

They braced their shoulders against the bars and pushed. The green wood lattice shifted. Treskan got his arm out and used it to push against the cage frame. They heaved again, shifting the cage top far enough to one side to allow them to climb out.

In a flash Taius was beside them. Treskan almost cried out in alarm when he felt his furry flanks brush against him. In one fluid movement, Taius was out and on the ground, crouched on all fours. He looked back at Mathi and the scribe, staring with amazement from inside the cage. Fangs flashed in a grimace – or smile? – and the beast melted into the night.

With far greater deliberation, Treskan and Mathi climbed out. They tugged the cage top back into place and hurried away, making for the spot where Mathi saw Lofotan vanish. Not two steps into the shadows, she felt a slim, hard hand clamp over her mouth.

“You took your time!” he murmured in the girl’s ear.

After he removed his hand, Mathi hissed back, “My thought exactly!”

“It was not my plan to attack thousands by myself. Come.”

Lofotan led them through a maze of tents populated by snoring, snorting nomads. They hid once or twice from prowling sentries then slipped through the palisade to freedom. On open ground, Lofotan broke into a run. Mathi and Treskan were not fleet enough to keep up with an elf of Lofotan’s size. Stumbling, Treskan pleaded to Lofotan to slacken his pace.

“Do you want to linger near their camp? Their dogs may pick up our scent again.”

With Taius free she doubted that. He smelled too strongly of beast. Given a choice, the hounds would chase him and not a human or a near-elf such as Mathi. Still, Lofotan’s point was well made. Speed would put more safe ground between them and the nomads. She jogged after the spry warrior.

Back in the myrtle thicket, they found Balif awake, still chained to the tree. Rufe slept soundly a few feet away.

The general greeted him courteously.

“My lord, you seem … yourself.”

“So I am. I cannot explain it.” Even shackled, the elf was extraordinarily poised. “You’ve had quite an adventure tonight.”

Ruefully Mathi agreed. She related her experiences in the nomad camp, leaving out their exposure as half-breeds. Treskan let her do all the talking.

“They didn’t question any more closely than that?” said Balif.

“No, my lord.”

She described the cage and her fellow captive. “This Taius claimed he had served under you in the Forest War,” Mathi said.

“I remember a warrior named Taius. A very brave soldier of noble countenance.” His countenance was no longer so noble, but he was civilized enough not to attack Mathi on sight.

Then, not knowing exactly why she did so, she related to Balif the story of Taius’s true nature. The general listened calmly.

“He’s not as far along as some others,” Balif said. Sooner or later the transformed beasts always reverted to their animal origins, Balif said. Vedvedsica’s spell, though powerful, could not overcome nature forever.

Taius retained a fading veneer of civilization, the general continued. If he lived long enough, he would forget everything and be nothing but a beast. The worst creatures were the ones who had almost forgotten their elf lives. They were beasts in every way, but their minds still held memories of their former lives. Because of that they were filled with rage over their situation.

Vedvedsica had exploited that rage, Mathi knew, by urging them to find and kill Balif.

Lofotan appeared. He looked haggard but alert. “We should move,” he said. “By daylight we shall be too exposed here.”

Balif agreed. Lofotan had packed the baggage onto the horses while Mathi and Treskan were captive. All they had to do was release Balif, rouse the kender, and go.

Lofotan unwired the links and removed Balif’s chains. Rubbing his wrists, the general stood. Mathi stooped to pick up the costly bronze links.

“Mathani.”

She straightened, coiling the chain in her hands.

“Mathani, your gown.”

She realized that her garment was still torn open. Mathi waited for the questions and the denunciations that would follow. She looked at Balif blankly, leaving to him the final challenge.

Lofotan returned. “We must hurry!”

Balif gazed intently at her. Without a word, he took the cloak he’d been sitting on and draped it around Mathi’s exposed back. He walked on and swung into the saddle. Lofotan kicked Rufe awake. Yawning, the kender scratched his ribs, got up, and walked off alone in the predawn darkness.

Why didn’t Balif, general of the Speaker’s army, denounce her as an impostor? Did he take Mathi for a half-breed, as the nomads had? The existence of half-humans was officially denied in Silvanost on the grounds that such pairings could not be fruitful. Secretly, half-humans were subject to summary arrest, exile, or imprisonment without trial. Balif was known to be a tolerant elf. Perhaps his own condition made him more sensitive to the question of who was an elf and who wasn’t.

Puzzling over it, Mathi got on her pony. She had just settled in the saddle when Treskan came furtively to her side.

“My talisman. I must have it back,” he said in a low voice.

“Forget it.”

“One of the nomads – Vollman? – must still have it. I have to have it back, or I am lost!”

Mathi looked around. Rufe – where was he? He was the perfect one to steal back a trinket, but where could one find a kender when the kender was on the loose, not wanting to be found?

Chapter 13

LEADERS

Balif’s party rode south, away from the nomad war band. For reputedly empty territory, they ran into plenty of people on the move – centaurs and kender, mostly. The few small groups of humans they spotted were mixed men, women, and children. The elves were unable to approach them, as the family bands fled at the sight of riders.

Balif dictated notes to the Speaker from the saddle. He was calm, insightful, and accurate in his judgment of the situation. There was no law in the eastern province. Human war bands crossed the territory with impunity, and they were trying to drive out anyone not part of their own tribe. The wanderfolk were numerous but not a serious threat to Silvanesti hegemony. They were simply migrants, living off the land, bothering no one but belligerent nomads and hysterical officials such as Governor Dolanath.

Mathi noticed that the general did not use the official Silvanesti name for the east, Silvanoth, and that he played down the potential problems the kender presented. She asked Balif about that point.

“The wanderfolk are not warriors or nation-builders. They are no threat to the Speaker’s rule or the elven nation. In fact, they may prove to be a useful buffer against the humans and centaurs,” he said.

“Those little oddlings useful?” Lofotan commented sarcastically.

“Would you buy a house infested with cockroaches?” asked Balif. Lofotan avowed he wouldn’t unless the pests were exterminated. “Not an easy thing to do. Smoke, poison, and traps will get many, but the house may never be free of them. Do you understand?”

Lofotan easily saw a connection between cockroaches and kender, but Mathi felt she understood better. If the east were thickly populated with kender, it would put off the nomads from settling there in large numbers if at all. They were perfectly willing to fight the elves for the land, but the kender wouldn’t fight; they would just dwell there, doing all their infuriating kender things.

“Wanderfolk are bigger than insects,” Lofotan mused. “Maybe the humans can eradicate them.”

Balif said, “We must not let that happen.”

Before his majordomo could question the wisdom of that, Balif trotted ahead, signaling an end to the conversation. Treskan hurried after him, eagerly scratching down every word the general had said.

As they drew near the forested region just inland from Golden-Eye Bay, they found signs of conflict: patches of burned grass, broken spears, and shattered arrows. The heads had been carefully salvaged, but there was no mistaking the ruined shafts of either. When the first tall trees came into sight, a delegation of kender emerged from the woods and approached them.

“Greetings, illustrious General,” said the lead kender, holding a green sapling with a scrap of white cloth tied to the tip.

“General? What general?” Lofotan said warily.

“This is the storied commander of the elder folk, is he not?” The kender with the sapling pointed at Balif.

“You have us confused with others.”

“The Longwalker told us of your coming.”

Balif said, “The Longwalker deserves his name. Is he here?”

The kender wagged his head back and forth. “I don’t see him.”

Behind the flag bearer were five more kender, all bearing wounds of various sorts. The leader said, “Where is your army?”

“What army?” said Lofotan.

“The army that will defend the greenwood against the horsemen.”

A large number of kender, traveling more or less independently, had taken to the woods to escape the bands of marauding humans. Some kender had been captured, brutally treated, then turned loose as a warning to the others to leave the territory.

“Who gives orders for you to leave?” asked Balif.

“The chief of the horse riders, Bulnac by name.”

“Is this Bulnac a veritable giant, seven feet tall?” Mathi put in.

One of the silent kender stepped forward, waving a tightly bandaged arm. “Yes, yes, that’s him! Closer to eight feet, I’d say!”

According to the kender, Bulnac had recently led an uprising against the chief of his people, the Monsha. Balif knew the Monsha, or Mon-shu as they were called by the elves. They were a populous, powerful tribe whose range was in the far northern Great Plains. Losing his fight to gain control of the tribe, Bulnac had ridden away with his supporters to carve out a new realm for himself in the east.

Lofotan and Mathi glanced at their leader. He sat immobile, gazing over the heads of the battered kender delegation.

“Bad tidings,” he finally said. “A failed coup makes the loser desperate. This Bulnac will be difficult to deal with.”

“Your excellent self can do it,” said the flag-bearer cheerfully.

Balif looked at each of the little folk in turn. “I will do it,” he said solemnly. “But you must help.”

Lofotan started to protest, but his lord’s manner dissuaded him. Inwardly Mathi rejoiced. For reasons she did not understand, she wanted Balif to help the wanderfolk. The sympathy she felt for the race – a word she did not completely comprehend – was something new. But she was pleased to know Balif would be fighting the savage humans and defending the kender.

He had no army. He had a single old retainer, a disguised human scribe, an unknown quantity of kender to command, and Mathi. She had no idea if the wanderfolk could be welded into an effective fighting force, but with those few words – “I will do it” – Balif had pledged himself to try.

Balif and his companions dismounted. They led their horses into the cool shade of the woods. Born to the green, Balif glowed with happiness to be under trees again. Close on his heels, Lofotan brooded. Treskan gripped his stylus. The nomads had taken his best instrument. He’d had a spare in his gear back at camp, and he held on to it for dear life. He had been writing all morning, even when conversation stopped. Mathi supposed he was compiling impressions of the territory and situation.

The forest was old and long-standing. Oaks and beeches predominated, interspersed with cedars so dark, their green fronds appeared black. The trees had reached great heights, growing unmolested since the dawn of time. Centuries of leaf fall had smothered all undergrowth, leaving the space between the soaring trunks relatively open. Passing through the forest was like traversing some enormous, columned hall. The air was still. Birds flitted in the high branches. Motes sank slowly through high lances of sunshine.

Tugging the packhorse reins behind her, Mathi’s mind turned back to her mission. Since discovering the general’s affliction, she had begun to wonder if she should continue with the plan to kidnap him. Would their creator prefer they left Balif to the mercies of his curse? Then there was her growing feeling that Balif should be left alone to deal with the human nomads and protect the kender.

Her mental juggling was halted by a small face popping up right in front of hers.

“Rufe!” she said. “You’re here now, are you?”

“Tall people say the strangest things,” he replied. “If I weren’t here, who would you be speaking to?”

Mathi pushed him aside with a theatrical sweep of her hand. Rufe fell in step behind her, gently patting Mathi’s pony.

A quick survey revealed hundreds of kender lurking and lolling in the forest. They perched on low branches, feet swinging; they dodged in and out of the columned trunks, playing tag. Some were doing tricks for the amusement of their comrades. Mathi saw one kender show how he could slip his arm out of his sleeve then leave behind a leather glove as a false hand. With his freed hand, he probed pockets, tossed rocks, and tied and untied shoelaces.

“What are we going to do with such folk?” Lofotan said. “The nomads will chop them down like wheat.”

Balif remained curiously optimistic. “If you must fight against a sword, and you have no sword, take two knives.” It was an old saying, but Lofotan only frowned when he heard it.

There was no camp to speak of, no central spot around which the kender gathered. The elf party walked on, leading their horses until the Longwalker appeared. The kender chief was, for him, grandly dressed in a white robe and buff suede boots too large for him. A gilded circlet crowned his head. From ten feet away Mathi could tell that the headgear was fake. The gold leaf was peeling at the edges, and the “gems” mounted on it were murky chunks of glass. Nevertheless, the Longwalker looked something like a leader of substance instead of just another short-statured vagabond.

“Greetings, wonderful General,” he said, beaming.

Balif shook his hand like an equal. “Hail to you, Longwalker. How have you come to this state? The humans have driven you to cover like a covey of quail.”

“Pah, it’s nothing. A few dark nights and we’ll slip away.” No one believed him, not even Rufe and the other kender listening. The nomads were too thick on the plain to evade.

“If I can help, please say so,” said Balif. “I am at your disposal.”

The Longwalker clasped his hands together and breathed, “How splendid! You can drive the riders away, can’t you, illustrious General?”

“With what? Juggling tricks?” muttered Lofotan.

“If necessary, even that, Captain.” Balif raised his voice for all to hear. “War is more than fighting and killing. The most potent weapon of war is here.” He tapped his temple. “More often than not, guile and artifice can overcome strength and ferocity.”

Cheerfully clapping the elf general on the back, the Longwalker and his companions escorted Balif to their fireside. Lofotan unhappily watched his commander.

To no one, he said, “Foolish at best and suicidal at worst.” Treskan, tramping by, asked him to repeat what he just said. Lofotan gave the scribe a frosty glance and moved on.

Mathi and Rufe brought up the rear. As the elves passed out of sight among the big trees, the kender said, “What about my payment? Where’s my horse?”

“Your job isn’t over yet.”

“Uh-huh, it is. Pay up, or I tell the general what you really are.”

“You’re too late,” Mathi lied. “He already knows.”

For the first time since meeting the kender, Mathi had the pleasure of seeing Rufe be genuinely surprised.

“He knows? And he still lets you ride with him? I thought he would tear the points from your ears for deceiving him.”

“General Balif is an unusual fellow,” Mathi said. “After all, he’s working for your people now.”

That the kender could not deny. He nodded sagely as though he believed her. He was about to leave when Treskan joined them. Keeping an eye on Lofotan and the general, he asked Rufe if he had penetrated the human camp yet.

“A few times.”

There’s a certain item he had, the scribe said carefully. It was taken from him while he was held in the humans’ camp. He wanted it back.

“What?” the kender wanted to know. Treskan described the talisman in some detail.

“Oh yeah, I remember that dingus. What’s so important about it?”

“I want it. It’s mine. Get it back as soon as possible, and I will give you —” Treskan stopped, stumped. What could he offer someone who was proud to own nothing but could get virtually anything his heart desired?

Mathi came to the rescue. She said, “What do you want, Rufe?”

“Pancakes.”

Used as she was to Rufe’s obscure reasoning, Mathi had to ask again. The answer was the same.

“Pancakes, with green berry syrup, butter, and cheese.”

“All right,” said Mathi slowly. “Treskan will make you pancakes.”

“I will?”

“I want to be paid in advance,” Rufe insisted. “Going in that camp is risky.”

The elves had flour in their supplies and maybe syrup, but Silvanesti did not eat dairy products as humans and kender did. Finding cheese and butter might be hard. Once again Mathi wished Artyrith were still there. He undoubtedly could produce pancakes from a glutton’s dream.

She explained their culinary dilemma. Rufe relented. “Have’em by tonight,” he said.

Rufe wandered off in his aimless way, shrugging his shoulders now and then as if arguing with himself then agreeing to what he had said. Mathi and Treskan tethered the horses. Lofotan had ordered him to stand guard over them, but he had other things to do, such as finding ingredients for pancakes. Mathi suggested that he inquire with the Longwalker or the other kender. If anyone had butter and cheese in the wilderness, they would.

It was dark by the time he found all the ingredients. When the time came to cook Rufe’s bribe, there was no one around. He found Mathi seated under a lofty beech tree, dozing. He woke her quietly. She reacted by seizing his hand so swiftly, Treskan barely saw her move. She opened one eye.

“What is going on?” she said in a hushed tone.

“Nothing. I found what I need for Rufe’s pancakes, but everyone seems to be gone.”

All day the woods had seen a constant though erratic procession of kender passing back and forth. Mathi, exhausted by her long ride and their escape from the nomads’ camp, learned to ignore the restless wanderfolk as she would the pounding surf or raucous street noises. Once she was awake, the absence of kender and the silence was startling – and a bit ominous.

Releasing Treskan, she rolled to her feet. Mathi sniffed the wind. She smelled smoke. Wandering forward, she used her nose to track the aroma. The forest, so comforting by daylight, took on a strange atmosphere by night. The massive tree trunks and heavy canopy of leaves overhead made the forest floor prematurely dark. No stars or moons shone through the roof of green. When night fell, it fell hard.

She followed an erratic course in and out among the trees, turning this way and that, grasping the invisible lifeline of smoke. Treskan trailed her, puzzled but unquestioning. Mathi decided the odor was coming from a number of small twig fires, not a great pyre like what the nomads used. Treskan pointed out a glimmer of light among the trees ahead. The odor of burning grew stronger as they tracked to the light. Soon they heard the drone of voices and the snap of burning twigs.

A hollow between two rows of oaks was filled with seated kender. In the center of the smooth, shallow trench, a fire blazed. Seated around it were the Longwalker, Balif, and Lofotan.

Treskan opened his mouth to hail them, but Mathi stopped him. Something was happening, something unusual. The kender were all sitting still, facing the Longwalker and his guests. And they were listening. Mathi had never seen kender sit and listen to anyone before.

“And so Silvanos, called the Golden-Eyed, became Speaker of the Stars and Father of all his Country,” Balif was saying. “Our elder race has grown wise and strong during his reign and will grow wiser and stronger still.”

“Do all the elder folk bend a knee to the Golden-Eyed?” asked the Longwalker.

From where she stood, Mathi could swear Balif’s eyes twinkled. “All with wisdom do. No chief is loved by all.”

“True enough,” said the kender. He glanced over both shoulders at the crowd behind him. “This lot don’t love me. They don’t even like me very much.”

“Sure we do!” piped a voice from the darkness. “As long as you give us drink!”

There was much laughter. Mathi saw Balif had passed around the supply of the nectar that Artyrith had acquired in Free Winds. Kender drank from everything from cups made of rolled tree bark to battered gold goblets liberated, no doubt, from people they met on their travels.

“But what about you, Serius Bagfull? How did you become Longwalker of your people?” Balif asked. He held out a simple, clay cup for Lofotan to fill from a nearly empty skin of nectar.

“I was named such by the Eye.”

“Eye?”

The kender nodded. Fire highlighted his long nose and prominent cheekbones. “As I entered this world, the Eye spoke to me and said I would be the Longwalker of my people.”

“I don’t understand,” said Balif.

“Tell the story!” someone called. Others echoed the cry, but some of the kender objected just as loudly. Serius Bagfull, Longwalker of the wanderfolk, looked embarrassed.

“It is not a tale we tell to those not like us,” he admitted. “But the honorable general has agreed to aid us, so can we not repay him by sharing the story?”

Another mixed chorus of yeas and nays filled the clearing. The Longwalker held up his hands for quiet and received it.

“Sometimes I must act like a chief,” he said apologetically. “If you all do not mind!”

Only crickets sang in the woods. Treskan went down on one knee, opening the case of his writing board with one hand. Hand poised, he prepared to record everything the kender said.

“Time was and time is, as old ones say. Time was there were no wanderfolk in this land but in a place far gone, as far away as the opposite side of a circle. There were lots of us there, lots and lots – too many in fact, and no one had room enough to wander without bumping into another coming from another place. It was a bad time, and the people made trouble for each other out of spite and boredom. They stole —”

“Found!”

“Borrowed!”

The Longwalker cleared his throat. “They hurt each other, even killed one another. The People cried out to our makers for help, but the gods were not listening to our pleas. To get their attention, an especially clever girl named Fina decided to make a lodestone so large, it would pull the gods down from the sky. Then they would have to listen to our pleas.”

Treskan squinted in the poor light, scribbling it all down. He muttered to Mathi that kender as a race were obsessed with natural magnets. Some of them went on quests for decades, collecting every bit of lodestone they could find, filch, or finagle. Outsiders assumed kender had some daffy purpose for collecting magnets. For the first time, the origin of their obsession was revealed.

“Fina convinced her kinfolk to scour the countryside for lodestone. She collected enough to fill forty barrels. She and her cousin Rufus hauled them to the top of Mount Aereera, which was the highest peak in the land. They built a great pile of lodestone, and sure enough, after a day or so, clouds began to gather over the mountain. Lightning came down and struck the mountain all around them, turning the rocks to lodestone as well. The pull became so strong, nothing could resist it.”

“And the gods came down?” said Lofotan. He sounded a bit drunk and quite insolent. The Longwalker did not seem to mind.

“Not the gods. The Eye.”

All through the crowd of kender the word Eye was repeated with great reverence. Hearing the chant made the hair on Mathi’s neck prickle.

“What is the Eye?” Balif asked.

“The handiwork of the Makers,” the Longwalker replied. “A great oval stone in the sky, faceted like cave crystal, and the color of smoke.”

Treskan dropped his stylus. Mathi stooped to retrieve it for him.

“The Eye came down to the lodestone mountain. Though it was not bright, it burned the sky as it came. It drove Fina and Rufus off Aereera. They ran and behind them the slopes of the mountain ran like water. Great crowds of the People stood waiting for the two to return. When they saw the Eye descend, they fled for safety, but no place was safe. Houses burned, forests went up like kindling, and stone mountains melted like lead in a crucible. Fina herself was burned to ashes, but Rufus escaped.”

“How?”

“While running through the valley of Nepsas, below Mount Aereera, he saw a wide cleft in the rocks. He crawled in. There was a deep passage through the ground there, and many hundreds of the People followed him to escape the wrath of the Eye.

“The Eye pressed against the doors of the cleft, but the stone was so hard, it could not melt it. It tried so hard and so long that it wore out its anger at having been pulled down from the sky. The unseen fire faded away, leaving a cool and calmer Eye hovering over the mouth of the cave.

“‘Since you seek the world’s protection, go forth and find it,’ said the Eye. The crack in the ground deepened. Rufus and the People in the cleft went down and down, then up and up. It took so long for them to find the up from the down that babies were born along the way, and the babies of babies. I, myself, was born in the cleft. I have the mark of it, see?”

The Longwalker parted the seams of his dusty robe, revealing a large, angular scar on his chest. It could have been made by anything, and the kender chief did not elaborate on how he got it.

“One day while we were climbing up, the Eye spoke through the hollow core of the world and said, ‘You have taken a long walk, my children. Let the first one out into the new day lead you into the light.’

“I was the first of the People to see the sky of today. I am the Longwalker. I led the people out of the down and into the up.” He paused as if finished.

Balif was listening raptly, a fist pressed against his lips. “This happened in your lifetime? How long ago?” he murmured.

Serius tugged a tuft of weathered hair. “When this was long and glossy.” Kender didn’t observe calendars. Assuming the Longwalker was a spry age for a kender – seventy-five or eighty – it sounded as if the wanderfolk had arrived in the past forty years or so.

“We were not the same folk when we came out of the up as when we went into the down,” the Longwalker continued. “The people of the land around the circle were bigger and less handsome – not as big as you elder folk, I guess.”

“Who else would your ancestors be?” Lofotan said. “Not humans!”

Treskan said a single word. Mathi did not understand it, and she repeated it more loudly than the scribe intended. “Gnomes? What are gnomes?” she said. “The parent race of the wanderfolk?” Balif said thoughtfully

“Maybe. Don’t know.” The Longwalker sat down. “The stories say we were bigger, and passing through the down made us better sized.”

Treskan wrote wildly. His stylus flew across the sheet, leaving a slanting trail of ink scratches that Mathi could not fathom. He seemed awfully excited about hearing a silly traveler’s tale.

“So we have come to this land in search of breath and space. It’s a good land. We’ll stay.” Smiling, the kender chief qualified his last statement by saying, “With the help of our friend the famous general.”

“Is that story true?” demanded Lofotan.

Serius Bagfull grinned. “How could it be?”

With that, Treskan snapped his stylus in two. He stared helplessly at the broken instrument. How would he write his chronicle?

“Hey, boss.”

Rufe appeared like a mirage beside him. Treskan lost his composure. After frantically recording the entire fantastic story related by the Longwalker, only to hear it pronounced untrue, he had broken his last writing instrument. He cursed loudly, but less elegantly than the departed Artyrith.

“Easy, boss.”

“What are you playing at?”

“Found your whatsit,” Rufe said.

“Wonderful! Where is it?”

“Not here. In the nomad camp where I saw it.”

Anger rose and fell on the scribe’s face like a fever. He resisted an urge to take Rufe by the throat and shake him. “How do I get it back?” he asked slowly.

“Come with me. I’ll get it for you. You come too,” he said to Mathi.

“Me?” said Mathi. “You don’t need me. It’s not my trinket.”

“He’s clumsy and blind in the dark. You see like a cat. You come, or I don’t go,” Rufe said flatly.

Mathi looked to Balif, seated comfortably between the Longwalker and Lofotan. To be polite, it was Balif’s turn to tell a story, so he had launched into the tale of Karada, the woman who led the nomads out of fear and obscurity to their current state of power. The general was a fine storyteller. No one would willingly leave that spot for some time.

Treskan sadly pocketed the pieces of his writing instrument. He begged Mathi to accompany them.

It was a fool’s errand and a good way to get killed. Still, she had made a pact with Treskan, and he had kept his part faithfully. Perhaps she could leave word for her brethren along the way. They had to know about Balif’s unfolding curse.

“Lead on,” she told Rufe.

Treskan embraced her, and he was dissuaded from kissing her only by threat of violence.

Chapter 14

TREASURES

Together Mathi and Treskan got their horses from the picket. Mathi prepared to saddle hers, but Rufe insisted they not take the time. A rough blanket and a rawhide halter would do, he said. The kender sat in front of her, and together the trio trotted off into the twilight. On the way Rufe explained his plan to get the talisman back. Upon hearing it Mathi hauled back on the reins and stopped.

“That’s the maddest thing I ever heard!”

“Oh, I’ve heard plenty of madder things,” Rufe replied cheerfully. “Trust me, boss. I know how this goes. Do it my way and all will be well.” Treskan was speechless with astonishment.

I must be mad to even contemplate this, Mathi thought. Putting my fate in the hands of this kender, this criminal gang of one … when that phrase came to mind, she brightened. Rufe was a gang of one. He had reduced the garrison of Free Winds to impotence all by himself. Maybe there was some crazy logic to his scheme after all.

They rode many miles under cloud-swept skies, galloping then walking, galloping then walking. After three repetitions of that pattern, Rufe grabbed the reins from Mathi.

“Now we walk, quiet as can be,” he whispered.

They had left the woods long before, dashing across the windy, open grassland northeast of the forest. It was a high, flat plateau, higher than the Tanjan valley or the old forest. The glow of many campfires dotted the horizon. Rufe, Treskan, and Mathi got down and started for the distant nomad camp, leading their ponies by their halters.

Though he had called for quiet, Rufe chattered on about humans and elves, ways to confound either, and what worked with one group but not the other. Humans, he said, were always fooled by boldness. If they thought it was impossible to walk out of a gate unseen, then the way to confound them was to walk out that very gate. He had walked in and out of the nomad camp unmolested simply by skipping along and singing off key. The nomads who saw him took him for a human child and did not bother him.

Elves, on the other hand, readily succumbed to subtlety. With their greater senses, they believed they could not be surprised by stealth, so Rufe always resorted to stealth to deceive elves. At Free Winds Rufe came and went from the fortress at will by clinging to the backs of the guards, often hidden under their cloaks. By such simple methods, he reduced Dolanath to hysteria and had his run of the place.

Mathi listened with half an ear. The rest of her was alive to her surroundings. She was no scout trained to creep up on hostile camps, so she relied on her native skills long buried beneath a shell of elflike flesh. The shell was slowly eroding, and the night took on new dimensions as she walked. Sounds and smells were stronger than ever. Subtle changes in cloud colors meant things to her she had forgotten. Every step, every breath, every beat of her heart held meaning. Mathi had lost those sensations, but they were creeping back. She wondered if they would bring her to life or reduce her to madness.

Listening to the kender’s lecture, Treskan asked, “Have you always been a thief?”

“Thief?” Rufe stopped dead. “I beg your pardon! I’m no thief, no sir, not me!”

“Shh, please! Lower your voice!”

“I won’t be called a thief by anyone!” said Rufe shrilly.

“All right! I apologize! Now lower your voice before the nomads hear us!”

Rufe stamped his small foot. “Thieves take things for their own gain. They make their living stealing the property of others. I’ve never done that, no sir, not ever! Anyone who says I have done so had better be prepared to deal with Rufus Reindeer Racket Wrinklecap!”

“You do know an awful lot about how to deceive gullible people,” Mathi said, trying to divert the little man’s ire.

“That’s different,” he returned proudly. “A lone traveler like me wouldn’t last a week in the wide world unless I took advantage of the quirks of my fellow creatures.”

They went on, Treskan chewing his lip, Mathi absorbing the expanded world around her, and Rufe fuming about the scribe’s infuriating slander. When they were close enough to make out individual tents in the nomad camp, they halted again. It was time to enact Rufe’s plan.

Mathi and the scribe dragged the blankets off their ponies. He pulled two corners of his over his shoulders like an oversized cloak and tied the corners to his sash. Leaning forward, he braced his hands on his knees. Rufe explained where he intended to go. Mathi promised to cut his throat if he tried to do that to her. Shrugging, Rufe wormed his way under Treskan’s tunic instead. He braced his feet against the edges of the blanket and held his face averted so his nose didn’t protrude from the scribe’s clothing. With the laces of the scribe’s tunic drawn tight, only the top of the kender’s head showed. In poor light it could be taken for part of a fur vest, a garment much favored by the nomads.

Treskan straightened up, but staggered under the kender’s weight. “This will never work,” he grunted.

“It will if you make it work,” said the kender’s muffled voice.

Mathi stuffed tufts of grass inside his clothing to round out his profile. With Rufe inside, he looked rotund indeed. He wrapped a scarf around his head to hide his elf ears. Mathi tied the horse blanket around her shoulders too, making a sort of turban to cover her fine hair and ears. At Rufe’s muffled urging, she used a charred stick salvaged from the campfire to blacken hers and Treskan’s faces. Nomad warriors were famously dirty, so there was no point trying to pose as them if their faces were too clean.

Mathi tied the ponies to a stake thrust in the turf. Carrying the concealed kender, Treskan lumbered toward the camp. Mathi followed, breaking her step so as not to outpace the burdened scribe.

The border of the camp was well marked by a hedge of sharp spears. Each nomad carried a bundle of them on his horse, and every night they were combined to form a defense for the camp. They were no deterrent to visitors on foot, and even with the kender, Treskan managed to slip between the sharp points. Behind the barrier the nomads had mown down the grass with scythes to provide both fodder for their horses and a clear lane to spot intruders. Mathi was surprised by the sophistication of their defenses. When she had been captured before in the hills, the nomads’ camp did not have so elaborate a system of protection.

She passed stands of ready weapons – spears and poleaxes mostly – and came upon the outer line of tents. Treskan whispered to Rufe for directions. Peering out through the lacings of the scribe’s shirt, Rufe said, “Right.”

They tramped along a darkened line of horsehair tents built in the round style of the northern plains. It was not very late, but many nomads were sleeping, as evidenced by the great amount of snoring they heard. Mathi was behind the scribe, guarding his back. Treskan was watching his feet closely as it was hard to see where they were falling with the bulk of a concealed kender in the way. Thus he did not see the large warrior standing with his back to him. Man and kender blundered right into the nomad.

“Get off!” the man growled. He was watering the grass.

To his horror Mathi and Treskan heard Rufe snap back, “Out of my way, oak tree.”

The hulking figure turned slowly around. He was a head taller than Treskan, with a beard like a raging flame.

“Men who speak to me like that don’t live long.”

“Not if you breathe on’em,” said Rufe.

Treskan gasped and thumped the kender through his tunic. The warrior drew a short, wide sword and displayed it under the scribe’s nose.

“Got a cough, have you? I’ve got the cure!”

“Begging your pardon,” Treskan said between gasps. He shoved the heel of his hand into Rufe’s mouth to stifle him. The kender promptly bit him.

Wincing, he sidled past the warrior’s butcher blade. “Too many strange victuals,” he muttered, keeping up his phony cough. Mathi kept her face averted and darted after him.

Red Beard sheathed his sword. “The only strange one here is you, lard bucket.”

Rufe struggled to deliver a stinging reply. Treskan clamped both hands over the hidden kender’s face and hurried on.

“Are you trying to get us murdered?” he demanded.

“Tuh! Big bullies haven’t the tongue for taunting,” Rufe said.

“It’s not their tongues I fear. Now shut up, or you’ll be eating pancakes through a sliced gullet!”

They circled halfway around the sizable camp until Rufe recognized a group of tents. He dug an elbow in Treskan’s ribs. They had arrived at their destination.

At first Mathi imagined they would have to creep into some dark tent and make off with the talisman. That was not what Rufe had in mind. They got down on all fours and crawled through a closed hide flap. Beyond the leather door, a fat lamp burned, barely lighting the interior but also making it stifling hot. Five nomads, dressed in leather jerkins, sat in a circle around the lamp.

Mathi’s heart sank. She gauged how likely it would be that they could back out without being challenged, but Rufe piped up in a deliberately gruff voice, “Is there a game goin’?”

Mathi recognized the nomad named Vollman. “It is,” he grunted.

From inside Treskan’s tunic the kender jangled a purse. “Room for another?”

“Always room for losers,” said Vollman. The others grinned wolfishly, but none of them looked very close at the newcomers. Treskan and Mathi crawled into a spot between Vollman and a sandy-haired nomad. It was fiendishly hot in the tent. It also stank. The nomads had acquired many traits of civilization, but bathing wasn’t one of them. Mathi swallowed hard.

“The wager is six,” said the black-headed warrior sitting across from Vollman. He shook a dry gourd and dumped the contents on the ground in front of his crossed legs. Five square tokens fell out. They were white, made of bone or stone, and one side of each was blackened with soot. The warrior’s cast showed four black faces and one white. Vollman cursed.

Mathi didn’t know the game. They were gambling, but she hadn’t the faintest idea how to play. She kept her chin tucked in low so that no one would notice her slender, female features. Treskan, for better or worse, let Rufe do his talking. Fortunately, the light was so poor that no one noticed his strange shape. He could have been an ogre, and the men huddled around the sputtering lamp would not have recognized him.

“I’ll take one.”

“Hard odds. What do you wager?” said Vollman.

Rufe slipped his hand into the top of Mathi’s sleeve and dropped something small and hard. It rolled out in the scribe’s palm: a nice bit of beryl, deep red and unpolished, a desirable stone.

The other men eyed the wager appreciatively. They were betting metal mostly – bronze knives, earrings, copper bangles, all looted from unfortunate victims in the path of Bulnac’s raiders. One man took back his wager, a poorly made copper cloak frog. The rest left theirs where they lay.

The black-haired warrior scooped up the tiles in the gourd and passed them to Treskan. “One, two, three, dump, that’s how to do it,” Rufe said in a sing-song voice. He was telling his clueless partner how to proceed while trying to sound like he was reciting a gambler’s lucky chant.

Treskan imitated what he saw. He rotated the gourd in a circle three times, then dumped it upside down in front of him. When he lifted the cup away, one black side and four white showed. Everyone grunted with surprise.

“What do you know, a win first off,” Rufe said. Treskan raked in his winnings. He didn’t yet understand the game, but his little companion did.

“Go again,” said the blond warrior beside him. Treskan gathered in the tiles. From under his chin Rufe growled, “Three.”

“Easy bet. What do you hazard?”

More stones trickled down the scribe’s sleeve. Rough emeralds! Treskan was as startled as everyone else when they rolled out in the dirt.

Three men took their bets back. Only Vollman and a nomad with an empty eye socket remained in. One-Eye put down a nice dirk with an embossed silver handle. Vollman wagered four golden bangles.

“Them real gold?” Rufe asked.

“Yeah. Want to test them?” He held the bangles out for Treskan to try with his teeth. Since he didn’t know the hardness of gold from a chicken bone, he waved them off.

“Point is five,” Rufe announced. The two betting nomads grinned. Mathi assumed that was a hard point to make. He shook the gourd three times then upturned it: all black.

One-Eye cursed. Vollman stared hard at Treskan then at the tiles. He picked them up, rubbing each one between his thumb and forefinger.

“What’s the matter? Got an itch?”

Mathi didn’t dare punch the kender while sitting in front of so many witnesses, but she dearly wanted to.

“New tiles,” said Vollman. A nomad with silver beads woven into his scalp lock tossed a small leather bag to his host. Vollman poured them out. There were five tiles, red on one side, white on the other. They were slightly bigger than the previous playing pieces.

“Lemme see those in the light.” Treskan picked up one as Rufe indicated and held it up at arm’s length. To his amazement, Rufe snaked his little arm down Treskan’s sleeve and took the red and white tile. Close beside them, Mathi bit her lip to keep from gasping. Treskan kept his palm cupped so that no one could see what happened. He was sweating from the heat and from pure fear. If the nomads caught Rufe cheating, they would surely die for it.

To his relief the kender returned the tile to his hand.

“My toss still?” growled Rufe. Vollman nodded.

A minor trove of gemstones cascaded down Treskan’s sleeve. Garnets, beryl stones, tourmalines, and a trio of big, uncut rubies littered the ground.

“Too much?” Rufe taunted the gawking nomads.

Vollman dug through the collar of his deerskin shirt and brought out a small leather bag. “This is all I got.” He poured out his poke. Amid the rings, bangles, and the odd gold tooth lay the desired talisman.

“That’ll do. You toss,” Rufe said. Mathi passed the gourd and tiles to the nomad. That pleased him. After all, how could the fat stranger cheat if he was throwing the tiles himself?

“Your call,” he reminded Treskan/Rufe.

“One,” said the kender.

No one said a word as Vollman shook and tossed the dried cup. With a flourish, the warrior upturned the gourd in the dirt. He held his hand there, not removing the cup.

“Well, what are ya waiting for?” said Rufe.

He snatched back the gourd. One. Rufe had gotten the talisman back and a lot more besides.

Vollman drew a dagger from the small of his back. “No one makes four hits in a row – not unless they’re cheating!”

Frightened, Treskan forgot to stop the kender’s mouth. Rufe replied, “I ain’t lucky and I ain’t a cheater. I am loved by fate; that’s all.”

“Your fate, fat pig, is to die tonight!” The dagger came up under the scribe’s chin.

Rufe squirmed under his shirt. Mathi thought he was coming out to run for it. The sensation of the little man scrambling against his ribs and stomach proved too much for Treskan. He laughed.

“Funny, am I? Let’s see how much you laugh with a cut throat!”

At that, Rufe pushed his head through Treskan’s lacings. His cheeks were bulging. The nomads seated across from them recoiled, unsure of what they were seeing. Before Vollman could strike, Rufe spewed a stream of liquid onto the lamp. It exploded.

A ball of fire gushed upward. The flash dazzled everyone’s eyes, including Mathi’s. Rufe’s arm snaked out and grabbed Vollman’s booty. “Now go!” he cried, kicking backward into Treskan’s ribs.

Mathi lashed out, upsetting the lamp. Burning oil splashed on men’s laps and in the dirt. The dry hide tent quickly caught fire. Players were bailing out as fast as they could in every direction, slapping out the flames licking their clothes. Vollman’s sleeves were on fire. Roaring, he rolled on the ground to put them out. In the chaos Treskan crawled away on all fours until Rufe wriggled free.

The kender and Mathi hoisted the scribe to his feet. “Up now and run!”

He did and the kender leaped on his back. The tent blazed and everyone fled. In the general uproar, no one paid any attention to them. Once away from the conflagration, Treskan and Mathi assumed a calmer manner and walked carefully to the fence of stakes. En route Treskan brushed by the red-bearded nomad he’d bumped into on the way in. Without Rufe under his shirt he no longer resembled an obese nomad.

“What’s the row?” exclaimed Red Beard.

“Fire,” Treskan said in his own voice. He made sure he faced the nomad, hiding the kender clinging to his back. “See?”

The hulking warrior hurried to the blaze. Mathi and Treskan hurried too, in the opposite direction. They didn’t stop running until they reached their ponies still staked and undisturbed. Rufe let himself down from the scribe’s back.

The glow of firelight for the camp was brighter than before. Mathi threw the blanket over the pony, wondering aloud if the whole camp would burn down.

“Nah,” said Rufe. “Just six tents.”

“How do you know it will be six?”

“I know.” He tapped his high forehead with two fingers. “Want to bet how many?”

Neither one of them was willing to take him up on it. They had seen enough of the kender’s prowess at gambling.

“What was that you spit on the lamp?” Mathi asked, climbing onto her horse. She held out a hand to the kender.

“Oil.” Rufe carried a small vial of oil on a loop of cord around his neck.

“Why do you carry that?” Treskan asked.

“Tastes good on greens,” he replied.

They rode off quietly, keeping to low ground to avoid being seen by nomad sentries. Treskan clutched the returned talisman in his hand as if his life depended on having it.

“All good, boss?”

“Well done, friend Rufus.”

“You are a dangerous fellow, do you know that?” said Mathi.

“I’m just gettin’ by. So when do I get my pancakes?”

Relieved like an unwound spring, Treskan nodded on his pony. The sturdy beast plodded ahead with a slack hand on the reins. Somewhere along the way, Rufe had left her, for when the moons rose early after midnight Mathi, discovered she and Treskan were alone. She had no idea when Rufe got off or where he went.

She let Treskan’s mount draw ahead. When she was sure he was asleep, she took a wide roll of birch bark from inside her gown. By the moons’ light she scrawled in her childish hand the message she hoped her brethren would find. It read: sPEll ON BALLIF/ChANgINg LIkE us/kEEP tO PlAN?

Mathi rolled it up and tied it with a strip of rawhide that she had chewed until it was pliable. The crude scroll she tucked under her arm for a mile or so until her body warmed it. Then she dropped it in the waving grass. Her brethren searched by scent, and if they found her note, they would know it was from her by the smell. If they found it. If they were following her still.

The forest edge was just a few yards ahead, looking like a black wall. Treskan’s pony had halted, head down, staring at the impenetrable gloom. Mathi’s did likewise.

The scribe stirred at the sudden loss of motion. “Where are we?” he asked thickly. She didn’t answer, but he saw the trees and knew anyway.

“’S all right,” he said, climbing off the pony and patting its shaggy neck. His pony would not proceed until Treskan led it by the reins.

“Go on; there’s no reason to fear the dark,” Mathi told her mount. She said it, but the canny animal had other ideas. Only when Mathi got down and led the pony like Treskan did it stir from where it had stopped.

The trees closed in overhead, a vault of green leaves turned to black stone by night. They cut off the constant wind of the plain, leaving the way between the trunks airless and still. Even so, Mathi and Treskan felt they had little to fear. They knew where the nomads were, the centaurs were kindly disposed toward Balif, and the kender were probably all asleep too.

They followed the trail signs to the kender camp. By the time they reached the picket where Balif’s and Lofotan’s horses were tethered, they were both bone tired. There couldn’t be more than three or four hours of night left, not long to rest. They tied their ponies, pulled the blankets off and hung them over a tree limb, and set out for their bedrolls. Treskan still had his talisman clenched tightly in his fist. Mathi wondered if he would ever put it down again.

She made for her sleeping spot but halted when she heard talking. They were low and calm, and there were two distinct voices. Balif and Lofotan? No, the outline of the slumbering majordomo was plainly visible under his blanket. Balif and who? Treskan was a few yards behind her, sleeping apart as usual.

She saw that the general of the Speaker’s armies was chained again. There were no modest trees to bind him to, so the indefatigable Lofotan had dug a shallow hole and chained his lord to a root as thick as Mathi’s waist. Balif was sitting up, back as straight as a Silvanesti spire.

“Who’s there?” rasped a guttural voice that Mathi didn’t recognize.

Balif looked at her. His eyes glowed from within with a foreign, amber light. Tired as she was, Mathi rooted to the spot. The transformation had come over Balif again, more severely than before. Every inch of the elf’s exposed skin was covered with dense, brown fur. The skin on his nose and lips was black, like a dog’s, and hard claws studded the ends of his fingers.

“The girl,” Balif said, drawing out the initial sound of the word.

“My lord,” she said. “Who are you speaking to?”

“An old friend of yours.”

In one bound, a dark shape hurtled out of the shadows and landed in a crouch between Balif and Mathi. It was Taius, the former elf and present beast Mathi had met during her brief captivity in Bulnac’s camp.

“She heard us. Let me kill her. I can do it quietly. No one will hear,” Taius vowed.

Mathi tensed to fight or flee. She searched for a sign of understanding in Balif’s savage eyes. She saw none but the accursed general replied, “No. Harm her not. She will be my mouthpiece to the world.”

“She is one of the brethren!” Taius had chosen sides, and he was not on Mathi’s.

“Brethren? You mean half-breed. She is half-human.”

Taius stood with his back bent, so his head was lower than Mathi’s. “Smell again, mighty one. Her skin smells of fur and night. She is a creature of the forest, like I was.”

Again the relentless beast eyes of Balif raked over her. “Is this true?”

She saw no reason to deny it any longer. “Yes, my lord. I am child of the Creator you betrayed.”

“Betrayed?”

Her heart was beating hard against her breastbone. “Yes, betrayed. You gave our maker over to the persecutors, those who slew and imprisoned us, his children!’

“I obeyed the orders of my sovereign.”

Mathi sneered, “That is the excuse of slave masters the world over.”

His chains jangled ominously. Though she was glad her secret was out – relieving so much tension in her – she truly feared what might happen if an aroused Balif escaped his bonds.

“The judgment of the Speaker was not just,” Balif said. “But I could not alter it.” His tone of voice had changed, softened. “I have known for a long time that you were not an elf. I thought you were one of those unhappy mixed breeds, like the scribe.” And yet, knowing Mathi was not who she claimed to be, Balif had chosen her to go on his mission. Why?

The bewitched general smiled, showing long canines. “Spies and assassins are better defended against when they are in view,” he said as though he had read her mind.

“A spy is a spy,” Taius snarled. “Let me kill her.” His voice had risen so high that Lofotan stirred on his pallet.

Balif gave him a withering glance. The beast-elf subsided.

“Where have you been?” asked Balif coolly. “You have been gone many hours.”

Mathi related her adventure with Rufe and Treskan in the nomad camp. She omitted all reference to the talisman, explaining her trip as a reconnaissance of the enemy camp.

“Reporting to your masters, more likely,” Taius said.

“Go away,” Balif told him. “We are done.”

Taius sprang away in one breathtaking bound. “Let me serve you,” he called back. “You were my commander. I am still your soldier.”

“Go away. I am not lost to the world yet, and I cannot fulfill my duty with you by my side.”

Rejected, Taius melted into the shadows. His voice drifted back.

“I serve you, my lord, until I die. I shall keep the beasts of the brethren off your trail!”

In a flicker of a moment, the half-beast was gone. A few moments later, Mathi heard a far-off snap of a tree branch high overhead, Taius’s gesture of farewell.

Mathi sidled away toward her bed. As arrow-straight as ever, Balif watched her with unnatural intensity. Why did he say no to Taius?

“Ask the question.”

“My lord?”

“Ask the question in your mind.”

“What did Taius want of you?”

Balif sank down on his side with a grace more feral than elflike. “He offered to free me from my fetters if I would allow him to serve me again.”

Taius was being hunted by magicians and trackers from Silvanost, as were all the few creatures of his kind who had escaped arrest. Joining Balif was one way to escape them perhaps.

“You let me stay and sent him packing?”

“I am not a beast. Not yet.” He coughed a little, shuddering. “You may go or stay as you choose. You are free. Your ancestry does not change that. The coils of this curse are close around me, but I am not lost yet. I will carry out the mission the Speaker gave me, defend the wanderfolk, and then … there are a few throws I still have to make.”

Mention of throws made Mathi think of Rufe and his skill at the nomad gambling game. Strange, but it seemed that Balif, the famed warrior of Silvanost, saw life in the same terms.

Chapter 15

ARMS

Mathi dreamed of galloping horses, shouting, and the clash of blades. She tried to banish these unhappy thoughts, but they kept intruding on her rest. Then she got a sharp blow in the ribs. Instinctively she rolled into a ball and growled about being disturbed.

“Get up girl, or you’ll be sleeping forever!”

Even half asleep she knew Lofotan’s battlefield voice. She sat up, bleary-eyed, and saw people and animals darting to and fro among the trees. Smoke hung in the air. The sounds of her dream had been real.

Lofotan, sword in hand, was trying to seat a helmet on his head. He tossed a weapon – a spear – toward Mathi and shouted again for her to stand up or perish. Mathi wasn’t sure if he meant attackers would slay her, or Lofotan himself. Not desiring either, she scrambled to her feet.

“Defend yourself!”

Lofotan dashed away. Mathi shouted after him, “What’s going on?”

“The humans found us. I must get to the general!”

All around her the kender camp was disintegrating. Little people rushed in all directions, clutching blankets or other belongings. None seemed to have any weapons. Lofotan dodged between them, trying to reach Balif, who was still shackled to the tree root.

A shrill cry rent the air. Mathi turned and saw a trio of riders slashing through the widely spaced trees. They speared any kender within reach, then tiring of their sport, contented themselves with shouting and cursing the wanderfolk as they scattered. One of the men spotted Mathi.

“Ho!” he cried. “Here’s bigger game!”

He spurred at her. His spear was not a true lance. It lacked a handguard, Mathi noted with strange detachment. If he hits me with it, he won’t keep his grip …

Her detachment evaporated quickly. Lance or no, death was riding at her. She bolted, still clutching the spear Lofotan had tossed at her. Mathi knew she couldn’t outrun the nomad’s horse. Zigging and zagging, she ran around a stout tree and threw herself against the trunk. Laughing, her pursuer cantered past. Spying his prey behind him, the nomad wrenched his horse’s head around. At that moment a smooth round stone the size of a ripe plum hit the man on the cheek. It must have had considerable velocity, for the rider threw up his hands and fell sideways off his horse, landing heavily at Mathi’s feet.

She gaped at the fallen man. Someone shouted, “Finish him off!”

A kender twenty feet away held a stick and thong sling in his hand. A hoopak, she had heard them call it. He pointed at the fallen nomad.

“Stick him! What’s wrong with you?”

Mathi couldn’t do it, not standing over a helpless enemy like that. She kicked the man’s spear away and rolled him over. The sling ball had shattered his face. He was alive, but probably blinded by blood and bone fragments.

Mathi backed away. More nomads circled through the trees, whooping and shouting. Some kender had taken to the trees and were pelting the riders with whatever they had – sticks, stones, found objects precious and paltry. Mathi heard the characteristic whistle of a hoopak winding up and a solid thwack as the projectile struck home. Another saddle emptied.

Slowly, the tempo of the battle changed. The initial charge by the nomads had taken the kender by surprise. They scattered, and the humans chased them, killing many at first, then reverting to harrying the little people out of sheer contempt. Many kender fled, but others stood their ground. The appearance of the elves confused the humans further. Soon it was the nomads who were milling around, unsure what to do or where to go.

A high-pitched shrieking, like a whistle being blown in a frenzy, echoed through the woods. More shrill whistles split the air, all around the raiders. They closed into a compact group. Many changed their spears for swords.

Advancing at a walk through the trees came Balif and Lofotan on horseback, leading a large, ragged band of kender. The Longwalker was at their head, blowing a clay pipe. Unseen among the grand trunks more whistles answered. The enemy was surrounded.

Seeing an enemy they knew – the elves on horseback – the raiders broke ranks and charged. From three sides they were scourged by hoopak stones, kender-sized arrows, and thrown missiles. Protected by thick furs and occasional bits of armor, the nomads tried to shrug off the bombardment, but their mounts were unwilling to face such torment. The charge lost momentum and played out ten yards from where Balif sat, hands folded on his saddle pommel.

“Wanderfolk, now’s the time! Show them what you are made of!” he cried.

Swarms of kender, rounded up by the advancing elves and their chief, filled the gaps between the trees. Brandishing sticks, tools, and even an occasional bladed weapon, they shouted defiance at their attackers. Backed against a tree, Mathi heard frightful taunts from the kender. Every branch of the nomads’ family tree was smeared as dirty lice; lying, cheating vermin; eaters of filth and cowards of the basest sort. Mathi had never heard such ferocious taunting, all shouted at top volume. A thousand furious wanderfolk shouting ingenious invective at the same time was a fearsome spectacle. Compared to the torrent of abuse they hurled, their hoopaks were toys.

The nomad raiders, for their part, were white with outrage or red-faced with fury. Smacking their reluctant animals with the flats of their swords, they moved toward the kender – and the little people did not give way. For the first time since coming to the eastern land, kender stood up to their foes. In the center of the line Balif watched the humans calmly. When the gap shrank to six yards he drew his noble sword and raised it high in a warrior’s salute. Seeing this, Mathi had a sudden premonition.

He means to die! she thought. He’s going to let the humans kill him to inspire the kender and escape his curse!

Moved by feelings beyond her control, Mathi stepped away from the safety of the tree. She reversed her grip on her spear and started toward Balif, breaking into a run.

She reached the rear of the mob of defiant kender and pushed her way through. It was not easy. The little people were excited. They pushed back.

“General! My lord, wait!” she called desperately.

At no more than a walking pace the two lines collided. The kender on foot gave way to the big horses bearing down on them – gave a little, then stopped. Like ants the kender swarmed over the nomads’ horses and climbed up the men’s legs, grabbing, hitting, sometimes biting.

Balif and Lofotan fought with more decorum. They traded sword cuts with warriors in the front ranks. The press behind and on both sides kept the other humans from doubling on the elves. Down went Balif’s first foe, lost among the stamping hooves. Down went Lofotan’s, minus his sword arm.

To the credit of their courage, Bulnac’s raiders held on despite the bizarre nature of the fight. Given an equal or greater number of humans or elves to combat, they would have fought on in their usual brutal way, but beset by kender they didn’t know what to do. The little folk weren’t supposed to fight back! Such a thing had never happened before. Now stalwart warriors were toppling from steeds thickly coated with yelling kender. This was not warrior’s work. At best they could break off the fight and ride away.

By the time the sun’s rays were slanting through the few gaps in the canopy overhead, the battle was over. Mathi never got within ten feet of Balif. The general survived unscathed.

She stopped dead, depleted and stunned. Why did she care what happened to the Betrayer anyway? She ought to want to shove Balif into the nomads’ fury, not rush headlong to his aid. Mathi realized then what had happened. She knew Balif. He was no longer the anonymous, high-born Silvanesti she was taught to hate. He was flesh and blood, heart and soul, and she admired him. She could not have been more appalled at her sudden new understanding.

Many kender chased the nomads, hurling insults at them as long as they were in earshot. Stung by the taunts, a few peeled off to chastise their tiny tormentors. They killed many unwary kender, who had been carried away with the unexpected victory, but other riders were brought down by the enraged wanderfolk.

Nomad war chiefs blew ram’s horns to recall their unruly warriors. The last mortified riders disappeared into the dust and drifting bands of smoke.

The kender reacted oddly to their small victory. Mathi expected they might cheer, or else wilt with delayed terror, but they did neither. Mostly they vanished. A thousand kender scattered through the trees, abruptly making themselves scarce. All that remained behind were the dead and wounded – and the elves.

Mathi hailed Balif. “My lord, we won!”

“We survived, at any rate,” Lofotan said.

“Survival, my dear captain, is the first prerequisite of victory.”

Balif was amazingly at ease. The carnage and violence of the morning did not compare to the great battles he had led, but bloodshed is bloodshed, and Balif was unfazed by it all. Mathi trembled in every part of her body. Though the morning was mild, she was drenched in sweat. Only when the battle was over did she realize how terribly thirsty she was.

Treskan appeared from the copse where they had been camped. He was battered and bloodied from a dozen small cuts on his face and hands. Mathi was sympathetic, but Lofotan maintained that the scribe had inflicted the wounds himself with his unskillful use of his sword. Nevertheless Mathi sat him down and began to dab his cuts with a rag wetted with cold spring water.

“What happened?” she asked. “When did the nomads attack?”

“Just after dawn. They rode in quietly, swords sheathed and got amongst the wanderfolk before raising a battle cry.” Balif accepted a clay cup from his loyal retainer. He took a spare sip. “They were not some random scouting party. They knew we were here.” Did he remember seeing Mathi return last night? If he did, he did not mention it.

The lump in Mathi’s throat grew harder to swallow. It was easy to imagine the truth. Irate at losing his personal treasure, Vollman had tracked Mathi and Treskan. He probably brought some friends along to help waylay the portly gambler and his silent friend. They made no attempt to hide their tracks. The nomads must have been surprised when their quarry left camp. Anyone could have tracked them back to the kender’s camp.

She found herself studying Balif. His features were subtly different from just a few days ago. His hair was darker, and there were shadows everywhere his clothing ended.

“They will be back,” Balif said. “Sooner than later. A commander like this Bulnac won’t take being repulsed by wanderfolk very well.”

“Do you know this Bulnac?”

“Never put my eyes upon him.” Balif drained the cup. “But I know him. He leads by strength. He can’t accept even a single defeat, or his hold over his followers is broken. He will return, probably with his entire force.”

“What do we do?” asked Lofotan.

“The woods are untenable. I had hoped they would provide some cover, but they are too open. We need a better defensive position.”

They had brought from Silvanost a number of maps drawn by the best cartographers in Silvanos’s realm. They weren’t much help. The land east of the Tanjan river was poorly explored. Many gaps blotted the charts.

“This river here; is it named?” Balif indicated the short watercourse east of the forest. Two branches of the river joined and flowed south into a small bay.

“It is not,” Mathi said, scrutinizing the gazeteer on the back of the chart.

“Call it the Wanderfolk River.” In Elvish it was Thon-Haddaras, ‘Wanderers’ River.’

The triangle of land between the branches of the newly-named was shown to be wooded on the chart.

“There is our refuge,” Balif said. “We shall make for it at once.”

He turned his horse around. Lofotan, frowning, spoke up.

“My lord, what about the wanderfolk? They seem to have abandoned us.”

Balif had a brash, winning countenance when he smiled. “Rest assured that the Longwalker and his people will find their way there. Who knows? They may get there ahead of us.”

As they spoke, small groups of kender came into view, carrying off the dead and tending the wounded. Strange how their actions never looked organized, yet they accomplished what they needed to do in short order.

There were humans among the dead and wounded too. Balif rode up to one warrior beset on all sides by several kender. He had a black eye, and his right arm hung uselessly at his side, covered in blood. His horse had thrown him, and the kender had him cornered.

“Elder lord!” the man grunted, swinging his leather scabbard at a kender who was fondling his boots. “Pray give me quarter, noble sir! I am besieged.”

Balif came closer, which made the kender fade into the trees. Gasping for breath, the wounded man propped his back against a tree and sighed.

“I yield to you, elder lord,” the man said desperately. “Only save me from those little vultures!”

“You were keen enough to hunt and harry them before,” Balif replied coldly.

“Orders, lord. Our chief told us to drive the small ones from the land so that we could claim it as our own.”

“Your chief is called Bulnac?”

The wounded man blinked through the sweat and grime streaking his face. “You know our great chief?”

“His name has reached my ears.”

Balif ordered the nomad searched. If Lofotan found any elven artifacts on him, he would die on the spot. Bulnac’s raiders had an ugly reputation as plunderers.

Lofotan groped through the man’s tunic and vest. He found little but a few trinkets of chain.

“How is his wound?”

Lofotan had seen many a sword cut in his day. He knew more about them than most healers. Probing the man’s arm he announced no main vessels were cut. The man might die of blood poisoning if not treated, but he wouldn’t bleed to death.

To Treskan, Balif said, “Find a horse.”

It took some doing, but he found a nomad horse walking aimlessly a hundred yards away. Catching the animal by its bridle, he led it back to the general.

“On the horse,” Balif said. “Go to your chief and give him my words: he is to take his warband out of this province, back across to the west bank of the Thon-Tanjan. This land belongs to the Speaker of the Stars, Silvanos Golden-Eye, and to his heirs. We will not tolerate his warband on our soil.”

Suffering but defiant, the wounded warrior took the reins from Treskan.

“Who are you that you order my chief around like a slave?”

“I am Balif Thraxenath, Chosen Chief of House Protector, First Warrior of the Great Speaker and general of all his host. I am the son of Arnas Thraxenath, of the Greenrunners clan. I am known as Balif, loyal servant of the Great Speaker of the Stars.”

His was a name that was well known to the nomads. The wounded man stood by the horse Mathi had rounded up for him, awestruck.

“You are the Balif?”

“None other. Go, and bear my words to your chief.”

Unaided, the warrior struggled onto his mount. “If I die, my children shall know I crossed swords with Balif, first among warriors! I thank you for my life, noble lord!”

Weaving a bit, he rode away. Lofotan got back on his animal and said, “Was it wise to tell the humans who you are?”

“What good is it having a reputation if you can’t use it to intimidate your enemies?” said Balif.

“Suppose Bulnac isn’t intimidated? Suppose he comes roaring back here in full strength, just to say he defeated and slew the great Balif?” To this the general had no answer but a wry smile.

Mathi, Treskan, and Lofotan loaded the packhorses. By the time they were done the forest had been picked clean. The only traces of the morning’s furious fight were scarred patches on tree trunks, and a few spots of churned up earth. What became of the dead from both sides Mathi could not guess.

Balif and his party rode off through the woods. Three times before noon they had to hide while nomad patrols galloped past. On the last occasion it looked as if they would be found. A party of nomads entered the forest and searched carefully, probing every gully and leaf pile with their spears. From the small spots and low angles they searched, it appeared that they were after kender rather than elves. Balif kept behind a screen of closely growing myrtles, sword in hand. Armed nomads rode within six yards but passed on, summoned by horn blasts further away.

After that they witnessed an extraordinary scene. A party of forty or more kender chased five humans on horseback out of the woods. In addition to hoopaks the wanderfolk had an assortment of weapons gleaned from the morning’s battle. How they reached this spot ahead of the mounted elves was a mystery, but they screamed, whistled, shouted, and pelted the nomads out of the woods and onto the plain. Once on open ground the nomads tried to regroup and charge the little people, but their horses could not bear the barrage of stones and noise. Confused and no doubt embarrassed, the humans departed.

Mathi felt no pity for the nomads. Their brutal treatment of the kender was deplorable, but now that the little folk were aroused – and had discovered they enjoyed tormenting their tormentors – the nomads were in for unimaginable frustration. The nomads deserved their comeuppance.

At twilight they left the forest to cross open country to the newly named Thon-Haddaras. Their map was unclear of the exact distance to the river. Much of the survey had been done from the sky, by griffon riders, who were notoriously inaccurate at judging distances on the ground from a height. Balif was willing to travel all night if necessary to reach the Thon-Haddaras as soon as possible.

“All night?” asked Lofotan. “Does my lord mean that?”

Riding slowly through the high grass, Balif said, “It will not be a problem.”

Lofotan pulled a coil of chain from his saddlebag. The clinking sound made Balif rein up. He turned his horse sharply right, blocking Lofotan’s path.

“Do you doubt my word?” he said. Neither the captain, the girl, nor the scribe answered. Fists tight on his reins, the general snapped, “I will not be chained like a beast again! I am in control of myself. Is that clear?”

Cold as ice, Lofotan replied, “Perfectly, my lord.”

With a final glare Balif resumed riding. Lofotan held his place until his commander was half a hundred yards ahead. With a soft thump of his heels he started his mount forward. Mathi kept beside him with the pack train trailing behind.

“We shall not sleep tonight,” the old warrior said quietly.

“Do you think he will transform?”

“He already has. The question is, how much?”

Personally, Mathi thought it was perfectly reasonable of Balif to resent being shackled when the threat of nomad attack was so high.

Night came on clear and bright with stars. The crescent red moon rose like a bloody smile in the sky, lighting the dry, waving grass with a strange pinkish light. They heard something they hadn’t heard on their travels so far: the howl of a wolf. Savannah wolves had long been driven out of Silvanesti proper. They were common in the mountains, but so far the elves had not encountered any on their journey. Crossing the plain they now heard half a dozen different calls, indication of a sizable pack.

Lofotan braced his bow. Treskan and Mathi closed up with him, jerking the lines to hurry the packhorses along. At the tail of the group, they would be likely targets if the wolves attacked.

Balif circled in and out, sometimes leading, sometimes trailing the others. Whenever he came close Mathi studied him for signs that the curse was asserting itself. The changes she’d noticed before were still there, but the full beast-face and features were not in evidence. Mathi did not understand the working of spells. She could not imagine why the Creator would inflict such an erratic spell. Perhaps it was weakening – or perhaps it was designed to torment the sufferer by seeming to fade, only to return more strongly than ever?

“Wake up, you two.” Lofotan’s voice carried clearly in the warm, still air.

Mathi sharpened to awareness. Treskan twisted around in the saddle, looking in all directions.

“What is it?”

“We’re not alone.” Lofotan had spotted three or four shapes darting through the grass off to their right, about thirty yards away.

“Wolves?” said the scribe.

Lofotan nocked an arrow in answer. “Watch behind and on your left,” he said calmly. “The wolf you see is often a feint for the real attack.”

The horses were certainly aware of the danger. They closed in with each other, rolling their eyes and champing their bits. Mathi drew back and let the pack animals move ahead of her. Her pony, being blinkered, was less sensitive than the baggage animals. She knew he had the predators’ scent when he bobbed his head and snorted defiantly. Mathi tapped him with her heels to keep him moving. If he stopped, it might occur to him to shed his rider, then make a break for it.

Balif was out in front a dozen yards or so. His bow was unstrung. His sword rested in its scabbard. He had to know the pack was around them, but still he rode slowly ahead, weaving back and forth across their line of march. What was he doing?

All at once Lofotan sat up as high as he could in his saddle, bent his bow, and loosed an arrow into the pale red shadows. He was rewarded with a yelp and a thrashing in the grass. Treskan started toward the spot. Lofotan ordered him to stop.

“I’ll finish him off,” said the scribe, raising his spear.

“It might be a ruse.” Wolves were known to do that, fake an injury or death, to draw an unwise hunter close.

The thrashing in the grass stopped. Lofotan’s horse slowly came to a halt.

“Where’s my lord?”

Balif’s horse was coming back to them, reins trailing on the ground. There was no sign of the general, and no traces on his mount to suggest he had transformed into a beast and been thrown off as before.

A howl erupted close by. Lofotan whirled, arrow drawn back to his ear. Something low and dark was rushing at them through the grass. Balif’s horse reared and neighed.

“Don’t!” Mathi called. “It might be him!”

Lofotan thought of that too. He held his draw magnificently, holding the eighty pound recurve bow as steady as stone. The creature charging Balif’s horse gathered its legs and leaped. With only a moment to choose, Lofotan loosed his arrow.

It hit the hurtling beast dead in the ribs. Balif’s horse gave a start, jumping sideways as the lifeless body hurtled past it. At Lofotan’s direction Mathi went to look at it. It was a fine specimen of a male savannah wolf, brown all over, weighing maybe sixty pounds.

“It’s a wolf!” she said, relieved. “Dead as a stone!”

The words had hardly left her lips when a second beast exploded from the grass and knocked Lofotan from his saddle. Shouting, Mathi rushed to his rescue. The beast had clamped its powerful jaws on the elf’s right forearm, which fortunately was sheathed in bronze. They struggled, but Lofotan drew his dagger with his left hand and plunged it into his attacker’s ribs once, twice. He threw the heavy slack form off and got up in time to dodge Treskan’s well-meaning spear-thrust.

The packhorses bucked and reared, tearing at the lines that bound them together. Two wolves had the lead pony by the throat. Lofotan had lost his bow in his fall. He snatched the spear from Treskan and raced to rescue the pony. The scribe was left with just his sword, which he barely knew how to use.

A low, rolling growl behind Mathi froze her blood to ice. She turned slowly and saw a large black beast whose head and chest fur were shot through with gray advancing on him. Tugging at her sword, she backed away, swearing in Elvish.

Black lips curled, the wolf displayed long, broken teeth. He was the elder chief of his pack, powerful, and with a gleam of cruel intelligence in his eyes. Words died in Mathi’s mouth. All her spit seemed to have suddenly dried up.

Lofotan was battling two wolves at once. He speared one, pinning it to the turf, but the other leaped on his back. He went down. Treskan was swinging his sheathed sword like a club, trying to ward off a pale colored she-wolf.

The old wolf was little more than three paces away. Mathi gripped the sword in both hands to steady it.

She heard a shout. Slashing through the tall grass came Balif. He swung his sword wide, cutting a swath through the weeds. Seeing Mathi about to be attacked, he shouted again, whipping off his cloak and wrapping it around his unarmored left arm.

The wolf recognized a more dangerous opponent had joined the fray and quickly forgot Mathi, turning to face Balif. The elf general didn’t wait for the beast to spring. He plunged in, sword high. The old wolf didn’t go for his open left arm, as Mathi thought he would. He jumped headlong at Balif’s chest.

Not one warrior in a hundred would have stood their ground to receive the blow. Balif did. His sword was high, and he moved his free hand to join the other on the grip. He shouted – he bellowed – a challenge so loud and so unelflike Mathi believed for an instant that he had become a beast again. Down came the fine elf blade. Behind the general’s head Lunitari gleamed like red horns atop his head.

There was a loud crack. Balif staggered backward, worked his blade free, and swung again. The old wolf dropped in a heap at his feet, his skull split in two.

That was amazing enough. For Balif’s strength and reflexes to be so great as to cut the wolf down in mid-leap was astonishing. What happened next was terrifying.

Not satisfied with his victory, Balif stood over the fallen creature and plunged his sword into it again and again. He kicked the carcass, shouting incoherently. Angered that the wolf did not rise up and fight more, he threw aside his sword and drew a knife. As Mathi watched in horror, he stabbed the dead wolf half a dozen times until blood covered his hands and spattered his handsome face.

His rage satiated, Balif stood up. His eyes met Mathi’s.

It was not the same elf she had met in Silvanost scant weeks ago. They stared at each other, eyes locked, until Lofotan’s calls for help broke the spell. With a flash of teeth Balif smiled and darted away, carrying only his knife.

He drove off the wolf harrying his majordomo, who had cuts and bites on his hands. Lofotan thanked his lord until he saw his bloody hands and face. His thanks died in his throat.

“More out there,” Balif said, his voice low and gruff. Wolves were howling in retreat. Knife in hand, Balif raced off into the grass. Mathi watched him go. It was plain the general meant to hunt down and kill every animal in the pack.

Chapter 16

DEFENSES

Lofotan poured tepid water from his waterskin over his wounds. Some hours had passed since Balif had run off after the fleeing wolves.

“If he isn’t back by dawn we’ll have to find him,” he said wearily.

“What if he doesn’t want to be found?” Mathi said. The old warrior trickled more water on his cuts. “Worse, what if we find him and he won’t come with us?”

“My lord will not roam the plain like a savage beast.”

Mathi noted the strung bow, the quiver of arrows, and the ready spear. Lofotan’s meaning was clear.

Later, when daylight was breaking, Lofotan shouldered his spear and set out to find his commander. Mathi and Treskan followed on foot, leading the horses. Lofotan tried to order them to stay behind, but they were in no mood to obey. There was safety in numbers, so the girl and scribe followed, and there was nothing short of violence Lofotan could do to stop them.

It was a short hunt. Just as the first rays of the sun were piercing the sky Balif came into view on the northern horizon, loping along at a jaunty pace. His old comrade halted and waited. Balif arrived, dishevelled but beaming. Under one arm he carried a bundle of fur. Without being asked he whisked it open, revealing a fine wolf pelt, freshly skinned.

“This was the best of them,” he said proudly. “What do you think?”

“Did you kill them all?” asked Mathi.

Again the sly smile. “Not all. Just the four largest males.” The rest of the pack had scattered to the winds to escape his remorseless pursuit.

“This is not right, my lord.” Balif asked what he meant. “To exact such a punishment on wild animals is not just. Astarin teaches that all creatures have a right to life, according to their natures. Wolves hunt for food. You killed them for sport,” Lofotan said.

Balif tensed, like a predator poised to pounce. “Sport? I killed them for a very good reason!” They waited for him to explain. “By scattering the pack and killing its leaders, I have shown them who rules this land now —” He visible relaxed and said simply, “Me.”

Balif’s horse, having borne up under his earlier transformations and forgiven its rider, steadfastly refused to allow Balif on its back. The general grew angry as the animal danced away from him, rearing when Balif took hold of his bridle. Lofotan offered his mount, but his horse wouldn’t allow Balif on his back either. Something very fundamental about the general had changed. His companions were beginning to recognize it. The horses already knew.

Balif said, “Looks like I walk.”

So he did, all morning at an amazing pace. The day waxed hot. Biting flies homed in on the horses but also feasted on targets of opportunity, like Mathi. A band of dark trees appeared on the eastern horizon, growing each hour until the view was filled from north to south. According to their griffon-made charts, the forest surrounded the confluence of the two streams that made up the Thon-Haddaras.

The kender were already there.

Wanderfolk in oversized helmets, sporting spears and too-long swords greeted them at the edge of the woods. Hot and thirsty, Balif brushed past them into the shade, where he sat down demanding a drink. Treskan tied the pack team and brought him a bottle of spring water.

“Greetings, Illustrious General!” the kender said, crowding around.

“Greetings to you. Is the Longwalker around?”

“By the river, Glorious General.”

How do they get around so quickly? Mathi wondered. By her reckoning, being on horses and pushing as they did, they ought to have been two or three days ahead of any kender crossing the plain on foot. But no …

“Fetch him at once.”

Kender were not usually good at taking orders, but three of them dashed away to carry out Balif’s request. Treskan and Mathi prepared a long-delayed meal, which Balif ate alone under a broad maple tree. His companions ate standing up by the horses, which they watered and fed next.

Serius Bagfull, Longwalker of the wanderfolk, arrived after a kenderish interval. He wore a new hat woven of vines and leave plucked from the banks of the Wanderfolk River. The kender with him – they weren’t his retainers, just whatever curious little people who chose to tag along – were likewise decked out in fresh greenery.

“Nice place, General!” he declared. Apparently the banks of the river abounded in fruit trees, and the water was well stocked with fish, freshwater mussels, and tiny lobsters the kender found good to eat.

“You like it here, then?” asked Balif, still resting with his back against the maple.

“It is great, Excellent General!”

“I am glad. Now we must issue a challenge to Bulnac.”

Everyone, from kender to Lofotan, were dumbstruck. “Challenge?” Mathi managed to say.

“Of course. We must fight him some time. It is better to fight on our own terms, at our own place and time, than wait for the humans to choose those situations for us.”

Lofotan agreed with his lord’s tactical judgment, but pointed out they had no one to meet Bulnac’s army with. A few hundred kender, maybe a thousand? Armed with some salvaged and improvised weapons?

“We have the best weapon of them all,” Balif said. He showed his new, savage smile. “We shall create a fortress, a redoubt upon which the nomads will break themselves. I’ll have Bulnac’s hide to hang on a tree next to my wolfskin.”

Through consummate wheedling, the Longwalker got Balif to agree to postpone challenging Bulnac until he had seen the spot that Balif had chosen for his redoubt. The kender led the way. Balif went with him on foot, leaving Lofotan and the others to keep up as best they could with the horses and baggage.

Unlike the west woods, the river forest was dense and full of undergrowth. It was humid too, and the air was thick with insects. Mathi noted ruefully that mosquitoes and flies didn’t appear to bother the kender at all. It wasn’t that they didn’t mind being bitten; the pests didn’t bite them. Another stroke for the Wanderfolk. Here was a tactic Balif had not considered. If the nomads dallied long enough in the lowland woods, they’d be eaten alive by mosquitoes.

It was by all appearances good land to settle, bugs or no bugs. The soil was evidently very fertile, as there were flowers and fruit everywhere. The trees were not so old or lofty as their western neighbors, but useful varieties grew everywhere: pine, elm, maple, and ash. Treskan made careful mental notes of the flora. His stylus may have been broken, but he could still keep notes if he could find the basic ingredients to write with – soot and oak gall for ink, birch bark for paper. The Haddaras river basin was a garden. He could probably find everything he needed. There was much to record.

The western branch of the river came into view. It was a far different water course than the rough Thon-Tanjan or the deceptive Thon-Thalas. Narrow, muddy, closed in by overhanging vines and branches, the Wanderfolk River was unlike any other river in Silvanesti territory. The Longwalker’s description was on the mark. Descending the bank to the water’s edge, the air was heavy with the smell of overripe fruit. Wild grapes hung down, banging against Mathi’s forehead. They were brown and fat and astonishingly sweet when she tried one. She saw kender lolling on the riverbank with willow fishing poles. Every so often one would flip his pole backward, tossing a silver captive onto the bank.

“Have you been across the river?” Balif asked the Longwalker. They had paused atop the earthen ball of an overturned tree’s roots, surveying the land.

He had. The triangle of land between the two tributaries was much higher than the bottom land where they were now. In fact there was a bluff about forty feet high overlooking the eastern branch.

Balif clapped his hands. “Excellent.” His final redoubt was shaping up to be a better defensive position than he imagined.

He went down to the water’s edge and prepared to wade across. Perched on the bank behind him was Rufe, munching a bunch of grapes piled on his belly.

“I wouldn’t,” he said.

Mathi, Treskan, and Lofotan arrived alongside their leader. “Why not?” asked Balif. “Too deep?”

Rufe displayed the calves of his legs. There were dozens of reddish spots on them.

“Leeches.”

Mathi drew back from the water’s edge. She said to Rufe, “How did you get here so fast?”

Rufe pointed at the sky. “By way of the moon.” Kender.

Balif wasn’t squeamish about leeches, but there was no point feeding the bloodsuckers if he knew they were there. He asked the Longwalker for a different way across.

The kender cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted at the trees, “We need a way across the river!”

A voice unseen on the other side called back, “All right, boss.” For a time the only sound were the whine and buzz of insects. A loud snapping filled the air. It came from across the river.

“What are they doing?” Lofotan wondered.

He quickly had an answer. Nine kender came into view on the eastern shore, backs bent over a large log. They were rolling it down the hill, pushing it with their hands. Mathi wanted to shout at them to be careful. When the slope got too steep it was bound to get away from them. She didn’t have time. The log gathered momentum. It outraced its little drivers, smashing down bushes and saplings in its path.

“Look out below!”

A stump stuck up on the east bank. The big log came rumbling down, parallel with the stream. If it hit the water at this angle it would simply crash into the water and float away, but that’s not what happened. The end of the log smacked into the stump, which deflected the log enough to cause the free end to swing around in a half-circle. When the stump gave way, it allowed the other end of the log to slide through the green fronds to the water, halting when the far end buried itself in the mud of the west bank.

Even Lofotan could not refrain from laughing. Engineers trained in the finest schools in Silvanost could not have done a faster job bridging the river.

“Tell me they did not do that on purpose,” Treskan exclaimed.

Rufe ate a grape. “Do what on purpose?”

Balif ignored him. He went to the log and planted a foot on it, testing it with his weight. It held. He started across.

“My lord, what about the horses?” asked Lofotan. The log wasn’t wide enough to allow them to cross.

“Tie them on that side.”

Lofotan tried to enlist some kender to ferry the elves’ baggage, but as soon as he mentioned it the riverbank emptied in no time. The ones fishing vanished, leaving their poles stuck in the mud. Rufe disappeared too, which surprised everyone but Mathi. Kender were willing to do many things, but manual labor did not seem to be one of them.

Ferry duty fell to Treskan. He made many trips back and forth bearing their gear. The river was shallow enough that the big log had a damming effect on the flow, and by Treskan’s last crossing the water had risen enough to lap over the log. It was a dicey journey bearing heavy equipment on his back, trying to keep his footing on a slick, wet trunk. That he made it without falling in was counted a blessing of the gods.

They found a deer track up the steep hill. At the top the trees cleared out, revealing a wide promontory about forty feet above the river. They found Balif out on the very tip gazing into the distance. He was perched on a slender spire of clay, not sturdy looking at all. Lofotan gently suggested the general come back to firmer ground.

“This is a magnificent site for a fortified town,” Balif declared. “Look here!”

They did, from a good ten feet back. Two muddy streams met at the point below, combining to form a broader version of its two branches. The Thon-Haddaras was muddy and slow, but the banks were wide and largely clear of the creeping growth choking the western branch. If it was navigable down to the sea, it would be an invaluable trading asset for any settlement atop the bluff.

“What now, my lord?”

“We must fortify this spot.”

Mathi said, “How, general? The wanderfolk are strangers to picks and shovels.”

“They can fell trees, can’t they? We need a stockade as wide as this point to stop any mounted charges.” He turned and strode rapidly past his companions, gesturing to the weedy meadow on the wide side of the hill.

“This land needs to be cleared as far back as possible to deny cover to the enemy.” He pulled up a handful of weeds, crushing them in his fingers. “Burning it off is the quickest way. Won’t be easy. Everything’s green.” Balif dug his fingers into the dirt. “A lot of thatch, though. It will burn.”

Good soldier that he was, Lofotan was an elf, and the idea of burning an entire hillside clearly appalled him. The Balif he had served under so long would never have suggested such a course, except in the direst straits.

“My lord, is all this feasible?”

“What can be imagined can be done, captain, if we are bold enough.”

He strode briskly to the nearest tree, a sapling about as thick as Mathi’s wrist. With a single chop of his sword Balif cut it down. He came back, slicing off the small branches with deft strokes of his blade.

“We shall raise our standard here,” he said, “so that all may rally to it.”

He ordered Mathi to search through the baggage and find his personal flag, the one his troops had carried into forty battles. Mathi found a cylindrical silk case and loosened the drawstring. Out came a long, heavy pennant made of dark green leather. There was nothing on the triangular banner but an odd brown shape – something like a square with a off-center triangle attached to one side. Balif attached the banner to the sapling with a couple of horseshoe nails and raised the pole skyward.

“Spread the word!” he announced to any kender in earshot. “All who suffer under the heel of the human raiders should come here. Here all will be protected!”

Standing near Lofotan, Mathi felt strangely embarrassed. Kender were not the sort to rally to a flag, especially an uninspiring pennant like Balif’s. She asked the old warrior what the symbol on the flag represented.

“It is the sign of the Brown Hoods,” Lofotan said, “proscribed by the Speaker over a century ago.”

He returned to his commander’s side. Ever loyal, Lofotan trailed behind Balif as the general stalked back and forth, drawing grandiose fortifications in the air.

Days passed. The oppressed did not flock to Balif’s banner.

A few kender arrived to look the place over, curious about the proclaimed safe haven. They looked at the pole with its flag, the empty hilltop, and went on their way. Mathi couldn’t blame them. The whole thing smelled like a nomad plot to concentrate their enemies in one spot to ensure their utter destruction. Only the magic of Balif’s name drew anyone there. Once they saw there were no defenses and no one to fight off Bulnac’s experienced warriors, the curious kender melted into the greenwood. If she hadn’t grown to care about the elf general, Mathi would have left too.

The Longwalker remained. At times in the following days he was the only one of two kender on the bluff. He had another with him – white-haired and wizened. The Longwalker produced swaths of different colored cloth, gave them to the oldster, and in a days’ time a second flag flew from the sapling. It was a bold blue rectangle covered in tiny brace-shaped crosses made of red silk. It was the banner of the united kender clans, the Longwalker explained. It attracted no more support than Balif’s.

The whole thing began to feel farcical until a band of centaurs arrived. They came through the lowland woods late one day. Their arrival sent ripples of alarm all the way to Balif. He ordered that the centaurs be welcomed as friends. The next morning they reached the hill. They were eleven strong, all warriors. It turned out they were all that was left of a much larger band wiped out by Bulnac’s tribe.

“Greath’s band?” said Balif, recognizing their tribal tattoos. Sadly, the centaurs nodded. “Where is the mighty chief?”

“Slain, wise one! Slain by the two-and-ones!” Centaurs, being half human and half horse, considered themselves whole people, while horse riding humans were only half normal. The combination of a human on horseback they called a two-and-one.

It was grave news. Greath had declared his friendship to Balif, an oath unbreakable. The general had hoped to cultivate Greath’s band as allies against the humans. Now they were gone.

“You are welcome to stay among us,” he told the centaurs. They were stout fighters, loyal and fierce, and they stayed. Whatever qualms the kender had about Balif’s fortress, the centaurs remained. Not one of them complained about their position. Why should they? They had nowhere else to go.

Each night Balif disappeared into the woods alone. That was unsettling enough, but on the third night Mathi discovered his clothes in a pile by the general’s tent. Balif had gone off without them, carrying only his knife. She told Lofotan. The old captain tried tracking his commander, but lost him in the swamp a few miles upstream from the bluff. When he returned to camp, Mathi questioned how an experienced Silvanesti soldier like Lofotan could lose anyone’s trail.

“All right, here is the truth: I didn’t lose him. I turned back. I did not want to see what my commander has become.”

On the sixth night after raising his banner, Balif returned before dawn dragging a heavy body. At first they took it for game, but the carcass wasn’t a deer or wild pig. Balif dragged it to the foot of the hill and left it.

The Longwalker, the centaurs, and Mathi gathered around. The curious kender turned the corpse over.

It was a human, a nomad by his clothes and hair. Evidently Balif had encountered him on his nightly prowl.

“A scout,” Balif said from the recesses of his tent. “I caught him in the forest not ten miles from where we stand.”

“I understand killing him, Lord General, but why fetch back his remains?’ asked the leader of the centaurs, Zakki by name.

“I didn’t want to leave him out there.” There was something very odd in his voice, a plaintive quality out of step with his new restive manner.

“Slain, he points to enemies,” Lofotan said, interpreting for the others. “Vanished, anything might have taken him.”

Zakki said, “We will bury him, Lord General.” Two centaurs dragged the nomad away by the feet.

Lofotan went after them to see that the grave was well concealed. That left Mathi, Treskan, and the Longwalker outside Balif’s tent.

“Chief, will you excuse us? I have some information to share with my scribe.” With a shrug, the Longwalker departed. “You remain, too, girl.”

“Yes, my lord?” Mathi said when they were alone.

“Bulnac will be here soon. Two days, maybe three.”

Mathi was astounded. “But how, my lord?”

“The scout was not alone.” He grimaced. “I could not get them all.” Bulnac was pouring south and east, driving everything before him. Greath’s centaurs were no longer a threat. That left only Balif and the kender.

“How many warriors does he have?” the scribe asked.

“Five thousand horse, plus many more on foot. Remember the road we found? He’s rallied every footloose and disaffected nomad in the eastern province to his banner.” All told, Balif estimated Bulnac’s force at nearly twenty thousand.

“We can’t possibly hold off such a horde!”

“There’s more.”

What more mattered? Treskan fingered his talisman nervously. Mathi noticed he always did that when confronted by the greatest danger.

“I will not be myself much longer,” Balif said. His voice, normally clear and confident, was choked. “Already I am … changed, and what is changed is not turning back to anything close to my normal self. In a week I won’t be able to command anything.”

Mathi was surprised. Her own reversion was very slow, almost imperceptible. Hair was returning to her legs and body, but as yet she thought as clearly as ever. It must be part of the Creator’s malediction, robbing Balif of his wits early. Taius and the other beast folk retained their powers of understanding, even as their bodies reverted to beastly form.

“I am not like them!” Balif shouted for both to hear. “I am being transformed into an animal, not from an animal into an elf. My mind is – is failing. The nomads escaped last night because I thought like a beast, not like a soldier.”

The truth dawned on Mathi. Balif’s strange attachment to the dead nomad wasn’t due to security or sentimentality. It was the bond between predator and prey.

“Don’t leave me, either of you. Not until the end. Do you swear?”

They swore, but Treskan asked, “Why me, lord? Don’t you want Lofotan at your side when – when the time comes?”

“Lofotan is Silvanesti. He is my comrade in arms, but he cannot comprehend what will happen soon. I think you can. And —”

He stirred in the darkness, putting out a hand to close the tent flap. It muffled his last words slightly.

“And you must tell history what became of Balif.”

The hand yanked down the tent flap was not a hand, but a paw, covered in fur.

Chapter 17

STORMS

The birds gave the first warning.

A mass of men and horses on the move required food. On the open plain fodder was all around them, but foraging in the woods was far more laborious. When the outriders of Bulnac’s force entered the Haddaras watershed, their progress was marked by enormous flocks of birds fleeing ahead of them. Especially raucous were the crows, which the woods housed in great numbers. Clouds of black birds fled screaming as the nomads probed and plundered the greenwood.

After the birds came the wild creatures of the forest. At dawn and dusk Balif’s tiny camp was overrun by deer, wild pigs, and rabbits escaping Bulnac’s hungry horde. The advance of the nomads was easy to calculate. When the panicked animals came more than twice daily it meant the humans were drawing nearer.

Balif remained in his tent during the day. No one blamed him for hiding from the light. Mathi deflected queries by Zakki, the leader of the centaurs, and by the Longwalker, saying the general was ill. Lofotan did not try to see his leader. He knew the curse was advancing, and he did not want to see how the general was changing. Several times a day he stood outside the closed end of the tent, relating the latest news of nomad advance. Balif replied with single words when necessary, or dismissed his old comrade by not answering at all.

On their own, the centaurs took to ranging into the woods on the open end of Balif’s redoubt. They tried not to be seen, but inevitably Bulnac’s men spied them and gave chase. Zakki’s fellows used a simple blind to hide the location of Balif’s camp – they always fled nomad pursuit eastward, across the river, which they recrossed below the confluence before returning to report to Balif.

Mathi felt their doom was fast closing in. They had no defenses, no stockade, and only the weapons each of them carried. Aside from the Longwalker and a few of his friends, not a single kender had been seen in a week. Even Rufe was long gone. Mathi still owed him a horse, but Rufe was apparently no longer interested in trying to collect. If Mathi had been him, he would have written off the debt too. Treskan alone seemed busy. He inscribed volumes on any surface he could carry – leaves, tree bark, scraps of cloth, all written with charcoal sticks and spit. Mathi thought he would keep scribbling up to the moment a howling nomad lopped his head off.

At night Balif crawled out of his tent and slipped into the trees. He wished to go unseen, but Mathi and Lofotan kept watch from a discreet distance. All they saw was a dark, stooped figure creeping on all fours. It was enough to make the old warrior shut his eyes and shudder.

After his leader had departed on his nightly prowl, Lofotan returned to a project of his own. Mathi found him sitting cross-legged near the cliff edge overlooking the river. He had collected a large mound of green vines and was painstakingly braiding them into a single thick strand.

“What are you making?” Mathi asked.

“A lifeline.”

The scribe didn’t get his meaning at first. Lofotan explained that when the time came, he wanted a rope he could throw over the cliff. That way they could climb down to the river and not be hopelessly trapped on the bluff.

It was a good idea. Mathi asked how much he had made.

“Twenty feet.” About half of what was needed. Mathi fingered the coil of finished rope Lofotan had made. It was tight and supple, amazing handwork. Elven dexterity at work.

She left him to his task. Mathi intended to return to her shelter – she shared the largest tent with Treskan and the elves’ baggage – but first she followed the edge of the hill around, looking down at the water sparkling in the darkness below. She hadn’t gone halfway around when she spotted movement in the heavy shadows along the west bank of the river. Unsure what she was seeing, she slowed, then stopped. More movement, in another place. Someone was down there. More than one someone.

“Lofotan!” she hissed. “Lofotan, come here!”

The elfjogged up carrying his bow. Without a word Mathi pointed to the spot she thought she’d seen figures moving. She held up two, then three fingers. Lofotan nocked an arrow.

“Are the centaurs all back?” Mathi whispered. They weren’t. Lofotan said something about them not coming back from the west.

“Balif?”

“Deer, maybe.” Lofotan waited, bow held loosely waist high. His eyesight was several times better than Mathi’s. He saw something she couldn’t. The bow mounted swiftly to his cheek and the arrow flew. Like most elves, Lofotan used a pinch draw, rather than the three-finger draw favored by humans. The pinch draw was not as powerful, but it had the advantage of nearly silent release. The arrow flashed into the night with only the softest thrum of the bowstring behind it.

There was a thud below, a loud snapping of greenery, followed by a splash. Mathi strained hard to see what had happened. Moments later the answer came floating down river. A body, face down in the water, with Lofotan’s arrow through its neck.

“Watch out,” the warrior said calmly. He leaned aside. Mathi stepped back more slowly and a brace of arrows cut the air where he had been.

“We’re silhouetted against the sky,” Lofotan said. “Stay back.”

He went down on one knee, bow resting on his thigh. Mathi fidgeted.

“Wait,” the elf whispered.

He heard a sound with his keen ears, popped up, aimed, and dispatched an arrow. He was rewarded with a screech of pain. Lofotan dropped down again. An arrow whistled past, high over his head.

“He has the range but not the angle,” was his professional assessment of the enemy archer. “A smart soldier would beat a retreat now.” Another missile thudded into the clay of the bluff. Mathi muttered, “That one’s not smart, he’s angry.”

Lofotan found a loose stone. He pressed it on Mathi and told her to go eight or ten feet away and toss it over.

“He won’t fall for that old trick!”

“Do as I say!”

He had a second rock himself. Mathi crept on her hands and knees to where a small cedar tree was barely clinging to the crumbling cliff. She hurled the stone, then dropped on her belly as fast as she could.

From his position Lofotan pushed his stone off the edge with his foot. Clods of dirt went with it, making a miniature avalanche. A white-fletched arrow sang through the air where the stone fell. If Lofotan had been sitting there it would have hit him in the face.

Straightening his back, the elf took aim and let fly. Without waiting any time to see if he hit the mark he got up, tapped Mathi on the back and said, “Get your spear and follow.”

They descended to the water’s edge. The first victim had floated down thirty yards but was snagged on a low-hanging tree branch. Target number two, the one who had yelled, was dead on his back on the sandy bank. Number three was in a tree, his arms and legs hanging lifelessly over the slow moving stream.

The last nomad fascinated Mathi. She walked under the tree and saw Lofotan’s arrow had gone through four inches of trunk before piercing the man’s skull. He had never seen such marksmanship, especially in the dark and from a height.

“It’s nothing,” Lofotan replied to his amazement. “I have always been counted a mediocre archer. Artyrith could have gotten all three in half the time.”

They hid the bodies in a gully, covering them with vines. The night was too quiet for safety. All the normal sounds of the woods had stilled.

“Too many people around,” was Lofotan’s assessment. They returned to camp.

Zakki and the centaurs were there, waiting. Only nine had come back from their patrol. Two centaurs had fallen trying to escape swarming nomad scouting parties.

“How far from here?” asked the elf.

“An hour’s walk.” For a centaur, that meant eight to ten miles. Even with the thick foliage slowing them down, that meant the nomads could be upon them at any time. Now, in fact.

Mathi looked to the stars. Four hours till dawn. Suddenly she felt very naked. Why did she linger with these doomed fools? Her mission was a failure; part of her was glad of that. Now Balif and his companions faced utter destruction. Why remain? Two reasons occurred to her. One, the woods were alive with vigilant nomads. Her odds of escaping were not high. Even more compelling, she remembered her vow to Balif.

Lofotan broke the spell when he swept his arm in a wide arc from one side of the bluff to the other. “I want a line of sharpened stakes across here, every one six feet long or better.” A line of stakes would halt any mounted charge, but it wouldn’t delay a determined assault on foot.

“Who’s going to make the line of stakes?” Mathi wondered.

“We are, all of us.”

With axes, swords, and jury-rigged mallets the elf, the scribe, Mathi, and the surviving centaurs set to work. Mathi and four centaurs went to where the trees began and started to cut down saplings. Two centaurs dragged these to Treskan where the trees were stripped of branches and had one end sharpened. The elf, Zakki, and two sturdy centaurs drove these at an angle into the clay, then chipped the protruding end to a point. Lofotan spaced them about a foot apart. It would take more than a hundred to cover the ground he indicated.

Chopping down trees was noisy work. The silent forest echoed with the sound of blades biting green wood. Nomad scouts could not fail to hear the commotion.

Mathi chopped and hacked until her hands were blistered. Then she chopped some more. She dulled an axe and switched to a thick-bladed falchion loaned to her by one of the centaurs. The horse-men were unflagging workers. They’d been dashing around all night, but they kept at the work until the sun’s first rays put the stars to sleep.

Mathi raised the falchion high to finish cutting down her forty-third sapling. An eerie baying filled the woods below, and she stayed her hand. She listened, and the sound grew more distinct. Hounds. They had the scent of their prey.

Something crashed through the undergrowth. It was hurtling toward her. She put an elm tree to her back and raised the battered falchion. The dogs were chorusing loudly now in a wide half circle, all the way from the extreme left to the far right. As on the night she was caught outside Bulnac’s camp, the baying dogs raised the hair on her neck and made her heart hammer. Their calls spoke to her blood far more frighteningly than anything the humans did.

She saw a sudden blur of muddy brown. For a moment Mathi thought it was a bear. It drove past her beyond arm’s reach but close enough for the wind to stir her clothing. The eyes of the beast met hers in passing, then Balif was gone. He ran up the hill through the field, disappearing over the rise into camp.

Balif had been out nosing around when the dogs had picked up his trail. Even he could do little against a veteran pack of hunting hounds.

The centaurs arrived at a gallop. Warchief Loff – as they called Lofotan – was calling everyone back. From the summit he could see movement in the trees. Lots of movement. Mathi ran. The centaurs thundered past her and kept going.

Lofotan’s fence was only three-quarters complete. A small pile of poles lay scattered on the ground where the stakes ended. There was no time to finish.

Balif had run to the first shelter he could reach, which happened to be the supply tent where Mathi and Treskan slept. The tethered horses, brought with great labor across the river, were terrified by his presence. They milled around snorting and stomping. Mathi watched the centaurs join their fellows behind the stakes. Treskan had a spear. Lofotan was there too, but he did not see the Longwalker. She guessed the kender had abandoned them to their fate at last.

Mathi approached the tent. She heard Balif snarl, “Get back!”

“This is no time for vanity,” Mathi said. “I’m coming in.”

The general’s response was a low, throaty growl that would have stopped a charging wolf. With the hounds still baying in the woods and Lofotan shouting for him, Mathi braced herself and strode straight into the tent.

She looked at the general of the Speaker of the Star’s armies, lying on his side, panting. There was just enough of his original form left in him to make his appearance even more grotesque.

“I … shall kill … you!”

“You’ll have to stand in line, my lord! The nomads are coming!”

“Think … I don’t … know?”

“We need you, sir. We need everyone, every hand!”

Balif’s panting sound like laughter. “I … have no … hands left.”

“Then lie here and die! I’ve no more time to waste on you!”

She raced to where Lofotan, the scribe, and the centaurs waited. Seeing the elf warrior with his helmet on gave Mathi an idea. She diverted to Balif’s tent and got the general’s polished helmet, with the white horsehair plume on top. She held it out to Lofotan.

“I can’t wear the general’s armor,” he said.

“Wear it, captain. Be our general in this last fight.”

Taking in the expressions on the centaurs and the scribe, Lofotan removed his simple headgear and donned Balif’s helmet.

The baying hounds abruptly ceased their song. Everyone on the hill stirred nervously. Only the dogs’ handlers could silence them so suddenly. The enemy must be close.

They were. Daylight glinted off bits of armor and naked blades down at the tree line. Mathi couldn’t count them scattered among the trees, but it looked like several hundred men on foot, milling around in the greenery.

Between them they had seven bows. Centaur bows were simple curved staves, which lacked the range and power of Lofotan’s elegant Silvanesti weapon. They also used stone arrowheads, not bronze like the elf’s. Against fur-clad nomads it might not make much difference, but if there was much armor distributed among Bulnac’s men, the centaurs’ arrows would be almost useless.

Nevertheless they braced and stood ready. Mathi swallowed hard. If only the kender had been as steadfast as Zakki and his comrades.

After a short period of disorder, the nomads advanced up the hill. They came on in no formation, just a ragged line with men bunched together around individual leaders. It was close to two hundred yards from the forest edge, to where Lofotan stood. He pointed his arrow skyward and released. Plunging out of the lightening sky, Bulnac’s men couldn’t see it coming. It hit a nomad in the center of the line. He threw up his hands and went down. His friends stood around him momentarily, then resumed their advance.

Lofotan loosed arrow after arrow. He never missed. His targets were thickly clustered together. The morning light was against them, but they doggedly came on. At a hundred fifty yards some of the nomads halted and loosed their own arrows. Things were hectic on the hilltop as everyone dodged incoming missiles. To Mathi, who had never been on the receiving end of archery in broad daylight, it seemed as though the arrows flew and fell very slowly. When they hit the ground they only buried a few inches of shaft. Were they really dangerous?

Her curiosity was answered when one of the centaurs was hit in the palm of one hand. The nomad arrow penetrated for half its length. It was a horrible looking wound, but the tough centaur snapped the hardwood shaft with his teeth and pulled the arrow out.

The nomads’ archery sputtered and ended. Too many of their comrades were in front of them, and they no longer had a clear field of fire. From the heights, Lofotan had a perfect view. The centaurs joined in, and they attacked the advancing humans without mercy.

Beating their swords against their wooden shields the nomads kept coming, shouting their chief’s name over and over, like a spell to insure victory.

Without anyone in overall command, the mob of nomads began shifting to their left. The gap in the stake line lay that way, and even though they could have squeezed between the stakes at any point, the warriors naturally made for the easier path.

Lofotan lowered his bow. Mathi asked, “Are you out of arrows?”

“No, but there’s no point using them all now.” He called for the others to form beside him with weapons drawn.

“We’ll charge them when they enter the gap,” he said. The narrow way would cause the nomads to bunch together, hampering their movements and their ability to use their weapons.

“Now, forward!”

They trotted toward the fence gap. As they passed the supply tent, the canvas sides billowed out, and a dark shape burst out of the front. A blood-chilling howl rang from the hilltop.

Balif had joined the fight.

Mathi checked Lofotan. The elf warrior kept his eyes straight ahead, not paying the slightest attention to the misshapen creature entering the battle on their side.

Balif reached the enemy first. They gave ground before his charge, unsure what they faced. He batted away the spears they jabbed at him. The beast’s jaws opened wide, revealing a jaw full of long yellow teeth. A human archer took aim, but Zakki put an arrow in him first. Balif sprang at the enemy, bowling over three when he landed. His power was terrifying. He had claws on all four limbs, and he ripped his way through the lightly clad nomads. What his talons did not shred, his teeth tore apart.

The nomads were surprised to be attacked by an animal, but they were men of field and stream, used to hunting animals of all kinds. They rallied, trying to ring in the beast and cut him down. Fortunately for Balif, Lofotan’s band arrived.

They battered the nomads back, breaking the circle and freeing Balif. He snarled defiance and stormed into danger again. The centaurs fought valiantly, not only with sword and spear but with their front hooves too. Lofotan moved like a dancer, slashing in and out among the nomads with ruthless precision. But for all their ferocity, bravery, and skill, they were thirteen against hundreds. Nomads flowed left and right, getting behind the defenders. Two of Zakki’s centaurs went down in quick succession to thrown spears. Treskan did his best, which wasn’t much, so he settled for keeping the enemy off Lofotan’s back. Mathi could do little but parry and block sword and spear thrusts. The circle shrank and shrank. When Mathi’s heels bumped the elf’s she knew the end was near.

And then, a miracle.

At two-score points along the slope of the hill dirt flew upward. Holes opened in the ground, holes that had been covered with panels of woven vines and camouflaged with dirt. Pouring out of these holes came kender – hundreds of kender. Decked out in a motley collection of found weaponry they mixed with the nomads and fell upon them from all sides. In the time it took for a sparrow to cross the ridge the course of the battle completely reversed. The nomads broke. They ran for the woods, many with two or three kender clinging to them, battering them with swords, knives, stones, or sticks. The ring of bloody blades that threatened to close around Lofotan’s defenders disintegrated. Zakki and his warriors took up their bows, stinging the retreating enemy. Treskan and Mathi were content to watch the humans flee, stunned by the sudden turn of fate.

Balif chased them, howling for more blood. When a stout warrior turned to spear the general, Lofotan raised his bow and shot him down. Pointed ears laid back against his head, Balif howled and charged the next nearest nomads. He pursued the enemy into the woods.

Mathi saw the concern on Lofotan’s face. Alone in the woods, Balif could be ambushed at any time. There was nothing Lofotan could do. Sound tactics required him to remain on the hill no matter what his cursed leader did.

The Longwalker hailed them. “Greetings, noble friends! We have won!”

“Only the first throw,” Lofotan said. Uncharacteristically, he smiled broadly at the kender chief, however. “I wish you could have told us what you were planning!”

“We thought we were going to die!” Treskan added.

“Many apologies, but it was vital that the humans not know about our wall-less walls.”

The Longwalker explained that the kender had begun tunneling into the bluff since the first night they arrived. At first they were simply making holes to hide in, but as the number of holes multiplied, someone suggested linking them with tunnels. They knew they had neither the time nor materials to fortify the hill in the usual way, so they reverted to kender tactics – doing what no one else thought of.

“Whose idea was it to make tunnels?” Mathi asked. “Rufus.”

A hand plucked at Mathi’s sleeve. “How are you, boss?” Mathi’s knees failed her at that point. She sat down before she fell down.

“Fantastic!” she said trembling. She gathered the astonished kender into her arms and embraced him like a brother.

“Uh, boss? You’re crushing me.”

Mathi thrust the little man out at arms’ length. “What do I owe you for my deliverance?” she said happily.

“Nothing. This one was on me.”

The short celebration was over when word came up the hill that strong parties of humans were in the woods, many on horseback. In short order the kender came piling back, popped back in their holes, and pulled their lids shut behind them. As miraculous as their sudden appearance had been, their disappearance was equally astonishing.

The Longwalker remained above ground with a contingent of thirty-odd followers. They formed up in a bunch behind Lofotan and Mathi. The centaurs spread out in front, bows ready.

A line of mounted men filtered slowly out of the trees. Sunlight sparkled on their upraised spear points.

“Steady,” Lofotan said. “Remember, most warriors die while running away, not when they stand fast.”

“Depends on how fast you can run,” replied the Longwalker.

A small group detached from the line of horsemen and trotted up the hill. Mathi counted six riders. It looked like a parley, and he said as much to Lofotan.

“Hold those arrows,” the elf told the centaurs.

Drawing closer, Mathi recognized the massive nomad leader Bulnac. His horse was enormous too, with great shaggy hooves and a back as broad as a banquet table. Arrayed behind him were his lieutenants, decked out in typical savage finery with feathers, beads, shells, and the odd bit of metal here and there.

Bulnac came straight at the center of the line of stakes, and stopped there, waiting.

“I guess we’d best meet him,” Lofotan said.

“Who goes with you?” Mathi asked.

“All of you. This concerns everyone.”

The motley knot of centaurs, kender, elf and disguised elves went to meet the nomad chief. Bulnac did not dismount when they approached. He sat high atop his monstrous horse, looking down his flat nose at the strange delegation facing him with a fence of sharpened stakes arrayed between him and then.

“Who commands here?”

“I do,” said Lofotan. “The Longwalker leads his own people, and Zakki is chief of our friends, the centaurs.”

“Ah, I heard there were horse-men on this hilltop. Did you not learn your lesson before? This time there will be no survivors.”

“You haven’t won yet,” Lofotan replied dryly. “What do want? Or did you come all this way to boast us to death?”

The chief’s wide white smiled vanished. “You have too long been a thorn in my flesh, elder one. You and those cockroaches,” he sneered at the assembled kender. “I came to tell you not to expect any quarter if there is any further resistance to my taking over this land.” He looked past the defenders, noticing the commanding view from the bluff. “This will make a fine place to build my stronghold.” He smiled again very unpleasantly. “After you are gone.”

“There’s an old saying among my people,” the Longwalker said. “‘Birds on the wing lay very few eggs.’”

Bulnac curled a lip. “My steed shall tread on your faces,” he vowed, “unless you abandon the hill now. March away and I will not molest you. That is Bulnac’s mercy, and it is the most you can expect from me.”

The centaurs’ bows creaked as they nervously tugged at them. Bulnac heard the sound and laughed. “You have your choice: sure slaughter at the hands of my warriors, or return to the land that bore you.”

He reined around. His minions drew well back, making room for their large leader.

“You have until the shadow changes right to left.” He pointed to the shadow lines cast by the stakes. From Bulnac’s perspective the morning sun cast their shadows to his right. By the time the sun passed overhead and started down in the west, the stakes’ shadows would switch to the other side. That would take about three to four hours.

“Away!”

Bulnac galloped down the hill with his men close behind. The defenders of Balif’s redoubt watched them go, each one pondering the choice they had to make.

Chapter 18

EXITS

Rufe led everyone to the opposite side of the hill, not far from the edge of the bluff overlooking the river. He went unerringly to a spot by a scraggly cedar tree, dug his fingers in the dirt, and opened a hidden trapdoor.

Lofotan and Mathi squatted by the hole. It smelled damp.

“This runs down to the river bank?” asked the elf.

“Dug it myself,” Rufe vowed.

“Can we fit in there?”

Mathi squinted at the narrow hole. It looked possible, but it was not an experience she really desired.

“Doesn’t matter,” Lofotan said, standing. “Zakki and his kind can’t possibly get through such a small tunnel. We can’t abandon them.”

They had been discussing what to do about Bulnac’s ultimatum. The mass of nomad horsemen remained at the tree line, waiting for the order to attack. No one believed the ruthless chieftain would really allow them to go. They had caused him too much trouble and deeply injured his pride. No one doubted that once they were out of their defenses, Bulnac’s men would slaughter them.

“We could jump,” Mathi mused, eyeing the river forty yards below. “If the water is deep enough —”

“This much,” Rufe replied, holding a hand a few inches over his head. Not nearly enough to break a fall from so high a place as the cliff.

“Then we shall die together, fighting as honorable warriors!” Zakki declared. Lofotan seemed resigned to just that fate. Treskan fondled his talisman and said little about fighting or fleeing.

“Whatever happens, let your people disperse,” the elf told the Longwalker. “No sense getting them all killed. Live to fight another day, you understand?”

“That is what we do, noble captain,” the kender said. He was remarkably calm about the danger hanging over them. It was probably because he had a foolproof exit already worked out, Mathi privately decided.

They returned to the summit of the hill as the sun reached its zenith. Two hours remained. Mathi broke out the last of Artyrith’s nectar, giving each defender his own bottle. Lofotan questioned the wisdom of that, but the centaurs broke off the bottles’ necks and guzzled the amber nectar happily. Treskan drank more decorously, but he plainly didn’t care if the nomads found him drunk or sober. Still disliking drink, only Mathi abstained.

The bottles were almost drained when there was a commotion down at the trees. Everyone went to the stakes and shaded their eyes to see what caused the disturbance. Four riders struggled out of the woods through the lines of horsemen already on watch. There was something on the ground between, something dark that rolled and lunged against the riders’ ropes. It didn’t take the defenders long to realize what it was.

The nomads had captured Balif.

They made their way up the hill, stopping frequently to maintain control of their furious captive. Ten yards from the stakes one of the nomads called out, “Elf! Elf, are you listening?”

Lofotan leaned on a slanting stake. “What do you want?”

“We got something of yours! This your beast?”

“No.”

The nomad was crestfallen. He had been looking forward to tormenting Lofotan with his captured property. Now that ugly pleasure had been denied him.

“Well, I guess you won’t mind if we skin it. It’s got a nice pelt.”

He drew a long knife. Mathi moved up behind Lofotan and put a hand to his shoulder. Still the old warrior said nothing.

“Hold him.”

The riders backed their horses, keeping their ropes taut. The knife wielder got down. Before he got within arm’s reach Mathi shouted, “No, wait!”

She spied Rufe out of the corner of his eye. She muttered, “Can your people in the tunnels get to him?” The kender held up his thumb.

“That’s my beast,” Mathi called. “He’s worth a lot to me. Don’t hurt him.”

The nomad laughed. “What’ll you give me to not cut him?”

“What do you want?”

He made a rude suggestion. Coloring, Mathi drew her sword, grip reversed, and threw it over the stakes. It was a good elf-forged blade, though plain in design.

“How about its life for that sword? It’s solid bronze, made in Silvanost!”

The nomad walked to where the blade lay, stuck point first in the soil. Just as he stretched out his hand to take it, four tunnels popped open around him and his comrades. In a flurry, the three riders were unhorsed. The captive beast tore off his bonds with his teeth. The nomad leader never reached the elf sword. Zakki put an arrow in his ribs. He folded like a Silvanesti chair, landing flat on his back. Faster than anyone could prevent it, the beast leaped on him and tore out his throat with his teeth.

Shocked, the remaining three nomads made a dash for the trees. Their spooked horses beat them there. Blood streaming from his jaws, the beast stood with his fore-paws on the dead man’s chest and roared at his former tormentors.

Lofotan gave Mathi a shove. “Go get him!”

“Aren’t you going to help?”

Face white, the elf snapped, “Get him before the savages come in force!”

Mathi slipped between the stakes. Hearing her footsteps, the beast whirled, teeth bared. She turned to stone.

“My lord,” she said evenly, “It is I, Mathi. Your sister.”

The creature, looking like the misbegotten offspring of a bear and a panther, tilted its head to one side and snarled. Mathi spared a glance down the hill. The nomads were coming to avenge their comrades.

“Sir,” she said, “come with me behind the stakes. The enemy is coming.” She wanted to say ‘you’ll be safe back there,’ but it was a lie she could not bring herself to speak.

Mathi held out her hand. If the beast pounced, she wouldn’t be able to get away before it tore her apart.

“Come, general. Be Balif just a little longer.”

Mention of his name had an odd effect on the creature. It got off its victim and slunk away in a wide circle, skirting Mathi as widely as it could. It did go through the stakes, and with a single sidelong glance at the other defenders, made for the supply tent. Balif vanished inside.

Lofotan shouted for Mathi to return. She picked up her sword and rejoined the little band of defenders.

Riders came up the hill, though not in attack strength. Perhaps forty men rode in tight formation to where the nomad slain by the beast lay. The centaurs leveled their bows, but Lofotan stayed them. Staring and muttering oaths, the nomads recovered the body and departed.

“What was that about?” Treskan wondered. Nomads were not usually so fastidious about their dead. The ones slain in the morning attack still lay on the hillside.

“I would say the bully with the knife was someone important,” the Longwalker said.

So he was. Less than an hour passed, and Chief Bulnac returned with his personal retainers. Mathi was amazed to see that the huge man had been weeping. He ordered his men to stay behind, and rode alone to the stake line. There he hurled a spear point first into the ground and cried, “I claim vengeance! Vengeance for the killer of my son!”

The Longwalker and his cronies began backing away as quietly as possible. Zakki’s fellows pulled on their death flowers – a centaur custom that involved putting on some item colored red. It didn’t have to be a flower. Usually a red scarf or scrap of red cloth would do. It meant they expected to die.

Lofotan took Mathi by the arm and whispered in his ear, “This is our chance!”

Bulnac repeated his challenge, his voice hoarse with grief.

“What do you mean?”

“He wants single combat with the killer of his son! I’ll fight him, and when I slay him, his followers may melt away in the greenwood!”

Mathi shook her head. “They’ll play bowls with our heads! What makes you think you can beat that giant anyway?”

“He’s only a human, and he’s blind with grief and anger.”

Before Mathi could protest further Lofotan stepped forward and said, “Here I am, savage. I am Lofotan Brodelamath, of House Protector, former captain of the host of the Great Speaker of the Stars, Silvanos Golden-Eye!”

Bulnac pointed his sword at him. “You shall die soon enough, elf, but first I drink the blood of my son’s killer! Where is the monster?” The other nomads had reported truly and told the chief how his son died.

Lofotan waved Bulnac’s threats aside and said, “You can’t take vengeance on an animal, fool. Fight me in single combat, if you dare.”

“I’ll fight you elf, and when I do I’ll be wearing the pelt of the monster that slew my Varek! Send it out, or I’ll storm this hilltop with my entire band and torture everyone on it to death!”

Mathi pulled free of Lofotan’s grip. She started for the supply tent, feeling Bulnac’s burning gaze on her every step of the way. Just outside the tent she said quietly, “My lord, it’s Mathi. I need to speak to you.” There was no answer, but she girded himself and ducked inside.

The contents of the tent had been torn asunder. Blankets, baskets of provisions, jars of water and oil lay broken, torn, and scattered. Atop the mess lay the beast, hardly moving at all.

“My lord, do you hear the nomad chief? Do you understand what’s happening? The man you killed was his son. He wants revenge. He demands to fight you in single combat.”

Still the furry heap did not stir. Mathi drew a deep breath. “If you don’t come out, my lord, Bulnac will kill us all as slowly and painfully as he can imagine.” Which was probably very slowly and painfully indeed. “If you fight and win, my lord, there’s a chance the nomads will quit the siege and spare us. What say you, my lord?”

Nothing. Trembling despite herself at the thought of Bulnac’s wrath, Mathi turned to go. In one smooth movement the beast was up and slid past her. He looked back at Mathi, and she saw glimmers of intelligence still flickering in the creature’s eyes. Balif understood.

They walked together to the stakes opposite Bulnac. The centaurs stood in a line and bowed their heads in salute. Serius Bagfull and the kender were nowhere around. Lofotan, unable to bear the sight of his cursed commander, turned his back on the scene. Treskan wrote obsessively on a roll of birch bark.

“What sort of unnatural creature is this?” Bulnac said.

Mathi thought quickly. “It’s called a bearcat, the offspring of a bear and a panther.”

Bulnac spat. “You’re a liar. Two unlike animals cannot breed, any more than birds can father chicks on dogs.”

Mathi bowed humbly. “You asked, and I told you: a bearcat.”

Bulnac shoved his sword back in its sheath. “Call it a mud-puppy, it matters not. Soon it will be dead, and all of you with it. Your carcasses will feed my Varek’s funeral pyre!”

Without being asked he got down from his lofty horse. He tied his reins to a stake, slipped a small round buckler onto his left forearm, and drew his sword again.

“Any time, monster.”

The beast who had been Balif sat on his haunches. And sat. At length it yawned, its black tongue curling at the tip.

Feeling mocked, Bulnac slapped his sword against the boss on his shield. Everyone but Lofotan flinched, but the creature eyed the big warrior with quiet intensity.

“Enough stupidity!” Bulnac advanced with a roar. He swung his blade with enough force to chop down a sizable tree. Trouble was, the beast was not a tree. It sprang full length from its crouch and hit Bulnac dead center in the chest before he could complete his swing. He staggered back but did not go down. The beast’s front legs were around Bulnac’s neck. The cheek pieces on Bulnac’s helmet saved his face. He tried to bring his blade back against the creature, but it released its hold and dropped to the ground, sinking its fangs into Bulnac’s thigh. No armor there.

Striking out in pain, he rapped the bronze hilt of his blade against the beast’s skull. Stunned, the bearcat fell away and circled, shaking off the blow. A dozen yards back Bulnac’s retinue shouted encouragement and praise at their leader. Blood ran down his face from some minor cuts, and dark blood welled from his thigh wound.

If he pierced the artery, Mathi thought furiously. If … The smell of freshly spilled blood made her dizzy.

Bulnac advanced, swinging his blade in wide arcs. The nomad chief did not appreciate that he was dealing with an animal with the strength and reflexes of a great predator but with the mind of a very intelligent elf. He was fighting Balif as if he were a mad dog or raging wolf.

Watching the bright blade cut the air, the beast timed his lunge for when the sword just passed his nose. He leaped, clamping his powerful jaws on Bulnac’s wrist. Leather gauntlets blunted Balif’s fangs but his full weight dragged the nomad’s arm down. Bellowing defiance, Bulnac actually lifted the creature off the ground with his teeth still gripping his arm. He punched repeatedly with the hilt of his sword until the beast fell to the ground. Mathi reckoned every blow Bulnac landed broke a rib.

He raised one great leg, meaning to drive his spiked spur into the creature. Blood loss or the pain of his leg wound slowed him enough for Balif to roll aside. He raked his claws across Bulnac’s back, shredding his leather jerkin and scoring the skin beneath.

Uneasy, the Bulnac’s followers edged closer. A few pulled spears from sleeves hanging from their saddles. Seeing that, Lofotan loudly called for Zakki and his centaurs to raise their bows.

“First man to throw a spear dies!”

Bulnac lost his buckler when the beast tore it off his arm. Balif went for his throat. The chief got his sword up in time, and the creature was cut deeply across the chest.

The beast leaped away, turned and gazed at his foe with his fiery eyes. Panting, Bulnac threw down his unwieldy sword and drew instead a heavy dagger with a blade just ten inches long.

“Come, monster. Let us get closer.” His words were little more than a whisper.

The sun was settling below the trees. Bulnac’s original ultimatum had expired. Large numbers of warriors filtered through the trees, ready to join the promised attack. When their comrades on the spot told them what was going on, they joined the silent throng at the forest edge, watching their chief do battle with the monster that killed his son.

Then the beast astounded them all.

It leaned back, raising its front legs off the ground. As everyone looked on, the bearcat straightened its back and staggered upright. When it stood erect, it bared its teeth and snarled.

The hair on Mathi’s neck prickled. The snarl sounded just like Balif saying “Ha!”

He lumbered forward, forelegs outstretched. Bulnac spat blood and waited, dagger drawn. Mathi expected the beast to go right at him and try to slash him with his claws. Balif closed to little more than arm’s length. He twisted, dropped to the ground, and picked up Bulnac’s discarded sword. He couldn’t grip it properly, but he held it tightly between his paws. The nomad chief drew back, startled. Rearing his arms up, Balif flung the sword. It whirled point over pommel at its owner. Bulnac tried to parry the flying blade with his dagger. It whirled past his outthrust arm. The point hit him below the breastbone and sank in.

Color fled the nomad’s face. The dagger fell from his fingers. Bulnac gripped the sword with both hands and tried to pull it out. He never got the chance. The beast hurled himself at the pommel, driving the blade through the chief’s gut. Two feet of bloody bronze burst from Bulnac’s back. He toppled backward with the beast embracing him.

For a moment silence reigned. Zakki raised his bow over his head and screeched in triumph. His comrades echoed his cry. Mathi was surprised to hear herself shouting too. The thrill of victory quickly paled when she wondered what the multitude of nomad warriors would do now that their leader was dead.

Battered and bleeding, the beast stalked slowly back through the sharpened stakes. When he was well out of reach, Bulnac’s retainers rode silently forward. They surrounded their fallen chief and lifted his body onto the back of his enormous steed. Without a word or second glance, they went down the hill where they were swallowed by a throng of quiet warriors.

The defenders braced for an attack. Night fell, and the nomads did not come. Through the darkness Mathi and the others watched the glow of a large bonfire, burning on a hilltop less than a mile away. It blazed most of the night, fading into the dark an hour or two before dawn.

Chapter 19

BROTHERS

When the funeral pyre of their chief burned out, the nomads took up their arms and prepared to avenge his death by destroying the stubborn defenders of Balif’s bluff.

Three times they came before sun-up. Their first thrust was mounted. The nomads formed at the foot of the hill and slowly ascended without battle cries. They came to grief when their horses stepped on the flimsy lids of the kender’s tunnels. Many riders were overthrown, and the rest stopped in confusion, certain the land was pocked with pits deliberately designed to trap their horses. The first attack was called off. Back down the hill went the nomads, to reform for another assault, this time on foot.

Inside the tunnels, the kender took the sudden breakthrough of horse hooves as an indication they were the target of the attack. Faster than you could say ‘Rufus Wrinklecap,’ they abandoned their holes, pouring out on the dewy turf at the top of the hill. Lofotan hurriedly tried to work them into companies of a hundred each, but he could never get an accurate count. As soon as one company was mustered, the elf moved on to the next, only to find many of the same kender lining up. They denied it, of course, but Lofotan gave up. He told the Longwalker to keep his people behind the stakes and have at any humans who came their way.

Mathi brought water and food – what little there was – to the supply tent after dark. Balif huddled inside, nursing his wounds. Any attempt by Mathi to enter the tent was met with snarls and swipes of his formidable claws. Thereafter she kept a vigil outside, ready to respond to any need the general might express. From time to time she was spelled by Treskan, who had acquired an ugly cut on his face and assorted bruises.

He was joined outside the tent by Rufe, who appeared out of nowhere and sat cross-legged on the ground next to Treskan. He nodded to Rufe. Rufe nodded back. Neither spoke for a long time.

“Looks like you won’t be getting the horse we owed you,” Treskan said.

“Eh? Why not?”

He smiled ruefully. “Always stout-hearted, aren’t you?”

Morning peepers sang to them. Out of nowhere Rufe asked the scribe where he came from.

“Woodbec,” he said

“Is that on the south coast?” asked Rufe.

“No, inland.”

Rufe gave a him probing glance. “Will you be going back there?”

“Yes, sooner than I thought.”

“Tell them my name,” said Rufe. Treskan didn’t understand, so Rufe repeated, “Tell the people of your home my name. That way when I come to visit, they’ll know who I am.”

Treskan smiled. “I shall do that.”

The warning “Here they come!” went up from the wall. In the lull since Bulnac’s duel, the defenders had thrown up a flimsy barrier of tree limbs to bridge the unfinished line of stakes. Mathi ran up, carrying spare spears and a helmet for Treskan.

Rufe got up, dusted the seat of his pants, and walked toward the makeshift barricade.

“Where are you going?” Mathi said.

“Where I am needed.”

Mathi suddenly felt concern for the little man. She wondered if she would ever see him again.

The nomads came tramping up the hill on foot, stopping frequently to inspect open kender holes. Some had the bright notion of turning the tunnels against their makers, but the shafts were too narrow to admit bulky humans.

Lofotan flung arrows at them. He had only two sheafs of arrows left of the supply they had packed from Silvanost, a hundred arrows in all. The centaurs had even fewer. They held their missiles until the nomads were in range of their weaker bows. Lastly the Longwalker’s kender piled up projectiles for their hoopaks, slings, and what diminutive bows they possessed. Their range was short, but in the last critical moment of a charge, they could add a critical weight to the defenders’ barrage.

The humans were hampered by having to shoot their arrows uphill, but enough fell behind the stakes to make the defenders anxious. Every time a kender was injured, two or three of his comrades immediately bore him off to the far side of the hill. The slow but steady loss weakened the line. Mathi stalked among them, trying to convince them to return, but the kender evaded her outstretched arms and ignored her pleas.

“It’s our time!” the Longwalker shouted. A hail of strange missiles lashed the nomads. Mathi could swear she saw a bone white goat skull, complete with horns, hurtle at the enemy along with the stones and darts. The humans put their shields up. Flying junk rattled off them with considerable noise. Those with their chests exposed took a beating from Zakki’s centaurs. who shot them down easily.

Still the throng of nomads surged forward, reaching the stakes. They began pushing and pulling at the obstacle, even climbing the slanting poles to pull them down. The defenders backed up a pace, then another, until Lofotan was standing alone in front of everyone. Zakki galloped to him and begged him to retire. The elf nodded curtly, slung his bow over his shoulder, and drew his sword.

Treskan opened his collar and fished out his precious talisman. His mouth moved with unheard words – a prayer to his patron gods? Seeing about a thousand naked swords squeezing through the fence would make anyone pray. He closed his fingers tightly around the small golden trinket.

A dozen or so nomads peeled off from the main band and head for the supply tent. She shouted a warning, but no one could hear a single cry amidst the cacophony of battle. Mathi bared her sword and sprinted for the tent. Treskan saw her alarm and broke away to follow her. Halfway there it sank in what he was doing.

“I’m running toward twelve armed men carrying a sword! They’ll kill me – I’m not a warrior, I’m a historian!” he cried.

“I’m not a warrior either, so run more and talk less!” Mathi retorted.

The thought of Balif being overwhelmed by a mob of angry nomads put fire in her veins. Shouting and waving her blade, she tried to divert the men from the tent.

Four faced off against them. The rest slashed down the ropes and trampled the tent. They thrust their sword into any likely heap under the canvas. Converging on the center, they stabbed again and again. Then the bulge in the center of the fallen tent ripped apart, revealing Balif.

He had changed again. He had regained part of his elf nature. All along his beastliness had waxed or waned according to some arcane purpose known only to Vedvedsica. He had been fully beastlike for a while, but now Balif stood up like any elf or man. He was covered in fur still, but his frame was more normally configured. His sudden change in appearance startled the nomads, who hesitated. Seizing on their indecision, Balif grabbed a spear from the stock stored in the supply tent and impaled the closest warrior.

The reverse of fortune made the men rushing Mathi and Treskan halt and turn back. Mathi cried, “General! General, behind you!” Balif whirled, using the spear shaft to drive back anyone trying to ambush him from behind. Mathi found herself trading sword cuts (of all things!) with a distracted nomad who was busy watching Balif slash his comrades to pieces. Treskan swung his weapon like a crowbar, connecting with a nomad’s bearded face and laying him flat.

With four nomads dying in the dirt, the others gave up their attempt to slay Balif and fell back to rejoin the main attack. Mathi made her way to where Balif stood, shoulders hunched, staring at the retreating humans.

“My lord, are you all right?”

His head snapped around. A face that was definitely Balif’s glowered behind the fur.

“Don’t touch me!”

“Yes, my lord.” Panting, Mathi added, “Shall we rejoin the battle?”

He kicked through the tent wreckage and strode to where the nomad horde struggled to overcome the small band of defenders. The sight of the half-beast general, stalking to the forefront of the fight, distracted everyone. Actual fighting dwindled, then petered out. Both sides withdrew a few steps and gazed in wonder at the strange creature standing between them.

“I am Balif!” he declared. His voice was rough and low, but distinct and recognizable. “I slew your chief and your chief’s son. By right of combat I am your chief now!”

“Beast!” someone cried. “Monster!”

“Yes, I am a beast. I am also master of this land!” He held out his spear point first and swept his arm in a wide circle. “All this I claim for myself and my people.”

“What people, beast?”

He gestured at the crowd of kender and centaurs behind him. The Longwalker proudly took his place at Balif’s side.

“Here is the chief of my people. This land is theirs. Any who wishes to dispute this may challenge my right with his blood!”

Mathi trembled. She never imagined the enemy of her kind could be so noble or so valiant. Oh, she had heard the tales of Balif’s wit and valor, but she had always been taught that Silvanesti were vain, spoiled creatures, cruel and cold. He was not the Balif she saw now. Wracked by an all-consuming curse, the general had rallied enough to stand and speak, and to challenge his enemies to face him singly. Brave warriors all, the nomads had seen how Balif had defeated Bulnac and Varek. They understood they were not dealing with a trained animal like their hunting dogs, but an accursed elf of power and intelligence. They kept their distance.

“What are you?” a human voice demanded, albeit with respect

Balif put his hand on the Longwalker’s shoulder to steady himself. His body had been shaped and re-shaped, and standing was not easy.

“I am Balif, protector of the Wanderfolk.”

“You killed our great chief!”

“The fight was fair. Who says it was not?” No one replied.

Sunlight brightened the scene. In all the furor no one had noticed the dawn approaching. Balif averted his face from the new day’s glare. It hurt his eyes.

“Go and trouble this land no longer!” he said, wincing. “So long as Balif lives, this land shall belong to the Wanderfolk!”

Many of the nomads, already disheartened by the death of Bulnac, lowered their arms and walked away. Firebrands among them tried to rouse their fighting spirit and rally the others, but the slow decay of their morale rapidly became a full-scale collapse. Too many of them had no reason left to fight. They were used to roaming a wide range, grazing their herd animals and raiding their settled neighbors. Following Bulnac, they expected rich plunder and easy adventure. What they had got was endless miles of plain and forest, feisty little people and warlike centaurs. Bulnac paid for his ambition with his life. His men, a great many of them at least, preferred not to do the same.

In time even the stalwarts decided to withdraw. They backed away, glaring balefully at the weary defenders of Balif’s redoubt. No one bothered them so long as their direction was down the hill.

Mathi came to Balif. “Rejoice, my lord!”

Still in view of the humans, Balif stayed standing. He opened one eye against the sunlight to see her. Mathi was startled to see that his eye was yellow-green, with a vertical slit pupil like a cat’s.

“Why should I rejoice?” he rasped.

“You have just founded a new nation.”

“No.” He shuddered. “I shed blood. This one will found a nation.”

So saying, he let go of the Longwalker’s shoulder and collapsed. Treskan rushed over. Balif lay on his side, twitching uncontrollably. The centaurs and most of the kender were coming.

Mathi grasped the Longwalker by his vest. “Keep them away,” she whispered. “Don’t let them see him like this!”

Serius Bagfull nodded and went to intercept the jubilant defenders. He spread his arms wide and declaimed about the new day, how it was the dawn of a new nation for their people. Listening with half an ear, Treskan pronounced the Longwalker a true politician. The kender leader knew what to say and when to say it.

Mathi spread a cloak over Balif. The general was trembling as though with fever; the corners of his eyes and his lips were stained with a strange black liquid. She feared for Balif’s life. Was he dying? If so, there was nothing Mathi could do about it.

Horns blared in the woods far down the slope. Fearing a return of the nomads, the kender panicked and fled to far end of the bluff. Zakki and his comrades, reduced to just five, fought to escape the flood of little people bearing them away from the line of stakes.

Mathi rose, looking for Lofotan. The valiant old warrior had made himself scarce when Balif appeared. Alerted by the horns, he had joined the centaurs with bow in hand. His last sheaf of arrows lay at his feet.

The clash of arms reached up from the trees. No one understood. Were the nomads fighting each other? It was possible. Humans were by nature very fractious, and nomads in particular were always ready to fight each other if no other enemy was available.

The horns sounded again, louder and closer. Lofotan stiffened. He lowered his bow.

“Those are brass horns,” he said, puzzled. Nomads used rams’ horns

The truth dawned. Treskan spoke for all when he cried, “Silvanesti!”

They could make out nothing from the hilltop. A great thrashing and crashing filled the woods, punctuated by shouts and the clang of metal. Zakki wanted to run down the hill and see what was going on, but Lofotan restrained him. If there were elves below, they might not know that the centaurs were allies.

Mathi had no such worries. She vaulted through the line of stakes and sprinted down the bloody hill. Lofotan called to her, but she waved the elf’s words away and kept going. The hillside was a maelstrom of kender pits, slain horses and men, lost arms and spent arrows. Near the bottom, by the spot where they had cut so many saplings, she paused.

Riders in bright bronze armor rode through the trees trading blows with nomad warriors. There were a lot of them, at least as many as the humans, and they steadily drove Bulnac’s men back. Mathi heard a peculiar roar overhead. A shadow passed over her. She looked up and saw griffons in the sky, wheeling and diving. There was no doubt who the newcomers were. Only Silvanesti rode griffons.

The thick green woods screened the nomads from aerial assault, but the sight and smell of griffons terrified their horses. They pitched their riders and bolted, half-mad to escape their ancestral enemies. With that, the third and last battle of the day was over.

The horse-riding elves pursued the fleeing foe, but the griffon riders circled back to the summit and landed. Mathi mopped sweat from her face and went up the hill to meet them.

They were splendid figures, the griffon riders. Chosen for their dexterity, grace, and slimness, they were the most elegant warriors Mathi had ever seen. Unlike cavalry or foot soldiers, they wore armor only on their lower limbs, a helmet, and close-fitting cream-colored silk garments with gold or scarlet sashes. Their weapons were very long, slender lances made of some translucent material – glass, or rock crystal elongated by some secret technique of the elves.

The griffon riders remained mounted. As Mathi approached, the fierce creatures spread their wings and clawed the ground with their taloned forefeet. They knew instinctively that she was not what she appeared to be. Mathi halted well out of reach of the keen, cold-eyed griffons.

“Greetings!” she said. “Your arrival is most timely!”

The griffon riders did not answer. Their mounts screeched and bobbed their heads in a very distracted manner. The nearest rider, who had the tallest crest on his helmet, addressed Mathi. His voice was muffled by the nasal bar and wide cheek pieces of his headgear.

“Who are you, that our griffons regard you as an enemy?”

The smile melted on Mathi’s face.

“My name is —”

“Mathani Arborelinex. Yes, I know. But who are you?”

The Silvanesti knew her name? That was perplexing. Mathi explained that she had been in the wilderness many days, hobnobbing with centaurs, humans, and kender. No doubt they all rubbed off on her a bit.

The griffon rider unbuckled his chin strap and removed his helmet. A mass of blond hair emerged, and with a face she knew well.

“Mistravan Artyrith! How can it be you?”

“Lord Artyrith,” he said loftily. “Recently restored to my proper titles and property by the Speaker of the Stars.”

Mathi congratulated the former cook. “You made it back to Silvanost?”

Artyrith perched his helmet on the pommel of his sky saddle. “I did. My report to the Speaker convinced him to send an expeditionary force. Even now we are driving the savages from the woodland below.”

More revelations followed. Artyrith had caught the Speaker’s favor with his dramatic return to Silvanost. News of the nomad incursion, along with the failure of Govenor Dolanath to protect the eastern province, resulted in Dolanath’s dismissal. Who was now governor of the east? Mistravan Artyrith, once more Lord Artyrith. Mathi didn’t know if she should laugh or weep.

The defenders of the hilltop came streaming down to meet the griffon riders. The Silvanesti remained aloof, not getting down or mingling with the centaurs or kender.

“Where is the general?” Artyrith asked. Kender braved the ferocious griffon and closed around him, patting the skittish beast and the rider’s legs with equal enthusiasm.

“The general is, well —”

“The general is dead.”

Lofotan was last down the hill. He was covered with cuts, bruises, and grime, but he walked proudly, gripping his well-used bow.

“What? Are you certain?” said Artyrith.

“He fought the chief of the nomads in single combat and won, but subsequently died of his wounds.”

No one present – not the Longwalker or his kender, Zakki, the remaining centaurs, Treskan, or Mathi contradicted Lofotan’s bold lie.

“I have orders from the Speaker himself to bring General Balif back to Silvanost,” Artyrith said, annoyed. “May I see the body?”

Lofotan nodded. He bid Lord Artyrith dismount and follow him. Lord Artyrith handed off his long lance to a flanking rider and got down. Admiring kender crowded around, but Artyrith’s severe expression convinced them to keep clear. Holding the edges of his cape, the new governor of the east parted through the crowd imperiously. Mathi fell in behind him. She was worried. What was Lofotan thinking? It was one thing to lie to the Speaker’s emissary, but what body could he possibly show Artyrith?

Elegant in his flying silks, Artyrith was still overshadowed by the taller, taciturn Lofotan. They faced each other for what seemed like a very long time until Artyrith cleared his throat and said, “Lead on, captain.”

Lofotan held out his arm. “This way, my lord.”

Oh the irony of the last two words! Treskan and Mathi exchanged knowing glances. Did Artyrith relish them, or was he wise enough to sense the threat in Lofotan’s tone?

The elf led them over the battlefield, through the line of stakes to where Balif had fallen. Mathi’s cloak was where he left it. A lumpy shape lay covered, until a stray breeze lifted a corner. Mathi saw nothing but a pile of dirt underneath. Where was the general?

Lofotan went on. He led Artyrith to the very summit of the bluff overlooking the river. With one foot on the edge he pointed dramatically to the green water below.

“We dropped the body off here,” he said.

“You threw the general’s body in the river?”

“We had to. We were besieged, and the remains were corrupting. He died valiantly, but he was not himself.”

He let that veiled reference hang in the air. Artyrith looked down at the river.

“When did he die?” he said.

“Yesterday, about sundown.”

“I’ll have to search the river and both banks,” Artyrith said. “The Great Speaker would expect nothing less.”

He turned away irritably in a swirl of silk. Mathi queried the captain with an upraised eyebrow, but Lofotan ignored her, falling in step behind his one-time underling.

When they returned to the hillside, a large contingent of the Silvanesti army was mustered there. The nomads were fleeing, the officers reported. Artyrith ordered them pursued.

“Harry them out of the country,” he said. “Whatever goods or chattels they abandon are to be taken and made the property of the Speaker. Any camps or settlements you find must be burned to the ground. This is the will of Silvanos Golden-Eye, Speaker of the Stars.”

The officers scattered to their companies to carry out the severe orders. While Artyrith conferred with the other griffon riders about what areas to patrol, Mathi sidled up to Lofotan.

“What really happened to Balif?” she whispered.

“He’s gone. What more do you need to know?”

Lofotan explained another reason why Artyrith had come. The Speaker had learned from Artyrith that the general had been transformed into a beast by Vedvedsica’s curse. Silvanesti law did not differentiate between those who willingly trafficked in sorcery and those who were accursed. On the pretext of protecting elven society from the abomination Balif had become, Silvanos had ordered the arrest of Balif. Trial, imprisonment, and death would surely follow.

Silvanos had a long memory. He could never forget a good number of his subjects had once preferred Balif as their ruler to him. Silvanos had made it his duty to remove the accursed Balif from respectable society. His popular rival would disappear forever.

“Surely the Speaker is not so ruthless?” Mathi said, aghast.

“I credit him for being merciful,” Lofotan replied. “If he were truly ruthless, he would put the general on display in a public square in Silvanost, chained to a post. That would ruin the name of Balif forever.”

Lofotan walked away, mixing into the crowd of kender until he was eventually lost from sight. Mathi, shaken by the hard rules of elven society, watched him go and pondered her next move. Her mission was over, finished. Her brethren, wherever they were, had nothing left to avenge. When the time was right, she would slip away and join them. The children of Vedvedsica still had secret enclaves in the western forest. There, with vigilance and luck, they might pass their lives hidden from Silvanesti persecution.

One problem remained. She should not have cared, but it mattered to her was where Balif had gone. The general’s disappearance was still a mystery. In the space of a few thoughts Mathi decided she was not leaving until she discovered Balif’s true fate.

Someone cleared their throat decorously behind her. Mathi turned. There a fresh-faced elf, wearing the finest silk robes and a circlet of ivy on his head, held a polished silver tray out to the scribe. On it lay a gilded card.

Mathi understood the card was for her. She picked it up. At once crimson letters appeared, hovering a hair’s breadth off the otherwise blank rectangle. Judging by its weight, the card was solid gold.

Summons, it said. Mathi asked the messenger what it meant.

“You are summoned to the August Presence,” he replied. “Two hours past sundown.”

“Whose presence?”

“The name of a great person is not idly spoken before foreigners and savages.”

It sounded stuffy, if intriguing. “All right. Where will I go?”

The messenger stepped aside. “You will come with me now.”

Mathi pointed skyward. “It’s a long time till sunset. Are we going so far?”

“The journey is not far, but you must be prepared if you are to enter the presence of a very August Person. Come, if you please.”

Mathi had the distinct feeling it would be very bad indeed to refuse the invitation. With an entire army to back it up, such an invitation was a command, not a request.

She preceeded the messenger. All the time her mind was racing ahead. Who was she going to see? Some high lord of Silvanost? A high priest? Or could it be the Speaker of the Stars himself?

Chapter 20

LOVERS

Mathi was led to the shore of the Thon-Haddaras. A white boat lay anchored in the stream. The hull gleamed white and smooth, with a high prow and a round stern. A light pole mast was bare of sail, but a dozen long sweeps poked through the gunwales. Running from the deck down to the muddy bank was a narrow white gangplank. It seemed too narrow to ascend, but the elf messenger went up heel to toe without breaking stride. Mathi followed more deliberately, holding out her arms to keep her balance.

When she reached the deck the plank was drawn back on board and the rowers backed off the mud. In the shadow of the prow she was startled to see Treskan. The scribe had his writing equipment and bags of documents heaped around his feet. From his expression it was clear he was as surprised to see Mathi as she was to see him. Further aft, the coxswain held an elegantly carved tiller. At his command the boat swung in a half circle and rowed smoothly downstream.

As they traveled, Mathi and Treskan heard how Artyrith’s army of forty thousand had entered the eastern province from the sea, marching up the east and west banks of the Thon-Haddaras, while another twenty-five thousand followed their route overland to Free Winds to cut the nomads’ road. It was hard to imagine so many elves had passed that way. The dense, low-lying woods were undisturbed, but that was the elves’ way. Treskan said one hundred thousand elves could pass through a forest and cause less disruption to the surroundings that fifty humans. The human way was to push through obstacles. Elves slipped by, doing less damage than a summer rain.

After describing the arrival of the army, the Silvanesti messenger fell silent. They rowed downstream a long time without a word being spoken. Late in the afternoon the lazy green stream changed into blue sea as the river abruptly widened into a fine deepwater bay. Ahead lay a great fleet of ships, arrayed in a crescent formation. Aside from a few lighters crawling across the sea, the ships were all at rest, sails furled and oars run in.

A strong onshore breeze hit the little boat, almost bringing it to a stop. The rowers dug in, pulling for the largest ship in the center of the formation. Most of the vessels were round-bellied argosies that had borne troops and supplies from Silvanost. A few swift galleots, bristling with warriors, ringed the slow sailing ships. In the center of the flotilla was a large, boxy vessel with a gleaming white hull. Gilded banners fluttered from the masts. Mathi and Treskan’s boat made unerringly for the flagship, coasting to a stop alongside amidships. Mathi expected a ladder to be lowered – the flagship’s deck was a good ten feet above them – but instead the rowers shipped their oars and everyone waited. A squeaking, bumping sound drew Mathi’s attention overhead. Creeping over the side of the flagship came a heavy wooden boom. Bright bronze chains dangled from the tip. When they were close enough, the coxswain and the messenger secured the hooks at the end of each length of chain to massive rings affixed to the boat’s deck.

Mathi stared at the boom. Surely they were not going to —

“Haul away!” called the coxswain. These were the first words Mathi had heard him say since coming aboard.

There was a loud clanking from above. Slack went out of the chains, then the boat began to rise. Treskan and Mathi rushed to either side of the rail and looked over. Already they were out of the water, which was streaming down the boat’s hull in torrents. They rose a good ten feet until the boat’s rail was level with the flagship’s. The boom slowly retracted, bringing the small craft tight against the flagship’s side. Ropes were passed back and forth, tying each to the other. Then the messenger raised the hinged rail and stepped onto the great ship’s broad deck.

“Come,” he said to his guests.

The deck was like a city street. There were lanes on either side, and the center was crowded with buildings built exactly like houses or shops on land. They looked just like the stone structures common to Silvanost, but in passing Mathi touched a spiral column and discovered it was wood, made to look like stone.

Mathi and Treskan were led forward into a one of the two-story deckhouses. An elderly elf with white hair down to his shoulders eyed them once inside.

“The guests,” he said disapprovingly. “What a sight you are. Well, the first thing to be done is make you clean. Get off those filthy rags at once.”

Treskan fingered his collar. “Must I?”

“You cannot enter the August Presence of our patron looking and smelling as you do.”

“I cannot,” Mathi protested. “I am a maiden, a ward of Quenesti Pah. I cannot disrobe in the presence of males!”

Treskan had similar reasons for modesty. Under his clothes his elf diguise had worn thin. The nomads mistook him for a half-elf. If he stripped now, the Silvanesti would certainly arrest him.

The white-haired elf sighed. “Quarters suitable for your chastity will be provided. As for you, scribe —”

“I thank you, excellency, for the opportunity to cleanse myself! I have been too long without the simplest methods of hygiene. But – I must also undress and bathe alone,” Treskan said, feigning relief. The elderly elf haughtily asked why. He said, “I was a prisoner of the nomads. I am ashamed of the scars I earned at their hands.”

His appeal against ugliness worked. The white-haired elf showed him a shallow terra-cotta tub he could stand in, and the tall ewers of spring water he could wash with. He then led Mathi a few doors down to an identical room, also equipped with a washtub. Then he left.

When she was alone, Mathi carefully undressed. It was a strange and frightening bath. She lived in dread that someone would burst in and her deception would be revealed. In the past weeks on the trail, her perfect elvishness had faded. Downy hair ran down her back and across the tops of her legs and arms. Whatever ‘August Person’ she was being taken to, they were obviously too pure to endure the company of one of the brethren. If she was exposed here, she would pay for her blasphemy with her life.

No one broke in, so she quickly dressed in the clean robes provided. She struck a small brass bell when she was done, and the elderly courtier returned with soft leather sandals and a white leather headband for her hair. Dressed and dried, Mathi stood for inspection.

“Your face is pleasant, but your carriage is quite awkward,” the white-maned elf declared. “Too awkward for august company, but —” He sighed. “It is ordered, so it must be done.”

He held up a finger. “First rule, do not speak unless prompted to do so. Secondly, keep your eyes averted from the August One except when addressing her. Thirdly, tell no one of what you hear or say here. Is that understood?”

Mathi caught the telltale ‘her.’ She had an idea at last who she was going to see.

She was led aft to the center of the ship. Treskan joined her, escorted by another genteel courtier. They were guided to a broad staircase that led down into the interior of the great vessel. Armed soldiers stood at key points. They raised their swords in salute when Mathi’s guide passed. At the top of the stairs the old elf adjusted his headband, smoothed his robe, and started down. Riddled with curiosity, Treskan and Mathi followed close on his heels.

The deck they descended to was covered with soft carpets. Luminars in copper brackets lighted the between decks almost like daylight. Interior partitions below deck seemed to be made of gossamer silk. Shadows cast by luminars on the other side moved silently to and fro. Voices in the scantest whispers marked the visitors’ progress.

A younger elf with an elaborate head of ringlets thrust his head through the curtains. He and the guide exchanged hushed words. Curls glanced at Mathi and Treskan skeptically.

“Very well,” he said. “Come.”

Attendants swept back the sheer hangings, allowing them to enter. The room beyond was open and well lit, though the furnishings were more suited to a palace than a ship. Two young elves were playing lyres together. Small white finches flitted around, alighting in the branches of small cherry trees growing in hefty buckets of soil. Incense smoldered in cone-shaped censers. A score of elves were present, rather lost in the great open space. Everyone was clustered around a tall elf woman of middle years, not beautiful but quite striking in a commanding sort of way. Mathi recognized her at once, but she was careful not to show it. Their hostess was Amaranthe, sister of the Speaker of the Stars.

A ripple of murmurs spread around the room when Mathi and Treskan entered. Mathi knew she and her companion were uncouth by elf standards, but she was determined to be a dignified as any Silvanesti. Treskan frankly stared at everything. If his studious attention marked him as a boor, he could live with the elves’ disdain.

“Come forward,” said Amaranthe.

They did, keeping their eyes off her as they approached. The carpet was marked with broad red stripes, a helpful feature. Mathi counted stripes as they advanced. A warrior in gilded armor stopped them with an outstretched arm. Twenty-six stripes from the door, she reckoned.

“You are the girl known as Mathani Arborelinex, are you not?”

“I am, lady.”

“The August One is properly addressed as ‘Highness,’” Curls said stiffly.

“I am Mathani Arborelinex, Highness. Forgive my manners. I have not lived long in civilized society.”

“The other is the one called Treskan?” He bobbed his head in acknowledgement. “You were personal scribe to General Balif, they tell me,” Amaranthe said. Her voice was warm and strong, hinting at both an iron will and personal passion.

“I have that honor, Highness.”

“Have? You are still in his employ? I am told he has departed …”

Mathi glanced up. Her appearance was refined, but simple. She wore far less jewelry and gilded silk than those around her. What was more, Mathi clearly saw the furrows in her forehead. She was concerned. She still loved Balif.

“Is General Balif dead?” Amaranthe said.

Treskan replied, “I do not think so, Highness. He was wounded in the battle with the nomad chief, but I do not believe they were mortal injuries.”

More sharply: “What became of him then?”

“Highness, I have not seen the general since the battle with the humans ended,” Mathi said honestly, lowering her gaze. “Where he is, I do not know, but I doubt he is far away.”

“Where is he then? Speak!”

Mathi folded her hands into her loose sleeves. “I cannot say for sure.”

“Impertinence!” Curls said. “Give the order, Highness, and the truth will be extracted from this impudent girl by any means necessary!”

Amaranthe was more reasonable. “Why can you not tell me all you know?”

“Many ears spread gossip as the leaves of a great tree spread raindrops.” Treskan said, quoting a famous aphorism of the sage Vestas. It was just the sort of thing a real Silvanesti scribe might say. “There are those who would like to know where General Balif is, who do not wish him well.”

“Double impertinence! Away with this scoundrel!”

Curls’ quick anger meant one thing to Mathi: he was the Speaker’s servant, not Amaranthe’s. Was he, like Artyrith, charged with finding the general and holding him for the Speaker’s pleasure?

The guards moved in either side of them. Amaranthe raised her voice, however, saying, “I have not ended this audience. Who dares order the arrest of my guest?” Cold silence filled the room. She said, “Hamalcath, I am displeased. You may go. Now.”

Mathi had never seen an elf blush so severely. Curls – Lord Hamalcath – bowed deeply and withdrew. Amaranthe dismissed the rest of her court until the only ones left were Mathi, Treskan, two of her personal guards, and herself.

She sat down in a high-backed chair, folding her hands in her lap.

“Speak now, and hold back nothing. Tell me of Balif.”

So they did. They took turns describing their journey, the growing curse and how it changed the general, his challenge to to Bulnac, and the overthrow of the powerful nomad force.

Very quietly Amaranthe said, “I was never certain if he was merely valiant or very clever. Now I see he was both.”

When Mathi described Balif’s championing the kender as the rightful owners of the eastern province, Amaranthe’s haughtiness returned.

“Does Balif think he can give away what is the Speaker’s?”

Diplomatically Treskan bowed his head. “It is not for me to say, Highness. I can only relate what my lord Balif has said in my hearing. The wanderfolk are here. Possession is a great measure of the law, it is said. Lord Balif saw them as harmless neighbors of the Silvanesti and a useful buffer against the humans.”

She nodded slightly and bade him continue.

“There is little more to say, Highness. I lost sight of the general in the melee of the last battle, and I have not seen him since.”

She drummed white fingers on the arm of her chair. “He is alive, I know it. Is there anything left of his true nature, or has the curse reduced him to a brute at last?” Truthfully, Mathi admitted she did not know.

Amaranthe stood abruptly. Mathi had a flash of memory, seeing her with Balif in the general’s strange, empty mansion. She stifled the unworthy image and tried to anticipate what the willful royal lady wanted.

“I am here against the wishes of my brother,” she said. “He bears no affection for General Balif, for the people love him in a way they will never love the Speaker. I have told Silvanos again and again that a great ruler does not need to be loved, but he resents Balif’s popularity and fears his influence.”

She did not say what was really in her mind: that Silvanos wanted Balif out of the way forever, curse or no curse. She didn’t have to say it.

Mathi said, “I understand, Highness. Your concern is the well-being of the general.” She looked her directly in the eye. “In this, we are agreed.”

“Then assure him of my … protection. In whatever form his destiny has chosen, he has every protection I can give him.”

With that, the interview ended. Mathi and Treskan were taken rather unceremoniously to change their clothes. Their fine court raiment was taken back, and they were given their old garments, and escorted to the boat. It was dusk, and the elves rowed up river to the exact spot Mathi and the scribe had embarked. They were put ashore. The boat pulled away and was soon lost in the gathering dusk.

Insects hummed in clouds above the water’s edge. Treskan slapped at them. It was eerily quiet there below the bluff. Mathi smelled campfires. She saw the flicker of firelight atop the hill, and that meant the Longwalker and his people were still around. Mathi decided to try a ploy he’d been mulling over since leaving Amaranthe’s ship.

“Would you really like to find Balif?” she asked Treskan.

“I want to not be devoured by mosquitoes,” he said sourly. “How will you find him when so many others can not?”

She cupped her hands to her mouth. Absurd, really absurd, the gesture, but she had to try.

“Rufe! Rufus Wrinklecap! Are you there?”

Frogs grunted in the mud around them. She shouted again. Turning in a circle on the river bank, she squinted into the twilight for some hint of the kender’s presence. Mathi drew in a deep breath to shout a third time but, before she could, she felt a tug on the back of her trailworn gown.

Without even turning around she said, “Rufe, I have a new task for you. Or I should say, an old one you may do again.”

“What’s up, boss?”

The kender was decked out in an assortment of leather and furs, spoils from the nomads no doubt. He had an oversized knife shoved in his belt and a bronze gorget at his throat. The martial effect of his attire was spoiled by his bare, muddy feet and the sprig of green sumac he was chewing.

“I need to find Balif.”

Rufe balked. “That’s not a good idea, boss. He’s not a friendly elf anymore.”

“Nevertheless, I need to find him. I’ll pay what it’s worth. What do you want for the job?”

Rufe thought for a long time, at least to a count of five. “I want to go with him,” he said, pointing to Treskan.

“Eh? Go with me where?”

“Wherever you go, boss. Back home to Woodbec, or anyplace else.”

It was unexpected. Mathi asked why he wanted to go with the scribe.

“He visits strange places,” said the kender. He poked his pointed chin with a finger. “Places I can’t get to. That interests me.”

Treskan pronounced it impossible. Absolutely impossible. Even if he wanted to take Rufe, he could not. The rules of his profession forbade tagalongs.

“Will you take me with you then?” he said to Mathi. She was taken aback. Her ultimate destination was unknown, even to her, but since she needed the kender to find Balif, Mathi said yes.

“Swear to it,” Rufe said with great solemnity.

She did, though she felt very guilty. Rufe gravely shook hands with her, hitched up his sword belt, and announced he would find Balif before sunrise. Mathi hoped that he could.

Rufe slipped away into the dark, damp woods. A mist was rising from the river.

“If I don’t sleep soon, I’m going to die,” Treskan declared. Mathi heartily agreed. She felt damp to the skin, so they went up the riverbank to the kender’s bridge. They crossed over and climbed the hill so many had died trying to take.

The wanderfolk were scattered over the hill in their usual careless fashion. The biggest campfire marked the Longwalker’s shelter, cobbled together from cast-off nomad blankets and poles salvaged from Lofotan’s barrier of stakes. Serius and his cronies hailed Mathi and offered her food and drink. It was good fare, cured venison and wheat beer, again courtesy of Bulnac’s shattered horde.

“What a day!” the Longwalker declared. “I have never seen the like!”

Mathi agreed. The kender refought the battles of the day, each storyteller emphasizing his own part in the struggle. Listening to them, Mathi had no idea so many brave kender had fought so well. The elves and the centaurs were mere bystanders in their version.

“Where are Zakki and his fellows?” Mathi asked. They were gone with the elf army, tracking the humans. And what about Lofotan?

“The Elder lord” – the Longwalker meant Artyrith – “tried to force Lofty to go with him, but Lofty refused. He said his place was here. I think he expects the general to return.”

“Lofotan is here? Where?”

Four kender hands pointed four different directions. The Longwalker scolded them and said, “On the high bluff, overlooking the water.”

Mathi thanked them for the meal. Treskan would have, too, but he had slumped forward where he sat, dead asleep.

She wove in and out of the hodge-podge of shelters until she reached the highest point of the hill. There she found Lofotan seated cross-legged in front of a small twig fire. Fire painted his face in dark colors.

“Greetings, captain.”

“Girl. Where have you been?”

Mathi sat down and told him everything. Lofotan was not surprised that Amaranthe had shown up. He was surprised to hear she granted the orphan girl and clumsy scribe such an intimate interview.

“I’ve known her a century and a half, and I have never had such a conversation with her,” Lofotan grumbled. Mathi shrugged. It was only because she had information about Balif that Amaranthe wanted to know, she said.

“I’ve set Rufe on his trail. He’ll find him.”

Now Lofotan shrugged. Artyrith had hundreds of trained trackers combing the forest for Balif. How could one erratic wanderer do what three hundred Silvanesti could not? Hearing the question, Mathi laughed. There was nothing beyond kender, she declared, and among kender, anything was possible with Rufe.

Faint white light flashed over them. Mathi saw her hands briefly emerge from the night, then fade back again. She looked up, but the sky was clear of stormclouds.

A shooting star streaked from east to west over the trees. Then another. And another.

“Look, captain! Falling stars!”

The meteors whizzed overhead, making sizzling sounds. Denizens of the lowland woods quieted under the aerial display. Frogs fell silent. Even crickets ceased to sing.

A cry went up from the kender downslope. Mathi and Lofotan stood up and saw sheets of light forming in the sky. It was hard to describe exactly. The light formed long curtains of glowing color in the air. The upper edges were bluish white, but the color deepened, becoming dark red at the ragged bottom edges.

“What is it?”

“Aurora,” said Lofotan. He’d seen many things in his long life. “The air itself has taken on light.”

Aurora high in the sky was natural enough, but when the sheets of color began to descend to the trees, everyone knew it was no natural phenomenon. Even stranger, as Mathi looked on the glow infused Lofotan. His hands, feet, and face started to shine with a pale, cool light. He stood back from Mathi, holding out his hands. His skin was shimmering.

The kender abandoned their shanties and fled into the woods. Streams of cool blue or angry red light drifted like smoke among the trees. Alone on the bluff, Mathi and Lofotan tried to fathom what was happening.

“I am glowing, but you are not,” Lofotan observed. “What does that mean?”

Mathi had figured out what was going on. Lofotan was alight because he was an elf. Though she looked like an elf on the outside, Mathi did not glow. She didn’t dare explain her deduction to the captain. But why were elves glowing, and who was responsible?

It came to her in a flash: Amaranthe, or Artyrith. They were searching for Balif. Both had magicians of skill at their beck and call. To find a feather in a field of wheat, make the feather stand out. Someone had created that strange aurora to highlight elves – including Balif.

“How does it feel?” Mathi asked, hoping Lofotan would not reach the same conclusion she had.

“I feel nothing unusual.” He waved his hand hard, as if to shake the light loose from his skin. “Damned strange sight, though.”

“I’d better find the Longwalker,” Mathi said, sidling away.

“Why?” Lofotan asked irritably. The wanderfolk weren’t glowing, and they certainly couldn’t cast such a powerful spell.

“I want to reassure him. He needs to keep his people here if his claim to the land is to stand up.” It was true enough, but what Mathi wanted foremost was to look for Balif. She went swiftly down the hill in the dark, skirting curtains of light that drifted soundlessly out of the woods. By the time she reached the bottom of the hill she was running. Once out of Lofotan’s sight she halted to catch her breath. Fragments of aurora moved among the trees, but the steady moonglow of elf skin was nowhere to be seen. It felt futile, but Mathi had to try to find the general. She had one advantage over the legions of elves looking for Balif. The general might be willing to be found by her.

She decided to put her theory to the test. She called Balif’s name in the dark forest, at first repeating it over and over. It accomplished nothing. Balif could be miles away by now, or he might be unconscious. In his current state of transformation, how well could the general handle his injuries? Mathi had no way to know.

She zigzagged through the trees. Tired of calling, she sat down on a fallen tree. It was very humid in the lowland green. Sweat dripped from her brow.

One last time she cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted, “Amaranthe! Amaranthe wants you! Answer me, general! Amaranthe! Amaranthe!”

A low growl rose from the darkness behind the broken tree. Mathi leaped up, groping clumsily for her sword. All her pointless shouting had accomplished nothing but arousing a wild bear. Or was it a bear?

“My lord, is that you?”

She heard heavy panting close by, but could not detect the source. Then a heap of dry leaves heaved up from under the fallen log. Two pin-points of light gleamed, pale white like the face of Solinari. It took Mathi a moment to realize what she was seeing. Balif in his beast form was no longer an elf, but his eyes were glowing with the telltale aura.

Mathi’s heart hammered in her chest. It was too dark for her to make out any details of the creature standing before him. The beast was bigger than before. Standing, it towered over Mathi.

“My lord,” she said carefully, focusing on the twin points of light hovering above her, “the lady Amaranthe has sent me to find you.”

The lights weaved slightly from side to side. Mathi went on.

“She is near! Her ship lies at anchor in the bay.”

The black silhouette abruptly turned away. Apparently Balif did not want to see his lover – or did not want his lover to see him in his current state.

“Wait, my lord! You know the lady is powerful, and has great mages in her employ. The colors you see in the air are a spell she had cast to find you.” She hoped it was Amaranthe, and not Artyrith. “Go to her. There may be something she can do for you —”

The creature charged so suddenly that Mathi could do nothing to dodge. It scooped her up and crushed her close. The smell of beast was strong. Mathi was helpless, her arms pinned to her side, and her feet dangling in the air.

A wet black nose came close to his ear. The beast huffed and sniffed, then leaped over the tree and began to run. It was an awkward, jolting pace, using only three limbs, but the creature still hurtled through the undergrowth. Here and there it bored through a floating patch of aurora, which instantly dissipated with a faint crackling sound. Mathi wanted to yell, but she reckoned if the beast had wanted to harm her it would have done so already. So she held on tight as it ran.

“Do you understand me, my lord?” she whispered, clinging tightly to his furred torso. “I am like you. I know the call of blood you’re hearing.”

He halted in a flurry of churned-up leaves and snapping branches. Fiery pinpoint eyes bored into hers.

“Go to the princess,” Mathi said. “And if she cannot save you, despair not. There is another way.”

She felt the hot breath of the beast on her face. He was weighing her words. Without warning his musing ended, and he sprang through the undergrowth with renewed vigor.

Chapter 21

LEGENDS

Mathi’s headlong ride through the woods lasted right down to the shore of the bay. Faced with a wide expanse of dark water, Balif dug in his claws and skidded to a stop on the wet clay beach. The bay was dotted with lanterns bobbing on the masts and prows of the elf fleet.

“The biggest one is Amaranthe’s.”

Mathi could feel the beast’s heart thudding hard deep inside its chest. It slowly opened its arm, dropping the girl at the water’s edge. Balif took a tentative step into the water, as if he were unhappy about getting wet.

“Don’t leave me,” Mathi said, rising on numb legs. “I can speak for you. Take me with you.”

The beast looked over its high, muscled shoulders and gave its leonine head a sideways twitch. Mathi recognized the gesture. She climbed onto the beast’s back. There was nothing to hold onto but fur. Mathi grabbed hold.

Twin luminous eyes probed her briefly. The floating bands of auroral colors passed on opposite courses over the bay, their strangely vivid hues reflected in the calm water. Without further ado Balif plunged forward. They splashed loudly into the warm water. As a beast Balif’s stroke was an inelegant dogpaddle, but his powerful limbs carried them quickly into the midst of the idle ships. Clinging tightly to his back, Mathi kept her head close against the beast’s neck. She saw sailors and warriors lounging on the decks of vessels they passed. Though Balif’s swimming wasn’t especially stealthy, wind and waves masked its noise enough that they went unnoticed.

Passing between two anchored argosies, they suddenly beheld the flagship. It was lit up like nothing Mathi had ever seen before. The rail was lined with lamps, lanterns were hoisted from every masthead, and the portholes glowed from within. Tellingly, silent balls of fire periodically erupted from the mainmast. Once clear of the ship the fireballs split open, releasing the rainbow colored auroras haunting the land. Here was the origin of the strange spell. Mathi still didn’t know who was behind it, though she felt strongly it must be Amaranthe. She was still aboard, while Aryrith was inland, chasing nomads and hunting for General Balif.

“That’s it,” she whispered unnecessarily. Balif swam toward the brilliantly bedecked ship.

There was no way to board. The crane that had lifted the rowing bark was retracted. No nets or ladders hung down. Just two cables held the ship at anchor, one off the port bow and the other at the starboard stern.

“The lady’s pavilion was below deck, amidship,” Mathi said.

Coming around the prow, Balif made for the bow line. It was a bronze chain with links as thick as Mathi’s ankle. The beast clung to it while Mathi climbed, slipping her soggy sandals into the links. She kept going until she reached the hawse pipe. It led through to the lighted deck, but it was too small for the beast to crawl through.

She waved until Balif noticed her. Miming with her hands, she tried to convey to him her plan to go up on deck and find an opening large enough to admit him. Unsure if Balif understood, Mathi went ahead, crawling through the dark hawse pipe. It was a snug fit, but she made it. The deck by the hole was empty. She climbed out. Mathi had just stood up when she felt the prick of a spearpoint in the small of her back.

“Stand where you are and do not move!”

Damned alert sentinels. Mathi held up her hands.

“I am here at the request of the August Person,” she said.

The elf sniffed. “That’s why you crept aboard like a water rat, is it?” He jabbed Mathi. “You’ll not get near the August Person, whoever you are! Chief of the Deck Watch!” he called. “I have an intruder!”

An officer in a plumed helmet appeared from the deckhouse, escorted by four soldiers. Seeing Mathi standing there dripping seawater, they hurried over.

“What’s this?” the officer demanded.

“My name is Mathani Arborelinex. I was here earlier today, summoned by Her Highness. She asked me to return if I had news of General Balif.”

“So you swam out here in the dark and boarded by scaling the anchor chain? What kind of fool do you think I am?” The officer called for restraints. A soldier returned to the deckhouse and came back with a set of manacles. Mathi backed away, right into the leveled spear of the guard who first caught her.

Wincing she said, “The princess will be very angry if you prevent me from seeing her!”

Where was Balif, still bobbing in the water below? Mathi wanted to look down and check, but she was afraid of giving him away. She succumbed to temptation and looked.

Balif was not there.

“Don’t even think of jumping,” warned the officer. “You’ll have two spears in you before you reach the water.”

They grabbed his hands, pulling them out to receive the shackles. Mathi resisted. Her original captor struck her across the back with the shaft of his spear. The blow drove her forward, almost breaking through the ring of elves around him. Thinking she was trying to escape, the officer drew his sword. In the next moment the night fell on them.

It was Balif. With the watch distracted by Mathi, he was able to gain the rail unseen by climbing the hull planking with his claws. Spying Mathi in trouble, he leaped to her aid. The elves were so intent on Mathi they didn’t know what hit them. The beast bowled them over, sending them sprawling on the deck. Mathi took the opportunity to shove and trip the last soldier standing.

Balif was the first one up. He lashed out first on one side, then the other, backhanding the soldiers with his paws. The officer got to his knees, sword in hand. He was about to strike the furry intruder when Balif seized him by the seat of his pants and hurled him overboard. He yelled all the way down, terminating with a great splash.

Doors opened all along the deckhouses. Elves of various duties stepped out – sailors, soldiers, courtiers, servants. Because the ship was so well illuminated they saw the beast clearly. Shouts rang out and not a few doors slammed shut again.

Like a whirlwind Balif flattened the soldiers around him. A sword skittered up against Mathi’s feet. She considered picking it up, then decided it would be her death warrant. She had come to the flagship in peace. If she was taken in arms, they would hang her from the nearest yardarm without question.

Warriors boiled out of the cabins, juggling armor and helmets while gripping swords and spears. Balif put his head down and charged right through them, slamming those on his left against the deckhouse and tossing those on his right over the side. Courtiers who were too slow got the same treatment. Mathi walked behind the beast, offering apologies.

“Please excuse us. We mean no harm. Oh, I am sorry! Don’t get up, he’ll knock you down again. Begging your pardon, my lords —”

Dazed elves responded with confusion. What was that monstrous beast? Who was the polite acolyte with him?

Some soldiers dashed up from behind and tried to lay hands on Mathi. Balif whirled, fangs bared, and they backed off. Sailors brought a fishing net from the ship’s stores and hauled it to the roof of a deckhouse, meaning to drop it over the invading creature. An ordinary beast might have been trapped, but Balif clearly saw the danger and circled around the deckhouse where the sailors crouched. They cast anyway, missed, and watched their weighted net go slithering over the rail into the bay.

“There!” Mathi cried, pointing. “That’s the way down, there!”

Up the steps came warriors of Amaranthe’s personal guard. No finer fighters existed among the Silvanesti, and they barred the way, resolute and ready. Balif crouched low on the deck, and Mathi thought he was going to try to force his way through. Faced with eight drawn swords, the beast chose an alternative not open to most two-legged attackers. He leaped first to the roof of the deckhouse, then immediately hurled himself at the open stairwell. The warriors fell back, swords and shields held high to ward off the marauder, but Balif was faster. He hit them like a catapult stone, knocking them down the steep stairs.

Alone on deck with the awakened crew, Mathi felt distinctly outnumbered. She forced a smile and strolled to the hatch.

“Thank you for your warm welcome,” she said for all to hear. “And now I must see to my friend. He gets rather impatient when I’m not around.”

She bolted down the steps with scores of footfalls thundering after her. Balif had cleared the way, and she was able to run right into the audience chamber. Mathi skidded to a halt, arrested by the extraordinary scene before her.

Amaranthe was there. That surprised Mathi, who thought she would have retreated behind as many locked doors and armed guards as could be mustered on board. But no, there she sat, clad in a white silk robe with delicate embroidery in red and blue around the cuffs and collar. In front of her stood a small phalanx of archers knelt with arrows nocked. Six feet in front of them Balif crouched, chin down and hindquarters high. His yellow teeth were bared in a grimace of – what? Defiance? Contrition? It was hard to read his beastly countenance.

Almost imperceptibly a few archers adjusted their aim to cover Mathi. Fear climbed her back, and her knees almost failed. She had seen too well what elf archers could do. At that range she would be riddled with arrowsif she so much as blinked.

“Highness!” she said hoarsely, holding out her hands as if to ward off the soon-to-be-loosed arrows. “It is Mathani Arborelinex, remember? I have done what you asked!”

The princess’s crystalline gaze shifted from her to the beast. Amaranthe’s brow furrowed.

“You?” she said. The truth dawned, and her austere features fell. “Merciful gods! Is this —?”

“Yes, Highness!”

She looked again in disbelief. The creature at bay curled a lip and gave a throaty snarl. Bowstrings creaked as the archers drew back further, ready to pin the monster to the planks if it moved.

“Stay your hands!” Amaranthe said suddenly. The chief of the archers asked her to repeat her command.

“Put down your weapons! I command it!”

The cool professionals obeyed. Without sharp bronze points aimed at her, Mathi recovered her nerve. She went down on one knee and thanked Amaranthe for her compassion – and her insight.

“How can this be?” the princess of Silvanost said sadly. “Who has done this to him?”

“A curse, Highness, cast by —” Mathi remembered the penalty for mentioning Vedvedsica’s name. “By the one who cannot be named.”

“Does he know me? Does he know anyone?”

Mathi let Balif answer that. The beast crawled forward on his belly like a dog. He could not penetrate the line of archers still on guard, but the gesture was plain.

“My poor love,” the princess whispered.

She called out to someone – a long elven name that sounded like “Talaramitas.” From the curtained area behind Amaranthe’s chair an elf emerged. He was fairly young, with unusually short hair for a Silvanesti. Dressed in baggy green leggings, kilt, and tunic, his wrists and ankles were thickly ringed with slender metal bands. A copper band circled his forehead. As he stepped up to the princess’s right hand, wisps of colored light sparked from his extremities and quickly vanished.

“Stand aside,” she ordered the archers. They parted ranks, revealing the beast. When the soldiers were out of the way Balif leaped to his feet and uttered a hair-curling growl. Bows creaked, and one elf lost control long enough to send an arrow into the deck between Balif’s front and back feet. It thunked loudly into the planking, but the beast paid it no mind.

“The next one who looses an arrow, dies by my order!” Amaranthe cried. Everyone froze.

To the bearcat she said, “Do you mean me any harm?”

He couldn’t answer, but the beast remained where he was. Mathi could tell Balif was staring not at the princess but at the green-clad magician next to her.

“Talaramitas, what do you make of this?”

The elf closed his eyes and held out one hand at a low angle. He quickly snatched his hand back.

“An enchantment of great power, Highness. One of the most potent I have ever encountered,” he said. He had a deep, cultured voice that provoked fresh, if restrained, snarls from the beast.

“Can you break it?” He vowed he could not. “The reward for success would be substantial,” she added.

Talaramitas folded his hands, causing his many bracelets to jingle. “Gracious Highness, no one in Silvanesti can break this curse.”

Balif threw back his head and howled. He went in two bounds toward Amaranthe. To her credit, she did not flinch. Her magician did. Talaramitas hastily backed away, muttering words of a quick spell. The air between him and Balif sparkled. The beast halted, panting. He was close enough to touch the princess.

More soldiers and courtiers came pounding down the stairs. Raising her voice, Amaranthe commanded everyone to stay where they were and say nothing.

“Highness, this creature is the victim of a transmutory invocation. I have read of these, but to my knowledge no one in living memory had succeeded in casting one. Without exact knowledge of the words used and the intruments employed, I cannot reverse it.”

“What if the caster were found and killed?”

It would make no difference, he said. “In this type of invocation the magician sacrifices a portion of his own living soul to obtain his end. There is no way to counter such a spell, as its energy is independent of the life of the caster.”

The grief on Amaranthe’s face was profound. Turning away, the beast loped slowly back to Mathi. All eyes followed it. Then Talaramitas spoke up.

“There is one thing I can do, Highness. It is not a cure, but if enough of the cursed one’s soul remains untainted, I can call it forth to speak – for a short time only.”

Without looking at him Amaranthe pointed a finger at the magician and said, “Do so, now!”

The room was cleared of soldiers over the protests of the captain of the guard. Talaramitas walked slow circles around the beast, one finger pointing at the deck. His eyes, half-lidded, fluttered as he walked. A stream of soft syllables escaped his lips.

From her vantage point it seemed to Mathi that the room darkened a bit. Luminars changed colors when their output declined, but the clusters around Amaranthe’s throne did not alter hue. A pervasive shadow filled the room. Sound felt deadened too. Words and noises fell lifeless the moment they were born.

This went on for some time with the magician describing right-hand circles and muttering the words of an extremely long conjuration. At last an indistinct shadow coalesced next to the beast. It was upright and unmoving, quite unlike any shade cast by the bearcat. It was inside the circle Talaramitas had made, and he was careful not to tresspass on it.

Mathi had never seen magic performed openly before. In front of onlookers, in full light, the elf mage was summoning Balif’s soul from the deepening well of darkness. Before Mathi was fully aware of the change, the shadow by the beast became a clear image of the general. He was standing, hands at his sides with his palms turned out. He was naked. The image was not flesh colored, however, but faintly sepia. Mathi dared to shift position so that she could see the specter’s face. His eyes were closed.

Talaramitas explained, a bit breathlessly, that he could not stop circling or the spell would end. Ask what you will, he gasped. If the spirit of Balif could answer, it would.

“Why is he naked?” one of the courtiers asked in a loud whisper.

“Do you think your soul wears clothes?” the mage replied.

Amaranthe called for silence. Addressing the apparition she said, “General Balif, can you hear me?” He sighed in reply, which the princess took as yes. “Balif, how can I save you?”

“You cannot.”

It was his voice, incredibly soft and distant. The specter’s lips did not move but the sound of Balif’s voice was perfectly clear.

“There must be something we can do – I can do!”

“There is nothing. Already I dream without color, without words.”

He meant he was already thinking like an animal. Mathi felt a tightness growing in her throat. Here was the fate that awaited her.

Tears brightened Amaranthe’s eyes. The sight of the stalwart sister of the Speaker so moved astounded her attendants. Mathi heard one whisper to another that she had never seen the princess cry, not once in more than a century of service.

“The world is an empty place without you,” she said. “Full of vain, little beings of no strength and no worth.”

His shade uttered a few words, the only one of which Mathi understood was “love.” The apparition lost clarity and began to fade.

“Magus!” she cried. “Hold him here!”

Talaramitas, still circling, was dragging his feet, forcing himself to continue. Mathi was shocked to see his face as the magician swung round his way. His countenance was ashen. His eyes were rolled back in his head.

“I live,” Balif managed to say. “Let my forest live too. Leave it to the wanderfolk for all time.”

“They can have anything I possess, if you would only come back to me!”

“Too late … too late …”

Talaramitas staggered. Mathi stepped forward and caught him. When his perambulation ceased, the soul of Balif departed. The air in the below-deck hall stirred.

The beast, quiescent during the raising of his soul, threw back his head and howled. Archers and sword-bearing soldiers stormed in, ready to defend the princess. It wasn’t necessary. The bearcat turned away, bounding up the wide wooden stairs. Mathi heard shouts and splashes, followed by a single louder splash.

A sailor ran halfway down the steps. “The monster leaped overboard!”

“Let him go,” said Amaranthe. “Let no hand be raised against him. That is my order.”

Mathi lowered Talaramitas to the deck. A shadow fell across them. Amaranthe stood over them. She was fully composed again, a figure of living alabaster and marble.

“Mage, you failed me. I would have talked to him longer,” she said.

Mathi closed the elf’s eyes. “He can’t hear you, Highness. He’s dead.”

She regarded her coldly. “I thank you for your efforts, girl. Because of your deeds I will not have you put in irons for violating the sanctity of my ship.” Amaranthe gave curt orders that Mathi was to be rowed to the nearest point on shore and turned loose.

Soldiers took rough hold of her. Another pair picked up Talaramitas and bore him away, probably to an unmarked grave ashore. As Mathi disappeared up the stairs, she heard the Speaker’s sister order the anchors raised. They were sailing back to Silvanost as soon as the tide would permit.

The main deck churned with activity. Signals were hoisted to alert the rest of the fleet. As the great ship was readied for sea, Mathi’s escort marched her to a gap in the rail. She looked down. There was no boat below. For a wild instant she imagined they would throw her over the side, but before she could protest a skiff came sculling around the flagship’s stern. A rope ladder was let down, and without further ado Mathi was required to climb down. Two sailors rowed her to the dark shore, helped her out, got back in the boat and pulled away without saying a word. Mathi stood in the night surrounded by mosquitoes and chirruping frogs, wondering if beast-Balif had made it ashore.

He was lost to Amaranthe, forever. There was still time for Mathi to claim Balif for herself.

Chapter 22

LIVES

The cart bumped and squeaked along the narrow woodland track. It was not a well used trail. Grass grew so tall in the center that it brushed the worn wooden slats on the bottom of the cart. Ruts on either side of the grass were dimpled with small puddles, still wet from recent rains. A stolid bullock pulled the old cart along. He was a slow beast, but the bullock was all they could get to draw the cart. No horse would come near the occupants.

The driver, draped in an ancient gray smock, held the reins loosely. Beside him on the seat his companion idly chewed a long grass stem. In the back, wedged between cloth-wrapped bundles and a few boxes sat the scribe, Treskan, and Mathani Arborelinex, cowled and draped in a shapeless cloak of dirty white linen.

Treskan was scratching out words as fast as he could on an enormous scroll of parchment, his parting gift from the Longwalker. The gods only knew where the kender obtained it.

Their final days in the province were full of portent. Upon her return to the bluff, Mathi found the Longwalker and several hundred kender had taken up residence there in defiance of Artyrith’s army. The elves were scattered far and wide across the province chasing humans, and there was no one left at the Thon-Haddaras to oppose the kender. Since possession is everything to kender, they regarded the land as theirs. By the time Artyrith returned with sufficient force to expel them, the kender had built a stockade across the hill and refurbished their tunnel system. Lofotan warned Lord Artyrith not to attack them. While Balif’s former cook pondered the situation, a recall order arrived from Silvanost. Princess Amaranthe had returned by sea, and she apparently convinced the Speaker to allow the kender to remain in the eastern woodland as a buffer against future human intrusion.

The wanderfolk went mad with excitement. They held a four day celebration atop the bluff, during which the Longwalker was proclaimed “chief, king, and valuable friend” by the assembled kender. Imitating humans and elves, Serius Bagfull chose a regal name to replace his ordinary one. He took the name Balif, after their great benefactor.

Treskan’s charcoal stick had worn blunt. He paused writing a moment to sharpen it, then resumed. Rocking back and forth atop a pile of baggage and assorted gear, Mathi tried to understand his intense interest in the Longwalker’s choice of name. The scribe cryptically remarked that the whole country would one day bear the general’s name. She didn’t know if he meant the new nation of wanderfolk, or Silvanesti itself. At any rate, people were bound to be confused for a while. There were two Balifs, one the elf general ruined by a curse, and the other a kender chieftain. Mathi wondered if Serius Bagfull had thought of that when he adopted the general’s name. It certainly would give their enemies pause if they thought the elf lord sat on the throne of the kender kingdom.

The original Balif had not been seen since leaving the elven flagship. Even the kender could not find him, including the indefatigable Rufus Wrinklecap. Mathi spent a month investigating a rumor that a large predatory beast was living near the edge of the northern desert, but it turned out to be a manticore. Even as she abandoned the hunt, the desert beast was hunted down and slain by griffon riders from Silvanost.

“What are you writing now?” she asked.

“My conclusions about the general,” said Treskan. Mathi asked him to read to her what he had written.

“‘Of the general there is no sign. I like to think’ —” Mathi stopped and rubbed these words out and began again. “‘He probably will pass the balance of his life as a wild denizen of the Haddaras woods, unrecognized by any sentient beings. I see no reason to hunt for him further. May his soul find true peace.’”

“Who do you record all this for? The general cannot pay you to keep his chronicle any longer.”

“For history,” Treskan said, letting the scroll roll shut.

That said, he soon nodded off, lulled by the swaying of the cart. Mathi unbuttoned the frog at her throat and slipped the cloak off. She was sweltering in the wrap.

Her reversion was well advanced. Already she was covered from head to toe in short, tawny fur. Her traveling companions knew, but she kept herself covered most of the time, out of consideration of their feelings. Treskan was quite tolerant, but as for —

The cart lurched very hard, throwing Mathi from one side to another. Remarkably, Treskan slept on. She protested, and the driver replied, “Quit complaining! What sort of ride do you expect from an oxcart?”

Time and travail had done nothing to mellow Lofotan. He looked out of place in peasant togs, but when he had offered to escort Mathi and the scribe out of Silvanesti territory, they happily accepted. He was still a fell hand with a sword, and you never knew who or what you might encounter in the forest.

Mathi climbed up higher on the baggage, rubbing her hip. “What in the world was that we hit?”

“Tree root.”

“Felt like a boulder.”

Lofotan drew back on the reins until the bullock shuffled to a stop. At rest, it felt like they were inside a vast green-roofed hall. Closely growing trees rose like walls on either side of the winding trail. Vine wove the trees and undergrowth into a single living tapestry of green. The trail didn’t run more than ten yards in a straight line, so it was impossible to see forward or back any further than that.

“Anything to drink?” asked Mathi.

The small passenger beside Lofotan held out a leather-wrapped gourd. Mathi thanked Rufe and had two swallows of spring water.

“Four days and we’re still not out of the woods,” Mathi remarked.

“Well, it’s not like we’re going in a straight line.” Lofotan replied. He took the gourd next and took a short sip, carefully avoiding looking at her. “We’ll reach open country in another day.”

And then, Mathi reminded herself, then I will be free.

The cart lumbered forward. Mathi pulled the cloak up around her shoulders and settled down to watching the track unspool behind them.

Her mission was over. Soon after her visit to Princess Amaranthe, a trio of her brethren had met her in the deep woods upriver. It was not a happy reunion. They still wanted to capture Balif, try him for his alleged crimes, and kill him. In vain Mathi argued that the general had been punished far worse than death, punished by the Creator no less, and that the brethren had no claim on him any longer. Balif had lost everything he valued in life – his home, his love, rank, fame, and privilege. He was condemned to roam the woods as a lowly beast to the end of his days, and who knew if the Creator had left him the tiniest bit of memory, so he could agonize over what he had lost?

Mathi’s arguments fell on deaf ears. For her failure, the brethren cast her out. She could never return to their range in the western forest of Silvanesti, on pain of death. By that time she no longer cared. She felt more kinship with the kender, with Zakki, with the disguised human scribe Treskan, with Lofotan, and yes, with Rufe, than she did with her own kind. Mathi accepted her banishment with indifference. Rufe tried to cheer her up

The elusive kender kept promising her a surprise. “Just wait, boss,” he said. “You’ll get it soon.”

That kind of promise from a kender was both intriguing and vaguely worrying. At times Rufe seemed capable of almost anything.

“I’m also stubborn,” Rufe said.

Mathi started. The kender was peering over her shoulder, chin perched on his hands.

“Since when can you read minds?”

“I can’t. Can hear you mumbling, though.”

Mathi flushed. Was she mumbling aloud? That was the sort of habit that could cause a lot of trouble – like now, come to think of it.

“You shall have what you want,” he said. “Soon, I swear.”

“How do you know what I want?” she replied tartly.

“Easy, boss. I just watch and listen.”

That was true enough. “Where are you bound?” Mathi said, changing the subject.

“I can’t decide,” said the kender. “I’m tired of these parts. I want to go some place very far away. Maybe I’ll go with Long-Ears, or the scribbler.”

Neither Lofotan or Treskan would have Rufe, but there was no point arguing with him. Mathi let it drop.

A sudden shower of rain quenched all conversation. Mathi huddled under a square of canvas as the cart rolled on. Treskan stirred long enough to crawl in with her. She must have fallen asleep, for the next thing she knew, she was being shaken awake. Lofotan had his hand clamped over her mouth.

“Be silent. Rise and see.”

With great care Mathi rolled to a crouch in the cart. Lofotan was standing alongside, as was Rufe and Treskan.

It was sunset. The sun was going down in a blaze of red fire. They had reached the edge of the woodland. Behind the the cart was the green forest track. Ahead was waving grassland.

Lofotan lifted his head, pointing with his chin. Silhouetted against the sunset forty yards away was a large, dark-colored beast. It was standing on all fours stock still, watching them. The bullock made deep snuffling sounds and wagged his horned head from side to side.

“Is it?” Mathi whispered.

“Yup. My surprise,” Rufe said in a low voice.

“How did you —?”

With remarkable candor the little man replied, “I did nothing. A day after we left the Haddaras river I found his tracks. He’s been trailing us ever since.”

Why didn’t he say so before? Mathi flashed with anger, but quickly put it aside. Balif had followed them. “What does he want?” she said.

“You, I guess,” said the kender.

In a daze, Mathi leaped down from the cart. Lofotan caught her by the arm, steadying her as she stood up. His hand was touching her furred skin. Without revulsion, he removed it.

“Take care of him,” he told her. “And yourself.” From behind Treskan removed her cloak. “Good-bye, Mathani. I could not have accomplished anything without you.”

She walked away, dreamlike. Every nerve in her body was in a heightened state, humming with the sights, smells, and feel of the landscape around her. After a dozen or more steps, her back twinged until she dropped forward on her hands and ran.

Lofotan raised his hand in salute.

“Farewell, my lord.”

Mathi reached Balif, and together they vanished into the high grass.

Locusts hummed through the still air. They stood watching the spot where the pair had disappeared until Lofotan turned, clearing his throat.

He said good-bye to Treskan, shaking his hand human-fashioned. To Rufe he simply harumphed. Then he unloaded their gear from the cart and laboriously turned the heavy conveyance around.

“What will you do now, captain? Return to Silvanost?” Treskan asked.

“I think not. There’s nothing there for me.” The faintest of smiles flickered across his face. “I think I’ll keep to this forest. It speaks to me. Maybe I’ll offer my services to the Longwalker. A good soldier can always find employment in this dangerous world.”

“Maybe you’ll finally make general,” said Rufe.

With a final wave Lofotan rolled away. When the cart was gone, Treskan and Rufe faced each other in the failing light.

“You’re leaving me behind.” The kender was acute as always.

“I must. Where I am bound you cannot go.”

“Woodbec?”

Treskan clapped the little man on the shoulder. “That’s not where I’m going, or where I am from.”

He divested himself of all his possessions but his writing board and his handwritten scroll. He gave all to the kinder. Opening his collar, he took out the talisman.

“I knew that was more than good luck piece. Is that how you travel?” Rufe said. “Shoulda asked more for getting it back.”

“You can have all this. There’s gold in the satchel. Balif left it to me. There’s some other trinkets, too, and some good metal blades.”

Rufe sat down on a rain-spattered crate. “At least let me watch,” he said, annoyed.

“Why not? Seeing me depart wouldn’t violate any rules.”

He held the talisman in his fingers and quietly recited the words. A warning tingle raced through him. In the damp air after the shower, a faint corona of light played around the hand that held the talisman.

Rufe watched keenly. Treskan had a fleeting notion that the kender was hoping to see some maneuver he could use on his wanderings.

The recitation done, the scribe raised his hand in farewell. Pinpoints of golden light glinted around him, increasing in size and number as the talisman worked its magic. When the aura was large enough to obscure Treskan from sight there was a clap like thunder. Trees and bushes tossed in the sudden wind. When the air calmed and the dust settled, Treskan was gone.

“How about that!” Rufe said to no one in particular. “Wish I had one of those things.”

He ambled off along the trail, leaving the scribe’s gifts and his own baggage behind.

A Warrior’s Journey

(ca. 2421 PC)

Prologue

THE PRINCE’S CHARGE

Tarsis, Year of the City 224

From Valgold, Prince of Vergerone, to Hanira of the Golden House, chosen voice of the guild of jewelsmiths.

Secret! This document is not to be shared outside the Golden House!

Greetings, Lady Hanira. Let me be the first to congratulate you on your accession to the ambassadorship to Ergoth. As a former emissary to the imperial court myself, I feel obligated to give you a foretaste of what awaits you in Daltigoth.

Since the founding of the Ergoth Empire by the savage warlord Ackal Ergot just two years after the founding of our own sovereign city, there has been continual conflict and competition between us. The Bay War, the Mountain War, the War of the Silver Skulls checked the southward expansion of Ergoth’s mounted hordes, but each time at enormous cost to the city’s treasury. The great drain on our coffers continues so long as we are forced to maintain a mercenary army in the field to deter Ergothian aggression.

Lately the crisis has been focused on Hylo. Large numbers of itinerant Ergothian merchants have infiltrated the kender kingdom, infringing on the natural monopoly of trade Tarsis enjoys there. The kender, lacking patriotic feeling, have done little to resist this peddler invasion. Ergothian traders supply considerable quantities of food, cattle, leather, textiles, and wine from the large farming estates of their western provinces.

Our merchants provide similar commodities. But as these must come by sea and from further away, our prices tend to be higher than the Ergothians’. Witless kender, not realizing they are selling their independence for the sake of cheaper cloth, increasingly choose Ergothian goods over ours. There is evidence the emperor’s agents have bribed Kharolian pirates to harass our ships as they round the continent on their way to Hylo. It is for this reason that every convoy from Tarsis must be escorted by armed galleys of the City Navy, an expense that only serves to increase further the cost of our trade goods.

Trading rights in Hylo will therefore be one of the foremost topics of your discussions in Daltigoth. As chosen chief of the guild of gold, silver, and jewel makers of Tarsis, you are accustomed to dealing with wealthy and powerful clients. This will serve you in good stead in dealing with the proud but violent Ergothian nobility.

Shortly after I returned from Daltigoth, it was announced that the king of Hylo, Lucklyn I, had openly declared his vassalage to the emperor. If true, this is a setback for us, but not a fatal one. Money and trade are more important than feudal loyalties, so if you can wrest concessions in Hylo from Ergoth, then the kender king can bend his knee to the emperor as deeply as he likes.

Great things are astir, Lady Hanira. The dormant war between the Ackal and Pakin dynasts has flared anew since the assassination of Emperor Pakin II, an Ackal in spite of his name. The Pakin Pretender has raised an army of unknown size in the north and threatens several minor provincial strongholds. Forces loyal to the Ackal heir are moving to destroy him. Do not become entangled in this brutal, confusing struggle! The intricacies of the Ackal-Pakin feud would confound the wisest sages in Tarsis.

For example, the murdered emperor, Pakin II, chose his regnal name in an attempt to reconcile both sides to his rule. Far from being reconciled, the Pakins’ response was to slay him with knives in his own council chamber. His brother (likewise an Ackal) took the throne as Pakin III, in honor of his slain sibling. Pakin III is no gentle conciliator. He will send his hordes to the ends of the world to track down the Pakin Pretender, and will not rest until the Pretender’s head decorates the palace roof in Daltigoth.

For all his ferocity, the current emperor is a just and honorable ruler. But his opponent is neither. The Pakin Pretender is by all accounts a vicious, treacherous man, and potentially a worse enemy than his Ackal rival. His troops are little more than bandits. They have sacked peaceful villages near the Hylo border, robbed caravans, and tortured Tarsan merchants to death.

Master Vyka, of the White Robe Council, tells me the Pretender does not blanch from practicing black magic. Among his closest advisers are known Black Robes, including one Spannuth Grane, believed to have been involved in the murder of Pakin II and under sentence of death in Ergoth for his various sorcerous crimes.

Assure the emperor of our best wishes in his struggle against the Pretender. At the same time, we are sending a fleet of fifty galleys to Hylo to impress the kender with the power of Tarsis! They are feeling pressed these days, not only by imperial power, but by the Pakin Pretender’s forces. Our High Admiral, Anovenax, has instructions to land the army of General Tylocost if need be, to convince the kender of the wisdom of retaining their ancient trading relationship with Tarsis. That relationship is worth thirty million gold crowns a year to us, or a quarter part of all revenues of the city. Our hegemony over Hylo must be preserved – without war, if possible, but preserved nonetheless!

May Shinare guide and protect you, lady. Remember you are going to a splendid but savage place, where men kill for honor and massacre for glory. As a woman, you may find the Ergothians’ notions of honor peculiar, but you are well-equipped to take advantage of their weakness for feminine glamour. I trust a woman of your experience, wit, and talent will accomplish far more in Daltigoth than I ever could. And if not – well, Lord Tylocost has fifty thousand mercenaries ready to take ship to Hylo.

All success to you, Lady Hanira! The hopes of your city go with you!

(sealed)

VALGOLD, PRINCE OF VERGERONE

From the Griffin Palace

Chapter 1

A STRANGE HARVEST

Again and again the blade rose, lingered for a moment in the clear spring air, then fell to earth with a thud. Each blow cleaved in two a clod of red-brown clay. Inside each broken clump dark soil gleamed, heavy with moisture from the snows of winter. Night still held enough chill to preserve crusts of ice in the deep shade of the woods, but here in the onion patch the newly turned ground had thawed and was soft.

Tol labored tirelessly, pulverizing the weed-woven dirt. His father had plowed the field at dawn. While his father returned the borrowed bullock to their neighbor Farak, Tol finished preparing the soil. He had to be done by midday, when his mother and sisters would come with dried onion bulbs, carefully stored through the winter in the root cellar beneath their hut. By sundown the field would be lined with little hillocks, each tiny mound holding a single bulb. If the hard yellow seedlings survived until summer (and fewer than half would), each onion would mother three or four others. With good rains and fair taxes, Tol’s family would harvest enough to feed themselves and have some left over to barter for things they did not grow – like apples, Tol’s favorite fruit.

Halfway through one swing, Tol heard a strange sound. For the first time he broke his rhythm, hoe held high over his head. The sound was a distant rumble that rose in volume, then fell, seeming to fade into the hills behind him.

Tol lowered the hoe. He turned his head slowly, trying to gauge the source of the strange noise. It seemed to begin beyond the two tall hills northeast of the onion patch. They often masked thunder, making it hard to judge the distance of an oncoming storm. A breeze lifted his long, loose hair and tossed it in his face. He combed the thick brown strands aside and squinted against the morning sun.

Another sound reached his ears. He recognized this one – though he heard it seldom – and knew it for an ominous portent. Bright and hard, it was the clash of metal on metal. He realized then the strange ebbing and flowing noise must mean a battle was raging nearby.

Tol took a step backward, uncertain. Should he run home and warn his family? He glanced over his shoulder in the direction of their homestead. It was five minutes’ walk away, but if his father returned and found him gone, his work not yet finished – Tol shook his head at the thought of Bakal’s certain wrath.

Last autumn there had been other battles. Swarms of mounted men, clad in bronze and iron, had fought to possess the Great Road that ran through the southern end of the province. Once, Tol had seen a small mob of warriors bearing green streamers. They rode helter-skelter north, pursued by a larger band of fighters under a scarlet banner. The green riders had burned six farms and killed the local healer, Old Kinzen, when he couldn’t save their leader from his wound. Tol’s father and his cronies sat around the fire all winter, drinking plum dew from a stone jug and talking in anxious voices about war. The emperor’s Great Horde was fighting itself, they muttered. Men of Ergoth were making war on each other.

Tol understood little of what was said. The affairs of men were not for women and children, and the ways of warriors were even more remote. All he knew was, where men went with horse and sword, blood and fire followed.

Suddenly a truly mighty shout went up, echoing off the intervening hills and penetrating Tol’s worried ruminations.

He heard a terrific crash, as if all the trees in the forest had fallen down at once. The plowed earth beneath his feet shivered. His fingers tightened nervously around the hoe handle.

The strange ground tremor did not subside, but grew stronger. An indeterminate rumble of combat gave way to the sounds of individual hoofbeats and shouting voices. It rose steadily in volume. The fight was coming his way!

He cast about for a hiding place. The onion field was a shallow, bowl-shaped depression between three hills, about thirty paces long and half that wide. Other than Tol himself, the only thing in it that morning was a chest-high pile of compost his father had dumped the day before. Formed from the family’s refuse collected all winter, mixed with the scrapings of the chicken coop, it was a malodorous heap.

Tol didn’t hesitate: He sprinted for the compost pile, leaping nimbly over the newly turned sod. Better to lie in filth than be trampled by a warrior’s charger, or hacked to death by an iron sword!

Before he reached cover, a lone horse appeared in the cleft below the north hill. Tol’s panicked dash halted abruptly when he spied the coal-black beast. It was an enormous animal, and it was riderless.

When the horse galloped by, eyes bulging, teeth bared, foamy sweat streaking its ebony neck, Tol saw why it was so terrified. Gripping the animal’s mane was a man’s hand, fingers tightly knotted into the long strands. Severed below the elbow, the limb thudded rhythmically against the horse’s neck. Blood stained the blaze on the horse’s chest.

Hardly had the first runaway steed gone by when two more rounded the base of the hill. Neighing frantically, they weaved this way and that, almost colliding. They shied from Tol and cantered off. One animal had a wound on its rump, but neither bore a rider, or even part of one.

Someone blew a ram’s horn close by. The sudden blast sent Tol scrambling again for the compost pile. With the wooden blade of his hoe, he began hacking out a niche large enough to hide in.

He’d made only a shallow hole when a fourth horse appeared. Unlike the others, this animal had a rider, slumped forward over its neck. The horse came on at a steady trot. He was a magnificent stallion, broad and strong, the color of morning mist. Heavy mail trapping coated him from head to tail, the small iron rings sewn to rich crimson cloth. He came directly to the amazed Tol, and stopped. The reins fell from the unmoving rider’s hands.

At first Tol could only stare dumbfounded at the apparition looming over him. When the horse dropped its head to nuzzle his chest, he started violently, but regained his wits enough to speak.

“Sir? Master?” he said tentatively. The slumped rider did not reply, so Tol edged closer. The huge, dappled-gray horse watched him closely but did not shy, so he circled to the side to see the mart’s face.

The rider was a burly, yellow-bearded fellow. He’d lost his helm, but his fair hair was still matted from its weight. Fresh blood dripped from his slack fingers, and a nasty gash scored his left temple.

“Sir?” said Tol again, daring to touch the rider’s dangling hand. The limp fingers suddenly seized his arm. Tol tried to pull free, but the man’s grip was surprisingly strong.

“Boy,” he rasped, “don’t make a sound if you want to live!”

Tol hadn’t yelled when he was grabbed, and he wasn’t about to do so now. He simply nodded.

“All is lost. The Pakins have won the battle. They will come for me,” the man murmured. He coughed, and his hand relaxed, releasing Tol.

The ram’s horn bleated again, very near, and Tol understood its significance. Hunters used horns to signal each other when tracking prey. This man’s enemies were hunting him like a wild animal.

Tol slapped the horse sharply on the flank. The powerful beast gazed at him contemptuously. Surprised, Tol picked up the reins and tried to lead the horse away. The broad hooves never budged. It was like trying to shift an oak tree.

There was a rumble of many hoofbeats, growing louder, and Tol was torn. If he ran away, the unconscious warrior would certainly be caught and killed. If he stayed, the man’s enemies might slay him too!

His gaze fell upon the hoe, lying at his feet where he’d dropped it. The sight of it gave him an idea.

He planted his hands against the horse’s side and shoved. To his relief, the startled animal shuffled sideways a few steps. Tol cupped his hands under the injured man’s left heel and heaved. The warrior was big, and weighted down with much metal, but the gods were with Tol. The man rolled off his saddle and fell heavily to the ground.

Tol tore the scarlet band from the warrior’s sleeve and laid it over his face. That done, he attacked the compost pile once more with his hoe, flinging rotting leaves and manure over the unconscious man. Not satisfied with the amount he was shifting, he dropped to his knees and plunged his hands into the stinking heap. In short order the fallen warrior was completely buried.

Filthy up to his elbows, Tol confronted the horse, shouting and waving his arms. The stolid animal merely snorted, short plumes of mist furling around its wide nostrils.

“Stupid beast! Get away! How can I hide your master with you here?”

The war-horse only shook its big head and refused to move. In desperation, Tol did something his father had told him never to do: he swatted the animal hard on the nose, a blow no horse will bear.

The gray stallion finally woke to anger, rearing high and lashing out with its metal-shod hooves. Tol dodged briskly. A single blow from those heavy hooves could crack his skull open like a walnut.

The outraged horse trotted away. It followed the natural draw of the field, disappearing in the direction of the south woods. Hardly had the stallion merged into the morning haze than several riders burst from the defile. The lead warrior spotted Tol immediately and shouted. Whipping his long sword in a circle around his head, he led three companions toward the boy.

Tol’s heart hammered against his ribs, but he concentrated on working the soil with his hoe and on keeping his eyes from straying to the compost pile. In moments he was surrounded by mounted men, each wearing a strip of green cloth tied around his right upper arm.

“It’s just a peasant,” said one, reining in his prancing charger. “And a smelly one at that.”

“They’re all smelly,” said another, bearded face twisted in disgust.

“Look here, boy,” said a third, whose helm bore a green feather plume. “How long have you been here?”

“All morning, master,” Tol replied. He was surprised by his own coolness. Though his heart was racing, his tongue was calm. No quaver spoiled his voice.

“Seen any riders come by? Riders with red trappings?”

“Yes, my lord.” Tol ceased his labors with the hoe, but kept his eyes downcast.

“How many?” asked the man in the green-plumed helmet. Tol shrugged, and the tip of a nicked iron saber pressed into his ear. “Loosen your tongue, boy, or I’ll have it out for good.”

“Three horses, good master, with no men on them! And one with a rider.”

All the warriors but one had spoken. Unlike the rest, this fellow wore a closed helm. Its fiercely grinning, hammered bronze visor covered his face completely. As tall as his companions, he was of slighter build, and even to Tol’s unschooled eyes his arms seemed finer and more costly.

“What did the rider look like?” the visored man asked, voice low but carrying.

Tol looked up at him, then quickly back down at the ground. The evil, grinning metal visage filled him with dread. Even though he was farthest away and his sword was sheathed, the visored warrior somehow seemed the most dangerous of them all.

“He was a big man, lord,” Tol said truthfully, “with hair and beard the color of straw.”

His answer obviously pleased them. “Odovar!” said the horn bearer, glancing at the masked man. “Which way did he go, boy?”

Tol indicated the tracks of the big man’s horse. “Yonder, lords.”

Standing in his stirrups, the rider with the ram’s horn put it to his lips. He blew a loud, wavering note. Iron blades flashed as each warrior lifted his weapon high.

The visored warrior said, “Remember, men: the weight of Odovar’s head in gold to him who brings it to me.”

With whoops and yells, the riders spurred their massive horses and galloped away.

The visored man lingered and Tol felt his gaze on him. Curiosity overcoming his natural caution, Tol ventured to ask, “My lord, who are you? Why do you fight?”

To the boy’s surprise, the man deigned to answer.

“I am Grane, commander of the northern host of the Pakin Successor. I am sworn to return the house of Pakin to its rightful place on the imperial throne,” he said. His voice betrayed amusement. “Does that satisfy you, boy?”

Tol nodded dumbly, though in fact the words meant nothing to him.

Grane reached back to a leather saddlebag. He lifted the flap and thrust his hand inside. When he withdrew it, something brown and furry squirmed in his gauntleted fist. He tossed the creature to the ground and muttered words Tol could not understand. A strange breeze began to blow, rushing inward, toward the fist-sized brown creature.

The furry form swelled and as it expanded its fur darkened from brown to black. Terrible yowls sounded from its mouth, as though the growing was painful in the extreme. Horrified, Tol stepped back quickly, almost stumbling over the pile of compost. When it stopped growing and raised its head, Tol gasped. The night-black creature had long fangs and green eyes, vertically slit like a cat’s, but was half again as big as any panther Tol had ever seen.

“Vult, seek. Find Odovar,” commanded Grane. The leonine beast uncoiled muscular limbs, revealing fur-covered, manlike fingers and toes. It lowered its nose to the ground. Catching a scent, it opened its jaws and let out a low, wavering yowl that made the hair on Tol’s neck rise. Its fanged maw was large enough to swallow Tol’s head.

“Find him, Vult. Find Odovar!”

The hulking cat creature stalked forward, and Tol was suddenly very afraid. Could this unnatural beast scent its prey through the moldering compost?

Eyeing him up and down, the panther sniffed Tol. A snarl gurgled in its throat. Tol forced himself to remain still.

The great panther’s head swiveled toward the rotting manure pile. It drew in a deep breath. Plainly disgusted, the beast padded away, along the track left by the hidden man’s horse.

“You have lived through a great day, boy,” Grane said, snapping his reins. “Tell your children you saw the victor of the Succession War this day!”

He urged his mount to rear, then rode off behind the creature Vult, sunlight shining on the gilded peak of his garish helm.

Tol watched man and panther vanish into the woods. He waited several interminable minutes, just to be certain they wouldn’t return, then hurried to the pile of compost. He clawed away the manure until he found the scrap of red cloth over the hidden man’s face. He whisked it off and saw the man’s eyes were open.

“Are they gone?” the warrior muttered. Tol nodded, and the fellow sat up, scattering clumps of compost. “Grane, the blood drinker! Someday, I’ll —” He made a fist, but winced from the effort.

“Help me up, boy,” he said. Tol gave him his shoulder, and the hulking blond warrior rose unsteadily to his feet.

Looking around, he asked, “My horse – how did you get Ironheart to leave me?” Tol explained what he’d done. The warrior barked a short, harsh laugh. “You’re lucky he didn’t stamp you into your own manure pile, boy!”

Tol staggered a bit under the weight of the big man. “My lord, you are called Odovar?” he asked.

“Aye, I am Odovar, marshal of the Eastern Hundred. Grane and his damned Pakins have ambushed my troops, but I’m not done yet.” Odovar squinted at the sun to orient himself. “It’s a long walk back to Juramona. Have you a horse, boy?”

Tol confessed he did not, then asked, “What is Juramona, lord?”

“The imperial seat of this province, and my stronghold. It lies two days’ ride due east of here.” Odovar coughed, grimacing. “Two days’ ride is eight days’ walking, and my head is still thundering from Grane’s blow. Fair broke my helmet, it did.”

Pushing Tol away, Odovar tried to walk unaided, but his knees buckled immediately. He sank on his haunches.

“I’ll not make it with the land heaving under my feet like this!” he declared. “Help me, boy.”

Again Tol braced him, and Lord Odovar managed to stand once more. “Lend me that stick,” he commanded, and Tol gave him the hoe. The warrior braced the wooden blade into his armpit and essayed a step. The hoe handle was short but stout, and bore the big man without cracking.

“This is good seasoned ash,” Odovar said. “I’ll take it with me.”

Tol winced. His father had made that hoe. It was the only one they had. Without it, planting the onion crop would be much harder. Even so, he dared not deny so powerful a lord.

“Don’t look so downcast,” Odovar said. “I’ll pay for it. One gold piece will buy an armload of hoes.”

The warrior limped a few more steps, then halted, swaying drunkenly. “Damn Grane and all the Pakins!” he thundered. “My head feels like a poached egg! Come with me, boy. I need you.”

“But my father – my family —”

“Do as I say!”

Worried but obedient, Tol put himself under Odovar’s other arm. Between the strong boy and the sturdy hoe, the injured warrior made better progress. He asked Tol his name and age. To this last, the boy could only shrug and say he didn’t know.

“You don’t know?” Odovar repeated, and Tol looked away, ashamed of his ignorance. “Well, you’re a strongly built lad, whatever your age.”

The tumult of battle had faded, and once the marshal and the boy passed through the cleft in the hills Tol beheld the scene of the fight for the first time. Spread below in a narrow gap in the trees were dead men and horses, heaps of them. Tol had seen dead men before, but never so many at once. The air was heavy with the smell of blood, like the farmyard when his father slaughtered a pig.

“They took us by surprise,” Odovar said, grunting. “Ambushed in column we were, blades sheathed and spears ported. We had not a dog’s chance.”

Most of the corpses bore red armbands. A few wore green, like the mysterious Grane. Tol asked about the significance of the colors.

“Red is the clan color of the Ackals, rightful rulers of this land,” Odovar said, touching the scarlet cloth tied around his own arm. “Green is for the house of Pakin, who claims the throne of Ergoth for their lord, the Pakin Successor.”

“Ergoth? What is Ergoth?” Tol asked. Out of the many confusing words, he seized on the one he’d heard his father use.

Odovar stopped hobbling and regarded him with surprise. “All of this!” he said, waving a hand to the horizon. “This land is Ergoth. I am Ergoth, and you. We are all subjects of his glorious majesty, Pakin the Third, rightful emperor of Ergoth since the assassination of his brother.”

Now Tol was truly confused. The concept of “Ergoth” eluded him, but no more so than the notion that Lord Odovar could be the subject of someone named Pakin, when Pakins were the very enemies he was fighting. Questions formed on his lips, but he held them back for fear of seeming stupid before the great lord.

In the midst of the narrow battlefield there was movement.

A chestnut horse floundered, tangled by its own reins. Odovar sent Tol to free it. The boy unwound the leather traces from its legs and the animal bounded to its feet. He brought the horse to Odovar. With much heaving and grunting, the warrior managed to mount the tall horse. Odovar’s face was ash-gray now, and beads of sweat stood out on his brow.

Hoe on his shoulder, Tol prepared to return to the onion field now that Odovar had found a mount. However, the warrior chief tossed the reins to him, saying, “Lead him, boy. If I try to ride, I’ll fall off for sure.”

The sun was nearly at its apex. By now, his mother and sisters, laden with spring bulbs, would have set out for the onion field. He had to get back. His father would be angry when he saw he hadn’t finished his work.

He tried to explain this to Lord Odovar, but the warrior interrupted him – or perhaps hadn’t even heard him, so pale and sickly did he look.

“Go east,” Odovar said, his breathing labored and loud. “Whatever happens … go east. Get me … to Juramona. My people will … reward you well.” He then slumped forward, unconscious, arms hanging limply on either side of the horse’s neck.

Tol twisted the reins in his hands, mind working furiously. He could leave the wounded marshal here and return to work, but the man would likely die if he did. On the other hand, Odovar’s request was daunting. Tol had never been more than a day’s walk from home, and then only with his father. He had no idea what lay beyond the green hills east of the farm.

Juramona. The very word seemed mysterious and remote, like a mountain on Solin, the white moon. Could Tol actually go to Juramona? Could he leave his family and make such a fantastic journey?

It was Odovar’s mention of a reward that finally settled the question. If Tol returned home with gold, his father wouldn’t beat him for abandoning his chores half done.

Laying the reins over one shoulder and his hoe on the other, Tol began the trek east.

*

The land beyond the hills was flat and dotted with trees. From time to time Tol spotted riders in the distance. Since he couldn’t identify them as friend or foe, he hid himself and Lord Odovar until they had gone by.

Mid-afternoon found Tol’s stomach knotted with hunger. He should’ve been home eating his mother’s beans and cabbage. Instead of enjoying that hearty fare he was wandering this endless expanse of grassland, leading a horse with a dying man on it. This was not how he imagined the day would go when he awoke that morning.

He entered a grove of pines. The horse, until now placidly following Tol’s lead, began to pull away toward the left. Tol smelled water too, so he let the horse choose the path. They soon came to a small brook.

Tol tied the reins to a sapling and fell on his belly to lap the cold water alongside the animal. Looking up from his drinking, he saw that although Odovar’s eyes were still closed, his color had improved. His butter-colored mustache puffed in and out with each breath.

Tol wandered out of the pines, kicking through the tall brown grass in search of anything edible – nuts, seeds, windfall fruit. There was nothing. The land hereabouts was as clean as his family’s root cellar come spring.

As he stood bemoaning his hunger, he suddenly heard voices. A line of spearpoints advanced through the trees. Tol dropped to his knees. He couldn’t get back to Odovar without being seen, so he waited nervously to learn who the strangers might be.

They were warriors, though not so richly armed as Grane or Lord Odovar. Their helmets were simple pots, and their breastplates boiled leather studded with bronze scales. Most were bearded. Each carried a spear with a short strip of cloth tied behind its head, and each wore a similar strip of cloth tied around his left arm. The cloths were red.

Tol popped up so suddenly the lead horses reared. Spearpoints swung down, aiming for his chest.

“Who goes there?” demanded the rider in the center of the group of ten. His helmet bore a brass crest and his auburn whiskers were sprinkled with gray.

“Friend! Friend!” Tol cried, holding his hands high.

“It’s only a peasant boy,” said a nearer warrior. He lifted his spear away from Tol’s face. “Too bad he’s not a rabbit. I could eat a rabbit just now.”

“I could eat a peasant brat, myself,” said another, and the company laughed.

“My lords, who is your master?” Tol asked quickly, wondering if men of war did indeed eat children when they could not get rabbits.

“We serve the marshal of the Eastern Hundred,” said the one with the gray-flecked beard and brass-crested helm. “Odovar of Juramona – or was, till he perished this day in battle.”

Relief coursed through Tol and he cried, “No! He lives yet!”

Brass Helm guided his mount closer. “What say you, boy? Have you news of Lord Odovar?”

“He lives! He is yonder, in those pines!”

Plainly unimpressed, the elder warrior called out, “My lord Odovar! Are you there? It is Egrin, of the Household Guards!”

Wind sighing through the grass was the only answer.

“He is there,” Tol insisted, “but hurt. A man named Grane hit him on the head.”

The name echoed through the mounted men like a thunderbolt.

“Grane!” Egrin exclaimed. He gestured, and one of the men thrust his spear through the collar of Tol’s jerkin. Using the pommel of his saddle as a fulcrum, he hoisted the boy up onto his toes.

Ignoring Tol’s protests, Egrin snapped, “Watch him. The rest of you, spread out. This smells like treachery to me. If it’s a trap, spit that boy like a partridge and get out of here. Report back to Juramona. Understand?” The warrior holding Tol nodded.

The riders made a half-circle and approached the pine copse quietly. Egrin went in, and let out a shout.

“By the gods! Lord Odovar is here!”

Tol found himself dropped unceremoniously to the ground. His erstwhile captor spurred forward, joining his comrades by the brook. Fingering the hole in his good leather shirt, Tol followed.

Egrin had Odovar sitting upright on the chestnut horse and was holding a waterskin to his lips. The burly chieftain gulped the contents. His face reddened, and he pushed the neck of the skin away.

“Mishas preserve me!” he spluttered. “You give a dying man water? Have you nothing better?”

Egrin smiled and pulled a hide-wrapped bottle from his saddlebag. “Applejack, my lord?” he said, offering it to his commander. Odovar drew the stopper and took a long swig.

“I rejoice at your survival, my lord,” said Egrin. “We thought you dead in the ambush.”

“So I would have been, if not for this boy.” Odovar wiped droplets of hard cider from his mustache with the back of a dirty hand. He told the company Tol’s name, then drained the bottle and demanded an account of the battle from Egrin.

The veteran soldier reported that he and his men, sent by Odovar to scout the woods ahead of the main band, had been cut off by a superior force of Pakin warriors. When it looked like they would cut their way through anyway, a wall of fire leaped up between them and the Pakins, driving Egrin back. By the time he rallied his men and returned, the Pakins had vanished, and there was no sign of Lord Odovar, alive or dead.

“Strange to say, my lord, after the fire had gone, there were no ashes or coals, no sign of burning at all,” Egrin finished.

They exchanged a meaningful look and Odovar said, “So, Grane is using his magic against us. We will return to Juramona at once. The Pakins may move to strike there.”

Egrin formed up the men and took the reins of Odovar’s horse himself.

Through all this Tol had been squatting to one side, watching and listening. So the great lord Grane, whoever he was, had magic on his side. That explained the strange creature he’d drawn from the small pouch on his saddle. Tol knew little of magic. His parents spoke of it only to curse it, but the rare passing mage or itinerant cleric who stopped at the farm for water or food seemed kindly enough to Tol. One had even done tricks to amuse him and his sisters, levitating stones and making doves appear from his floppy hat.

As the warriors set out, Tol stood. It was nearly dusk, and a bite in the air announced the cold night to come. He would have a long, chilly walk back to the farm.

A big roan horse blocked his path. Tol looked up and saw Egrin studying him.

“What about the boy, my lord?” the elder warrior asked. “What shall we do with him?”

“Eh? Do with him?” repeated Odovar, his words slurred by cider and fatigue. He shook his head as if to clear it and said forcefully, “Bring him!”

“As you wish, my lord.”

Tol was surprised, but before he could speak, Egrin leaned down and took hold of his collar. With no obvious strain, the warrior hauled the boy off his feet and set him on the saddle behind him.

Torn between curiosity to see this Juramona and fear of leaving his family, Tol cleared his throat and said, “My folks will wonder what’s happened to me.”

“We’ll send word,” Lord Odovar muttered, eyelids closing. His head drooped.

Egrin gave the boy a shrug, implying they would get little else from the exhausted marshal.

They rode out as the sun set at their backs, stretching long shadows from the sparse trees and washing the plain in strong colors. The clouds above seemed afire, blazing with the bold red color of Lord Odovar’s Ackal clan.

If it was an omen, it was not one Tol found any comfort in.

Chapter 2

DAY BEGINS AT MIDNIGHT

Odovar’s men rode all night without pause. They kept their animals at a steady walk, and ate and drank in the saddle. Conversation was sparse. When at last they halted, it was only because Lord Odovar had toppled from his horse. Egrin dismounted, hurrying to his commander’s side.

Tol was grateful for the respite, and got down as well. He’d never ridden a horse before and was quite sore from the experience.

“My lord, your head wound is graver than I thought. Do you know me? Do you know where you are?” asked Egrin.

“You’re Egrin, Raemel’s son, the warden of the Household Guard. I am Odovar, marshal of the Eastern Hundred. I’m sitting on my arse in the grass, and I smell like I’ve rolled in manure.”

Egrin grinned. “Yes, sir. Can you rise?”

“If the sun can do it, so can I.”

Without help, the bleary nobleman got his feet under him. Egrin snapped his fingers at Tol and pointed at Odovar’s mount. Tol fetched the chestnut horse. After a few steps the horse snorted and stopped, head bobbing, eyes rolling.

“Come on boy, stop dawdling,” Egrin said gruffly. “I thought farmers’ sons knew how to handle beasts.”

The other horses began to stir, and one of the warriors said, “It’s not the boy, sir. They’ve gotten wind of something.”

Egrin drew his curving saber in a single swift motion. Though shaky, Lord Odovar bared his weapon too. The mounted men formed a circle around them, facing outward with their spears presented.

The night around them was still. The red moon, Luin, was low on the southern horizon, pouring sanguinary light under a shelf of high clouds. Wind rustled the tall grass briefly, then died.

A low, gurgling snarl reached them.

“Panther!”

Egrin dismissed Tol’s fears, saying a wild cat would never stalk ten armed and mounted men, but he ordered one of the men to make a fire, so they could better see their surroundings. Wielding iron and flint, the Ackal warrior soon had a modest blaze going.

Tol heard a sharp intake of breath behind him. He turned and saw two wide red eyes, low on the ground, highlighted by the fire. The eyes shone from an ill-defined black mass.

“My lords!” he cried, leaping back.

“Suffering gods!” exclaimed the man who’d made the fire.

The intruder was a huge panther, black as soot and coiled in a crouch.

Quivering in every limb, the horses reared and plunged, prancing to put distance between themselves and the panther. The men still mounted had to drop their weapons and concentrate on keeping in the saddle.

Egrin advanced, sword extended. “Light brands!” he shouted. “Chase it off with fire!”

There was no one to comply but Tol and the man who’d started the fire. Frantically they cast about for limbs or branches. But there was nothing large available.

Opening its huge jaws, the cat let out a bloodcurdling squall. Ivory fangs glistened. It crawled forward through the grass on its belly, sidling around Egrin toward the dazed Odovar.

Egrin rushed in and cut at it. The beast twisted to avoid the iron blade. A paw the size of a dinner plate lashed out.

Pearlescent talons, rimmed with dried gore, narrowly missed Egrin’s sword arm. He leaped back, calling for aid.

The warrior who’d lit the fire was still vainly searching the grass for a tree branch with which to make a torch. Tol remembered a trick of his mother’s. When wood was scarce at the farm, she’d burn bundles of grass. He pulled up enough standing grass to make a sheaf as thick as his wrist and lashed it into a tight bundle with another pliant stalk.

Egrin circled to his right, keeping between the bold panther and his liege. Whenever the cat rose to charge, Egrin shouted and rushed in first, slashing with his saber. Once he scored a bloody line across the taut black fur on the animal’s flank. Hissing, the beast withdrew. Its eyes narrowed, focused now on Egrin instead of Odovar. Gathering his powerful rear legs under him, the panther sprang. Egrin stepped into the leap. Man and cat collided, and both went down.

The mounted warriors mastered their frightened steeds and, yelling wildly, they lowered their spears and tried to charge the panther. All they managed to do was get in each other’s way. The cat’s enormous claws slashed out, disemboweling a charger with one swipe. Dying, the horse pitched its rider headlong into the grass. The panther was on him in a flash, and the awful sound of fang shattering bone followed. Avoiding the warrior’s hard helmet, the killer cat had bitten his face and crushed the man’s skull.

Reeking of human and equine blood, the panther turned and roared defiance, hurling itself straight at Lord Odovar.

Egrin, back on his feet, shouted for Tol. The boy thrust his grass bundle torch into the flickering fire and brought it out blazing.

“To Odovar! Hurry!”

Tol ran to the beleaguered marshal, waving the torch. Odovar stumbled backward, away from the charging cat. When Tol was within reach, Odovar snatched the burning brand from him and flung it at the panther. It struck the creature square in the chest, but the black beast never faltered.

Odovar’s face showed fear for the first time. No wild animal, however hungry or enraged, could shrug off living flames. What sort of unnatural creature could this be?

Fangs bared and front claws extended, the cat seemed certain to rend the marshal to pieces. Odovar gripped his sword in both hands and drew the blade back. Suddenly, his right knee buckled and he fell heavily to that side, on top of the helpless Tol.

“Manzo! Spear!”

The warrior nearest Egrin tossed him his weapon. Egrin caught the long shaft in his right hand, tucked it under his arm, and thrust forward. He took the leaping panther just behind the left foreleg. Impaled, its massive claws just out of reach of Odovar, the fearsome cat fell to the ground.

Egrin drove the point in deeper. The panther howled and thrashed, rolling over on its back. The beast sank its claws into the shaft and dragged itself forward in order to reach Egrin. He could have dropped the spear and gotten clear, but Egrin neither faltered nor fled.

“A brave thrussst!”

The words, hissed but clear, issued from the panther’s throat.

“Unnatural beast, who are you?” Egrin demanded.

“A servant of my lord Grane,” it gasped in reply. Slapping its right paw against the hardwood shaft, the cat hauled itself closer.

Egrin held his ground. “Whom do you seek?”

“Odovar of Juramona!”

As if summoned, Odovar came up behind the panther, saber in hand. Injured though he was, he severed the beast’s head in one stroke. Egrin let go of the spear, and the cat’s carcass fell in the grass, blood spurting from its neck in black jets.

“You found him,” said the marshal, spitting on the dead beast. “May your master be as lucky!”

Tol and the warriors gathered around the monster. As they looked on, the panther visibly shrank to half its original size. Black fur sloughed from its face and paws, revealing unsettlingly human features and fingers.

“This is the creature Lord Grane set to track you, my lord!” Tol blurted.

“A half-beast, serving as a blood-hunter,” Egrin said. “I’ve heard of them. Since men first walked the plains, they have lived among us, cleaving to the shadows. It’s said they were created by the curse of an elf mage two thousand years ago, condemned to live neither fully human nor fully animal. Lord Grane must be a powerful wizard to subjugate such a monster to his will!”

Odovar’s lip curled. “Foul beast. His head will decorate my hall. Bring it.” Manzo recovered his spear and put the severed head – not quite feline, not quite human – in a leather bag for his master.

The men remounted. Tol found Egrin cleaning dark blood from his spear with a twisted tuft of grass. The boy watched him silently. He was awed by the warrior, having seen him stand his ground against the monstrous cat, wavering not at all even as the claws closed in.

Egrin looked up at him. “What is it, boy?” he asked. “Speak. Dawn is coining while we wait.”

“Sir! Will we not camp and rest the night?”

“No time. Even now, Juramona may be under attack.”

Egrin swung onto his horse. He held out a hard hand to Tol. Astride again, the boy admired the breadth of Egrin’s shoulders and his cool, contained strength. How different he was from Tol’s father, a lean, leathery man, short tempered, and suspicious of everything new.

Although his legs ached and his head swam with the terrors of the day, Tol soon found himself falling asleep. As Luin sank below the hills, he dozed, head bumping Egrin’s back in time with the horse’s plodding gait.

*

Next Tol knew, they were cantering down a dusty lane, far from any place he’d been before. Tall cedar trees lined both sides of a road worn deep into the sandy soil. The company rode two abreast. Dawn had broken, and the new day washed the countryside in golden light. Tol marveled at that. Never in his life had he slept past sunrise.

He and Egrin were at the tail of the column. Lord Odovar was leading it. Riding next to the warden was Manzo. Although he was younger than Egrin – his face unlined – Manzo’s brown beard was prematurely streaked with gray. His wide-set brown eyes scanned the area alertly.

The group clattered up the lane to the crest of a slight hill. The marshal held up a hand to halt his men.

On both sides of the road, beyond the ornamental cedars, lay tilled fields of a size Tol had never imagined. Plowed land stretched to the horizon, north and south. The enormous tracts dwarfed the little garden patches Tol’s father had carved out of the wilderness. A bullock could toil all day in one of these fields, Tol thought, and never make a turn, just cut an endless furrow all the way to the where the sky and land met.

In between the plowed tracts were plots of fallow pasture, fenced with split rails and rubble stone. Strangely, no one was working the vast fields, and no herds grazed the pastures.

Lord Odovar signaled Egrin. The warden of Juramona brought his horse alongside the marshal’s.

“Half a league from home, and it looks like the wastes of Thorin,” said Odovar. “The Pakins doubled back on us, didn’t they?”

“Seems so, my lord.”

Odovar fingered the massive bruise over his left eye. “There’s nothing for it but to go ahead. If Juramona’s invested, we’ll have to break through.”

“With ten men, sir?”

Odovar glared. “Shall I ride away and leave my land to the bloody hands of Spannuth Grane?”

“If the manor is besieged, wouldn’t it be better to stay clear and raise a force to lift the siege?” Egrin said carefully.

His master snorted. “You’re too cautious, Egrin. Charge in boot to boot, shoulder to shoulder – that’s how to deal with these rebels.”

Tol could feel the tension in Egrin’s posture, but the loyal warden merely replied, “It will be as you command, my lord.”

“Form the men in a close column, and we’ll go on.”

Egrin passed the word to the others. Slinging their shields over their arms and couching their spears, they grinned at the prospect of battle. Only Egrin was solemn and silent.

“Troop, forward!” Odovar commanded. At a trot, they proceeded down the hill.

As they went, Tol noted signs of trouble. Hoes and rakes lay discarded in the fields, sharp edges and pointed tines facing the sky. Other items – a straw hat, a clay water bottle, a single shoe – were scattered about as though abandoned with extreme haste.

At the bottom of the hill, they crossed a stone bridge. Floating facedown in the stream was the body of a man, his back hacked and pierced many times. He was dressed in a homespun shirt and leather trews. The warriors glanced grimly at the body as they rode by.

Over the next rise they found more tokens of evil. A two-wheel cart was overturned, blocking the road. A dead ox still lay in the traces, and seed millet spilled out of the cart in a great drift. Black and purple hulls were trodden into the dust. Five bodies sprawled around the ruined cart, dead men in rough woolen cloaks and fleecy leggings. The hapless peasants, sent out with the seed for planting, had been sabered ruthlessly.

“This is what happens when cattle get in the way of warriors,” Odovar remarked coldly.

Tol, swallowing hard, looked away to the vista below. A wide, shallow valley spread out in front of them, covered with cultivation and pasture. In the center of this rich landscape a steep conical hill of earth rose twenty paces high. Atop this mound was a great log house, tiered to match the contour of the hill on which it sat. The house was roofed with sod and pierced with many windows. Atop its highest point was a tall, slender pole bearing the red banner of the Ackal dynasty.

Clustered thickly at the foot of the mound were huts and houses, so closely packed Tol could not distinguish where one ended and the next began. A stout wooden stockade surrounded the whole conglomeration. One gate was visible, facing them. The scene was shrouded in gray smoke, the outpourings of many hearths.

“The town gate is closed,” one warrior observed.

“I see armed men on the ramparts,” said another.

Lord Odovar steered his horse in a tight circle. “No sign of the Pakins,” he said. “There must have been a swift raid, then they ran away. We’ll enter Juramona.”

“My lord, I advise against it,” Egrin said firmly. “There’s a third of a league of open ground between here and the gate.”

“Do you see any enemies about?” Odovar retorted. He turned to the others and repeated the question even more loudly. The warriors could only shake their heads.

“Nor do I.” The marshal’s voice rose. “I tire of your weak-kneed caution, warden! This is not the time for idling about, poking under every bush for Pakins! I must resume my place and raise the Eastern Hundred in arms against the traitors! Why would you have me delay? Could it be you have Pakin sympathies?”

Egrin’s face flushed. “My lord knows I am his loyal man, and always shall be! “

“Then ride on!”

Odovar spurred his horse and rode wide around the wrecked cart. Jaw clenched, Egrin followed his master.

“Whatever happens, boy, stay on this horse,” Egrin said in a low voice. “If I should fall, grab on by the mane and hold on. Old Acorn will take you to safety.”

Eyes wide, Tol nodded.

Odovar cantered briskly down the road, straight for the sealed gate. His men followed in ragged order, pennants whipping at the ends of their spears. At first nothing seemed amiss, then the flat, wavering sound of horns filled the air. Odovar slowed, Egrin and the rest behind him.

Everyone could see distant figures on the stockade, waving their hands and tooting horns.

“A celebration of your lordship’s return?” suggested one of the riders.

Manzo, who had keen eyes, stiffened in the saddle. “I think not. Look yonder.”

From behind the low stone pasture walls on either side of the road, men and horses popped up. A great many men, with a great many horses.

“Pakins!” shouted Manzo.

Odovar drew his sword. “Damned rebels,” he snarled. “I hope Grane is with them! I owe him much I wish to repay!”

With a roar, he raised his saber high and spurred for the enemy. Without a plan or orders, the warriors followed their lord as best they could. Tol held on tightly, his aching legs jolting against Egrin’s horse with every hoofbeat.

The rumble of approaching horses grew louder and louder. Shrill shouts rang out.

Old Acorn, Egrin’s roan, shuddered violently and stopped. Another horse, dark brown and spattered with mud, scraped alongside. Its rider traded cuts with Egrin. Tol drew his leg back to avoid having it crushed between the horses. The enemy warrior, a rough-looking character with a drooping black mustache, noticed Tol cowering behind Egrin. The moment’s distraction cost him his life. Egrin drove the brass handguard of his saber into the Pakin’s face, drew back, and slashed the man from neck to navel. His quilted cloth jerkin was no match for the warden’s iron blade. With an eerie screeching cry, he fell backward off his horse.

Lord Odovar laid about himself in a perfect fury, toppling four opponents with single blows. A Pakin in fancy spiked armor pushed in and rammed a bronze buckler into the marshal’s back. Egrin urged Old Acorn into the press and stabbed Odovar’s attacker under the arm, but the man’s scale mail blunted the blow. Alerted, the Pakin cut at Egrin with a fine, gold-chased sword. Odovar tore the buckler from the nobleman’s arm, and Egrin punched him in the face with his studded gauntlet. Nose gushing blood, the Pakin tried to break away. Egrin turned to face another foe, but Odovar was not granting mercy today. He chased the fleeing enemy a few paces and struck him on the hack of his helmet with the flat of his sword. The fancily armored limbs flew up, the golden sword went sailing away, and down went Odovar’s opponent.

Two of the Juramona guardsmen fell. The enemy was so numerous, they jammed together, inhibiting their own attack on the smaller Ackal contingent.

A tremendous blow knocked Old Acorn sideways; the horse lost his footing and went down. Egrin kicked free so his leg wouldn’t be trapped under the fallen animal. Tol didn’t have to bother. He was catapulted from the saddle like a stone from a sling.

He landed hard, on his back. Fortunately, he fell on a plowed plot, and the turned earth was relatively welcoming. No sooner had the shock of landing subsided than he saw churning horses’ legs coming at him. It was Manzo, the guardsman, battling two Pakins. The mounted men whirled by in a welter of grunts, gasps, and curses. Tol scuttled away.

He saw Lord Odovar still mounted, battering a Pakin foe. There was no sign of Egrin at all.

Old Acorn trotted past, riderless. Remembering the warden’s orders, Tol decided to follow the horse. He dodged through the melee, this way and that, avoiding Pakin and Ackal loyalists alike. Being a boy and on foot, he was ignored.

His toe caught something heavy, and Tol pitched onto his face. He kicked angrily at the snare and saw it was the gilded sword lost by the Pakin noble vanquished by Odovar. The weapon was easily worth more than his family’s entire holding. Tol dragged it out of the dirt and hugged it close to his chest.

Where was Old Acorn? There! The roan was making for the town gate. The distance was great for a lone boy on foot, and the field provided no cover. Tol set off, dragging the tip of the golden sword in the dirt behind him.

Without warning, a hand seized his arm from behind and spun him around. Towering over him was the Pakin in spiky scale armor. The man’s remarkably pale face was smeared with dried blood from his bashed-in nose.

“Peasant thief!” the noble said, his voice oddly inflected. “Give back what you have taken!”

Tol surprised himself by yelling back, “No!” and wrenching free. He’d taken only three steps before the man seized him again. He yelled for help, struggling futilely.

“You’re past help now, boy!” The Pakin drew a dagger from his waist. It had an ugly forked tip. He raised it high.

Even as Tol stared in horror, the dagger flew from the Pakin’s hand, knocked away by a whirling saber. Tol’s head whipped around and he saw Egrin standing behind him.

“Give him the sword,” said the warden. “I’ll not slay a helpless man.”

It sounded foolish to Tol, but he did as Egrin bid. The Pakin snatched the ornate hilt from the boy’s hands. Tol stepped quickly from between the men.

“You are a Rider of the Horde?” the pale-faced noble asked, sizing up Egrin.

“Yes. I am the Warden of Juramona.”

“Good enough to kill, then!”

The Pakin was of slender build compared to Egrin or Lord Odovar, but he had the speed of a striking snake. He traded swirling slashes with Egrin.

“You’re a good man of arms,” said the noble. “Join the side of strength – serve the Pakin Successor!”

Egrin thrust at his face and was deflected. “I will never lend my sword to a usurper.”

The Pakin whirled in a circle, his broad, flat blade coming right at Egrin’s neck. Egrin managed to block the cut, but the momentum of the blow drove him back. His guard went down, and the Pakin let out a cry of triumph.

“Life to the strong!” he shouted, the Pakin war cry. Extending his sword, he ran at the vulnerable warden.

Without thinking, Tol found himself on his feet and running toward the Pakin noble’s back. He had nothing, not even a stick, so he threw himself at the man’s knees.

The Pakin staggered. Cursing colorfully, he backhanded Tol. His scale-covered gauntlet split the boy’s cheek open and snapped his head back. Still Tol held on. Unable to pry the boy off, the Pakin twisted around and raised his sword. Tol clenched his eyes shut.

He heard a meaty thud, and a heavy weight pinned him to the ground. The slender Pakin nobleman had collapsed on him. Tol couldn’t get free until Egrin dragged the unconscious Pakin off him.

“Are you all right?” the Ackal warrior asked.

Tol scrambled to his feet. He had a bleeding gash on his cheek where the Pakin had hit him – his head still rang from the blow – but otherwise he felt fine. He nodded in reply.

Horns resounded, and horsemen deluged the melee. The Juramona garrison, seeing their lord in peril, had sortied to rescue him. They quickly put the Pakins to rout, surrounding the exhausted men of Egrin’s troop.

Lord Odovar rode up, looking remarkably fit after his ordeal. Battle agreed with him.

“So, Egrin Raemel’s son! Alive but unhorsed, I see,” he boomed jovially.

“Unhorsed, but not empty-handed, my lord.” The warrior pointed to the fallen Pakin.

“Turn the blackguard over, so I may see his face,” Odovar said. Egrin did so, and Odovar cried, “Vakka Zan! By Draco, you have true Pakin blood there!”

“A kinsman of the Pretender?” Egrin asked, scrutinizing his captive’s slack features.

“His nephew, I believe. Bind him up, men. He’ll make a pretty present for the emperor!”

Odovar’s men tied Vakka Zan hand and foot, and threw him over a horse. Those of Egrin’s troop who had survived formed up behind the marshal. The gate now stood wide open.

Manzo rode past. “Warden,” he said respectfully, “you shouldn’t walk. I’ll fetch a horse.”

Egrin held up a torn and bloody gauntlet. “No need. My legs work well enough for now. Old Acorn would take it amiss if I rode another animal.” Manzo drew his dagger and saluted his commander.

Garrison and guardsmen rode on, leaving Egrin and Tol to walk the last hundred paces to Juramona. Tol moved ahead of the warden when the latter paused to pick up something.

“Boy,” Egrin called. “Master Tol!”

He stopped. No one had ever called him “master” before.

“This is yours.”

Egrin held out Vakka Zari’s gilded sword, hilt-first Tol gaped.

“Go on, take it. You earned it. To save my life you attacked an armed man bare-handed. I may have subdued Lord Vakka, but you made it possible. His sword is yours.”

“Sir! It’s too good for the likes of me —”

“Nonsense! My life is worth more to me than any blade in Ergoth. You saved me, and you’ll have this reward and my thanks.”

Tol took the heavy weapon from the smiling Egrin. With its point in the dirt, the pommel came up to Tol’s chin. Bloodstained and mud-spattered though it was, the weapon was far and away the finest thing Tol had ever seen, much less owned.

He grasped the sword hilt in both hands and swung the blade up. It was weighted near the tip, the better to cleave through armored foes, and Tol had to step lively to keep his balance. He recovered, laid the flat of the sword on his shoulder, then looked up at the warden.

“Forward, my man,” said Egrin. “Lord Odovar awaits.”

Chapter 3

THE HIGH MARSHAL’S WILL

When Tol entered the gate at Juramona, he felt he was leaving one world behind and entering an entirely new one. Never afterward would he experience such a head-turning, heart-pounding initiation. He forgot the bloodshed he’d just witnessed and the throbbing cut on his cheek, and all but forgot the gilt-edged weapon lying hard and heavy on his shoulder.

Juramona had begun life as a log fort, growing into a sizable town only after the lords holding it were named high marshals of the province. Some three thousand inhabitants, men and women of every size, shape, and color, dwelled within its wooden wall. Some were Riders of the Great Horde, born to the warrior class like Egrin, and these were striding about with long spears, helmets, and scaly breastplates, but most of the people thronging the streets were artisans or laborers, folks with greasy hands and dirty faces who crowded around to witness Lord Odovar’s return. Some were not human at all. The boy spied a pair of bearded fellows no taller than himself, yet easily twice as broad.

Egrin saw him staring and said, “Traders from Thorin.” In response to Tol’s blank look, he added, “Dwarves.”

Tol drew a breath and gazed anew at the pair. He’d heard tales of dwarves, but had never seen them in the flesh. These two were both black haired and well muscled. They held stout walking sticks, and their fingers glittered with jeweled rings.

The mounted warriors came to the foot of the high earthen mound in the center of Juramona and halted. Three men on horseback drew up to greet Lord Odovar. The one in the center wore a heavy brass chain around his neck, and it was to him the marshal spoke.

“Greetings, Morthur Dermount,” said Odovar. He was leaning heavily on the pommel of his saddle, but though he was bruised and haggard, his voice was strong.

“Greetings to you, Lord Marshal. All Juramona rejoices at your safe return,” Morthur replied.

Morthur Dermount had a thin nose, spade beard, and straight black hair cut severely away from his neck and ears. His dark eyes were hooded by black brows. Though not opulently dressed, he had the casual arrogance of one born to privilege.

“Your rescue was well timed,” Odovar said sarcastically. “Another half hour and the Pakins would have finished us.”

Morthur bowed his head. “I live to serve you, Lord Marshal.”

Odovar’s countenance flashed from annoyed to furious. “Impudent wretch! I know your game! If I had died out there, Juramona would have fallen to you, and only the Pakins would have my blood on their hands!”

“My lord, you do me an injustice,” Morthur answered mildly.

“Justice is what I say it is,” Odovar snapped. “Now make way! I want food and wine, and the attentions of a healer. Is wise Felryn about?”

“He will be sent for, my lord.” Morthur and his escort moved aside, and Lord Odovar dismounted. He stomped up the wooden ramp into the great house on the mound.

The crowd slowly went about its business. Egrin called to him. Tol saw the warden standing a few paces away. The remnants of his troop sat on horseback around him.

Tol hurried to join them. They tramped down the winding lane, between a solid line of two-and three-story buildings, massively made of thick timbers and painted mud plaster.

Heavy shutters closed the windows to the weather, and atop the peak of each house was a colorful emblem, a talisman to protect the structure from ill fortune. Bird figures were common – brightly painted wooden roosters or wildfowl. A few wrought in copper were green with corrosion.

The street was muddy, though it hadn’t rained recently, and Tol quickly learned why: Everyone in town threw his or her slops in the street. From the barber’s soapy shaving water to the housewives’ washwater and every townsman’s chamber pot, it all ended up in the street, and Juramona, for all its wonders, smelled much the same as a compost heap.

The Household Guard lived in a large log house on the north side of the hill. On the roof peak was a great bronze eagle, the talisman of the guards. The house had two floors; the lower one was the stable for their horses. When Egrin and Tol walked in, they were greeted by a loud whinny.

“Old Acorn!” Egrin grinned broadly, patting his loyal steed’s neck. “Trust you to make it home before any of us!”

The rest of the troops led their animals in and turned them over to stableboys. Saddles and tack were speedily removed. Each horse was led away to its own stall, and the boys fell to watering and feeding them. More than one animal had wounds from the skirmishes of the past two days, and an elderly man in a patched robe appeared to tend their injuries.

At Egrin’s request, the old man first took a look at Tol’s injured cheek. The cut had stopped bleeding, so after telling the boy to wash it well, the elderly fellow moved off to minister to the valuable war-horses. Tol followed the loud-talking warriors up the wide wooden stairs to the next floor.

The whole of this level was taken up by a single room. A spiderweb of beams overhead supported a steep thatched roof. From the beams hung brightly colored banners. One wall of the room held two wide fireplaces. Down the center of the room was an enormous trestle table, laden with victuals. Baskets of boiled nuts steamed next to heavy trenchers of roast venison. Capons, seared by fire, lay in piles between crocks of foamy beer. More boys toiled along the table, dispensing beer and food to the ravenous fighting men.

As warden, Egrin’s place was at the table’s head. He sat down, and a platter of venison was speedily put before him. A leather jack of beer appeared, and two sizzling capons. Egrin drew his knife to attack his dinner, then paused. He called Tol to him and proceeded to carve off half his portion of venison and push it to one side of the large trencher. Hacking a crisp bird in two, he added that to the serving and called for a cup. The small clay beaker he filled with beer from his own jack.

“Eat your fill,” he said.

Although his head was swimming with hunger, Tol hesitated. The table’s twenty-pace length was crowded with the Riders of the Great Horde, all talking, eating, and drinking. The serving lads ringed the room, staying back out of the way until called. None of them was eating.

“Go on. Eat.” Egrin took the heavy gilded sword from Tol’s hands, and leaned it against the table.

When his fingers touched the hot capon, Tol’s reservations vanished. He tore into the bird greedily. Egrin couldn’t know how rare a treat this was for the farmer’s son. Perhaps four times a year he would taste red meat – and chicken or game birds only a little more often. Meat was for men, Tol’s father always said. Women and children had to make do with broth and vegetables.

The capon was sweet and smoky, much finer than the stringy partridges or tough chicken he was used to. Tol put the stripped bones down and reached for the beaker.

He’d drunk watered cider once. Old Kinzen, herbmaster and healer to the hill farmers, had treated him for a cough with a decoction of sumac and willow in mulled cider, diluted by half with water. That drink had been bitter, but the warriors’ beer was not. The first sip made Tol’s tongue tingle, and the first swallow spread the sensation all the way down his gullet.

Tol’s surprise showed plainly on his face. Egrin grinned at him.

“The second thing a Rider of the Horde learns,” the warden said, loud enough for his comrades nearby to hear, “is to drink beer.”

Red-faced from the liquid’s spreading warmth, Tol asked, “What’s the first?”

“How to fight.” The men cheered.

Tol finished the capon and venison, then washed it all down with the last golden drops of beer. The world seemed to waver a bit, and he found himself sitting down without meaning to. Warriors looked at him and laughed.

“Our fare’s too much for him,” said Manzo, sitting across the table from Tol. Helmetless, Manzo’s long brown hair was revealed to be as prematurely silvered as his beard.

“Is this the lad who saved Lord Odovar?” asked another man.

“The same. He saved me as well,” Egrin said. They demanded to hear the tale. Pushing himself back from the table, Egrin related his fight with Vakka Zan, and how Tol interfered with the noble’s fatal thrust. The raucous noise died as the Riders all listened, enthralled.

When Egrin finished, a blond-haired man farther down the table shouted, “A peasant boy did all that? Unbelievable!”

“By Draco Paladin, it’s true,” said the warden.

“Ah, he’s got a rider’s blood in his veins!” said Manzo.

“I’ll wager his mother’s mate doesn’t know that!” the blond man quipped. That set the assembly to roaring.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of loud voices and raucous laughter. Tol curled up on the oaken floor by Egrin’s chair and slept deeply, weighed down by the toil of his journey, his rich meal, and the potent brew.

When he woke some time later, a tempest of snores filled the hall. Egrin and the other riders had fallen asleep in their chairs, slumped over the table or with heads hanging back, mouths agape. The shuttered windows admitted a dim gray light. Tol crept to the nearest one, carefully stepping over sleeping warriors. It was early morning, and the sky was thick with low clouds. He could smell rain coming.

Vakka Zan’s golden saber lay across the sleeping Egrin’s knees. Tol tried to take it without rousing the warden, but Egrin’s senses were too keen. As soon as the heavy blade began to slide across his lap, he jerked awake and grabbed for the hilt.

Egrin scrubbed his face with one hand. “It’s early. Why are you stirring?”

“Dawn is breaking. Isn’t it time to wake?”

“For farmers maybe. Warriors sleep longer.”

Egrin shifted the hilt to his shoulder and folded his arms over the blade. “G’night,” he murmured, resting his head on his crossed arms.

Defeated, Tol tip-toed away. He decided to have a look around. Perhaps he could find some water – he was terribly thirsty and his injured cheek was stiff and aching.

He went down the wide steps, picking his way around guardsmen sleeping in awkward positions on the stairs. The stable below was quietly astir as boys went to and fro, filling mangers with hay and troughs with water. They ignored Tol, concentrating on their chores.

In back of the guardsmen’s hall was a well. Two boys about Tol’s age were hoisting a chain of buckets out, each brimming with fresh water. As soon as they set a pail down, another boy whisked it away.

“Spare some water?” Tol asked. “I’m dry as dirt!”

The tow-headed boy at the bucket chain shrugged. “Help self.”

Tol raised the brimming bucket to his lips and drank deeply. The water was cold and tasted of minerals, much better than the creek water they drank back home, which too often tasted of mud or dead leaves. Twice every summer the creek dried up when the family needed it most.

After rinsing his injured cheek, Tol put the bucket down and thanked his benefactor. The second boy hooked the pail on the chain again and hauled away on the metal links, dragging the empty buckets over the flagstones and back down the well. Tol asked their names.

“I’m Narren,” said the tow-headed boy. “He’s Crake.” Narren indicated his companion, who was dark-skinned, like the northern seafarers Tol had heard tales of. Crake absently waved a hand.

“Horses not fed, watered, and combed by the time the masters wake up, we all get beaten,” he explained.

Narren nodded, confirming this.

“You joining us?” Crake asked, pushing the empty buckets over the lip of the well wall with his bare foot.

Tol had no idea what Lord Odovar or Egrin had in store for him. But before he could ponder it long, a clatter of horses’ hooves out front was punctuated by the blare of brass trumpets.

Narren and Crake immediately abandoned the bucket chain and rushed into the stable. The other boys likewise ran about, clearing away stray buckets and brooms.

The front doors of the stable flew open, revealing eight riders led by Morthur Dermount. He wasn’t smiling today. Black brows collided over his thin nose, and a purple vein throbbed visibly in his neck.

“Where is the warden? Roust him out, before I put a torch to this place and wake him myself!” he roared.

An older boy ran upstairs to fetch Egrin. On the steps, guardsmen steeped in beer stirred sluggishly, peering at the new day with bloodshot eyes.

“Why am I standing here in horse dung, waiting?” Morthur bellowed after several minutes. “Bring me the warden of the Household Guard!”

Egrin came down looking rumpled and cross. He drew himself up in front of Morthur and unsheathed his dagger blade in salute.

“My lord,” he said hoarsely. “My apologies for the delay.”

Morthur looked down scornfully from the height of his horse’s back. “You sleep off yet another drunken carouse while I, a cousin of the emperor, am left waiting in the stables! It’s intolerable, warden!”

“Yes, my lord. What is it you require?”

“The Lord Marshal tells me you captured a Pakin noble yesterday, one Vakka Zan to be exact.” Egrin confirmed it, and Morthur added, “He is to be judged this morning. Lord Odovar would see him shortened by a head.”

Egrin started visibly. “I thought the Lord Marshal intended to hold the Pakin as a hostage, or for ransom?”

Morthur sneered. “So thought I, warden. Vakka Zan is more nobly born than anyone hereabouts, save myself. Such blood should not be shed lightly, but the Lord Marshal has made his will plain.” He moved to go, then turned back to add, “Oh, and Lord Vakka’s sword. Fetch it to Lord Odovar at once.”

Egrin glanced at Tol as he said, “Sword, my lord? It’s mine as a trophy of single combat.”

“I merely convey the High Marshal’s commands,” Morthur said irritably. “I, with the blood of emperors in my veins, reduced to carrying messages …” His hands tightened on the reins and his horse pranced under him. Egrin was forced to step back smartly to avoid its heavy hooves.

Morthur smiled thinly at the warden’s quick movements. With a shout, he rode off, trailed by his retinue. Egrin watched them go, scratching his chin through his gray-speckled beard.

“Bad business,” he said. “Bad business.”

Tol remained behind when the other boys dispersed to their tasks. He came to Egrin’s elbow. “I must give up the sword?” he said.

“Seems so, lad.” Egrin scratched some more. “Or maybe not. You will accompany me to the High House to see the marshal. You shall carry the sword.”

Feeling a mix of pride and apprehension, Tol asked, “Why me, sir?”

“To remind Lord Odovar not only what I owe you, but what he owes you as well.”

He slapped Tol sharply on the back. “Make haste! If we hurry, we can reach Lord Odovar before Lord Morthur does. He’s a lazy sort, and may visit two or three taverns before heading back to the High House.”

“Why must we arrive before Lord Morthur?”

Egrin’s eyes narrowed, but a hint of a smile revealed his good humor. “Showing a fool to be a fool is easy, but showing a fool to a fool may save a man’s life.”

*

Glowering over the half-timbered houses of Juramona, the High House was almost a second town in itself. The seat of the Lord Marshal perched atop the man-made hill built by a thousand prisoners of war and had its own stable, armory, larder, and great hall. It was in this last that Lord Odovar conducted the affairs of his domain, subject to the will of his over-lord and master, the emperor of Ergoth.

Tol arrived with Egrin, Manzo, and three other guardsmen. He rode behind the warden, Lord Vakka’s saber held tightly in his sweating hands. They ascended a steep ramp made of logs into the lowest courtyard, then dismounted to walk up the spiral ramp that encircled the mound. Every structure on the hill had a flat, sturdy roof, manned by gangs of spearmen. The spearmen wore simple pot helmets and painted leather cuirasses over quilted jerkins. They were not Riders of the Great Horde, but hired men. Horseless, their only purpose was to defend the High House, for which they were paid in salt, meat, and bread.

The second-to-topmost tier was the marshal’s hall. Egrin, Tol, and the guardsmen were held at the door until a lackey returned with Lord Odovar’s permission for them to enter. It was granted, and Egrin marched in boldly at the head of his men.

Odovar was seated in a tall chair on a carpeted timber platform higher than the rest of the floor. He’d washed away the filth and blood of the past several days and wore a finely woven crimson robe and sash. Leather bands, sewn with red and blue gems, encircled his forearms, and a heavy gold chain rested on his chest.

To Odovar’s left, on a lower bench, sat a handsome, well-fleshed woman. She was garbed in a white cloth that seemed to shine with its own light and, combined with her pale skin and light hair, gave her an otherworldly radiance. A large sapphire hung from a golden chain around her neck, and similar blue stones sparkled in her dangling earrings.

At the marshal’s right hand stood a thick-waisted, bald man. He wore a stiff linen robe with a red velvet stole draped around his neck. His hands, like his belly, were big and soft-looking. A tight smile never left his face as he watched Egrin’s group approach.

The walls of the great hall were plastered and whitewashed, making the round room seem even larger than it was. Fires flickered in standing brass braziers on each side of the marshal’s high chair, and heavy tapestries in bold, deep hues hung from the rafters behind the raised platform.

Egrin stopped abruptly, slapping his boot heels together and raising high his dagger. “My lord! I have come as you bid. How may I serve you?”

Odovar gave the pale woman’s hand a squeeze and kiss, then dropped it. His forehead was swathed in a linen bandage, almost obscuring one eye.

“Where is Morthur?” he asked.

“I don’t know, sir,” Egrin replied. “He delivered your summons and departed. I came here straightaway.”

“In some swill shop, no doubt,” Odovar said, answering his own question, “or chasing a milkmaid around the dairy barns.” His lady simpered, and the bald man clucked his tongue disapprovingly.

“I see you brought the Pakin’s sword,” Odovar added. He held out his hand.

Tol was reluctant to relinquish the weapon. Egrin nudged him, and Tol approached the high chair with arms outstretched, the gilded saber balanced across his hands. Odovar rose and took the sword. He swept it back and forth through the air, admiring its weight and the flashing glints from its gold chasing.

“A masterful blade,” he said. “Made by the elf smith Exanthus, I’m told.” He took the hilt in both hands and brought the saber down in a powerful chop. “Should sever the traitor’s head with no trouble. What do you think, Lanza?”

He reversed his grip and offered the weapon to the bald man beside him. Lanza took it gingerly and scrutinized the fine filigree on the blade with a practiced eye.

“The hilt is typical Daltigoth, but the blade is Silvanesti work, right enough,” he said. “You could probably cleave the altar stone of Solin with such an edge.”

Odovar took the sword back. He seated himself again and leaned toward his lady, showing off the sword’s exquisite inlay to her.

“My lord, I would ask a boon of you,” Egrin said.

The marshal, only half listening, merely grunted. He chucked his lady’s chin gently with the sword hilt, and she giggled, fluttering long eyelashes at him.

Egrin forged on. “My lord, I ask you to spare the life of Vakka Zan.”

The whispered dalliance between Odovar and his lady died. The marshal turned his full attention to Egrin.

“What?” Odovar demanded. “Did you say spare the traitor?”

“Spare a noble hostage,” Egrin countered.

Odovar leaped to his feet, hand clenched around the sword hilt. “How dare you plead for that rogue’s life! You’ve gone soft on the Pakins, Egrin!” The marshal’s voice rose to a shout. “I will exterminate this traitor. There will be no peace until every Pakin has his head removed from his shoulders! Vakka Zan will die, and the emperor will know he has a strong hand in the Eastern Hundred!”

The hard plaster walls echoed Odovar’s shouts. His lady gazed up at him worshipfully, and bald Lanza nodded approval. Odovar resumed his seat with a forceful thump, his face flushed.

Egrin spoke quietly, trying another approach, “My lord, this is Tol, the boy who saved you from Lord Grane day before yesterday.”

Odovar squinted from under his bandage. “Yes? So it is. As his reward, find a place for him in the stables or the cookhouse.”

“Yes, my lord. You may not know it, but the boy also saved my life in the fight outside the town gates.” Egrin related how Tol had thrown himself on Vakka Zan, saving Egrin from certain death. The tale seemed to please Odovar. His high color faded, and he smiled.

“A game lad indeed,” he said. “I should put you to work in the High House.”

Egrin glanced at Tol. “My lord, I must tell you – I gave the boy the Pakin sword. He saved me, and I defeated Lord Vakka. By right of combat, the Pakin’s life belongs to me then, does it not?”

Odovar’s massive hands closed into fists. “Greater things are at stake than the rights of single combat. The Pakin must die.”

Egrin paused, giving his lord’s words due consideration, then said, “Will you at least agree, my lord, the sword belongs to Master Tol?”

The marshal laughed shortly, unpleasantly. “Give a Silvanesti-forged blade to a peasant boy? What would he do with it? Plow a furrow?”

Egrin nudged Tol. The boy stepped forward. He was quaking inside, but as before his voice did not betray his fear.

“My lord, I gladly would give the Pakin sword to you —”

Odovar snorted. “My thanks, boy!”

“— in exchange for the life of Vakka Zan.”

The marshal was out of his chair and down from the platform in one bound. “What knavery is this, Egrin? You bring a peasant brat to bargain with me, like some market day fishmonger? Saved my life or no, if I give the word his head will go on a spike next to the Pakin’s!”

Tol’s hard-won courage failed. He stepped back, trembling.

“The boy meant no harm, my lord,” Egrin said quickly. “I told him what to say.”

Odovar skinned back his lips in a broad, cruel smile. “I am not an ogre, after all. I accept your gift of the Pakin’s sword, boy.” He bowed his head mockingly to Tol. “And I, Odovar of Juramona, will not take the life of Vakka Zan.”

Tol almost fainted with relief at the marshal’s generosity. Yet the warden looked grimmer than ever.

“No, I will not take his life – you shall,” Odovar announced, thrusting a finger at Egrin. “In the main square of Juramona, at dawn tomorrow.” He handed the sword to Egrin. “You may borrow my Silvanesti sword to do the job.”

Smoothing his crimson robe and tightening the sash at his waist, Lord Odovar resumed his seat. The great hall was still, save for the hiss of the braziers. No one moved or spoke for a long minute.

“Go,” said the marshal at last, waving dismissal. “Practice your swing, warden. I don’t want a botched job tomorrow.”

The warriors saluted. As they withdrew, Odovar had one last spear to cast. “Bring brave Master Tol with you to the execution, warden,” he called out. “We have him to thank for both sword and traitor.” Egrin did not acknowledge the cruel command, so Odovar shouted, “That is my order!”

Egrin turned and saluted. “It shall be done, my lord.”

The warriors and Tol remained silent until they had left the High House. Once on the streets of Juramona, Tol said, “I never meant to cause Vakka Zan’s death!”

“You didn’t,” Egrin said grimly. “This is by the will of the High Marshal alone.”

Tol lowered his voice so only the warden could hear him. “It doesn’t seem right.”

“Right is the word of the emperor, and through him, his princes, lords, and marshals. If you intend to live in Juramona, Tol, you’d better learn that truth straightaway.”

Chapter 4

A NEW LIFE

Tol was lodged with the stableboys that night, given a berth in a bank of wooden bunks, a rough homespun blanket, and a clay cup from which to drink. The room was warm and smoky from the two banked fires, and alive with snores and snorts, coughs and groans. Crake and Narren were nearby, but sound asleep. Tol kicked off his unnecessary cover and tried to follow their example. Sleep eluded him. His mind wouldn’t settle down.

Five days had passed since he’d left the onion field with Lord Odovar. On their journey here, the marshal had promised to send word to his mother and father. Things got so lively later on, Tol didn’t know whether anyone had been dispatched to the farm after all. He didn’t dare pester Lord Odovar about it. The marshal seemed all too easily angered.

Tol jerked awake, surprised to realize he’d fallen asleep. The boys’ hall was quieter now. Glowing embers on the twin hearths had died, leaving the room fully dark and chillier than it had been.

Accustomed to living by the rhythms of night and day, Tol sensed dawn wasn’t far off. With the sunrise, he remembered, would come the execution of Vakka Zan. He climbed down from the high bunk, threw his blanket around his shoulders like a cloak, and slipped outside.

The flagstone courtyard between the boys’ hall and the stable was slick with dew. It wasn’t actually raining, but a heavy mist silvered the morning in a fine, damp veil. After a drink at the well, Tol passed through the silent stable into the street beyond.

No one was stirring in Juramona at that hour. Following the directions Crake had given him the night before, Tol tramped down the noisome track to the town square, where the execution was to take place. It wasn’t a very big place, nor was it a square – more a rough rectangle. On market days it would be thronged with hundreds of folk, eagerly trading. On this misty morning, there was nothing to see but a tall wooden platform and a few men sleeping on the ground next to it.

Tol approached. As he drew within a few paces, the man nearest him bolted to his feet in a clatter of arms.

“Stand off!” the man shouted, leveling a wicked-looking billhook at the boy.

Tol held up his hands. “Friend! Friend! I am lately come to Juramona with the warden of the Household Guard!”

“And his name is?” the soldier demanded.

“Egrin, Raemel’s son.”

The soldier raised the billhook and rested it on his shoulder. “Aye, that’s him. A right good commander he is, too.”

“Why are you men here?” Tol asked.

The fellow hiked a thumb over his shoulder. “Guarding a prisoner. He’s losing his head this day.”

Tol was surprised. Lord Vakka was already at the place of his execution? He voiced his curiosity, and the guard replied, “We marched him out here just after midnight. Lord Marshal’s orders. ‘No warm beds for traitors. Let’im soak in the chill of night,’ he says. So here were are, soakin’ it up with him.”

Beneath the tall platform Tol could make out a solitary figure huddled next to one of the center posts. The man’s wrists were chained to the post and his head rested against them, hiding his face, but his fine head of colorless hair marked him as Vakka Zan.

The guard coughed nervously. “Uh, no harm’s done of course – the Pakin is chained and no one could get to him but through us. Still …” He studied Tol from under shaggy brows, then continued in a lower voice, “You won’t say nothing to the warden about us all sleepin’, will you?”

Tol shook his head solemnly, then asked, “Can I talk to the prisoner? Only for a moment?”

The guard hacked and spat, pondering the request. At last he said, “Say your piece. But no touching, nor giving, or taking away anything. Understand?”

Tol swore to abide by the rules, and the guard moved off to roust his comrades from their slumber with the butt of his bill. Coughing and grumbling, the soldiers rose and shook off the clinging mist. Two set to work lighting fires in iron baskets beside the platform.

The Pakin prisoner stirred, raising his head. Tol approached him cautiously. Stripped of his fancy armor, Vakka Zan was revealed to be a slender, youthful man, somewhere between Tol and Egrin in years. Though disheveled and damp from his night in the square, he had remarkably refined, almost girlish, features. His hands and face were streaked with dirt and dried blood. A mighty greenish-blue bruise covered the left side of his jaw. Despite all that, he was a striking fellow. His hair was shoulder length and white, his skin very pale. His eyebrows and eyelashes were so white as to be nearly invisible. But his eyes were strangest of all: The irises were pink and the pupils, a deeper red. In the heat of battle, Tol had not noticed the man’s oddly colored eyes.

“What do you want?” Vakka Zan said sullenly, interrupting the boy’s silent scrutiny.

“Are you an elf?”

The Pakin noble laughed bitterly. “You’re not the first to ask me that!” He shifted position, chains rattling loudly. “I’m no Silvanesti. There’s a strain in the Pakin clan that’s born without color in hair or skin. We’re known as the ‘White Pakins.’” Vakka Zan fixed the boy with his strange, pinkish eyes. “Have I satisfied your wondering?”

Tol nodded, missing the sarcastic tone. What he really wanted to say was hard to get out. Finally, he blurted, “I’m sorry you are being killed today!”

“You and me both.” Vakka Zan leaned back against the post and cradled his chains in his lap, adding, “Why do you care? Aren’t you loyal to the Ackals?”

Tol looked at the mist-slicked stones at his feet. “I helped capture you. I was the one who stopped you from killing Lord Odovar’s warden.”

The Pakin’s eyes widened. His face remained blank for a few heartbeats, then contorted into a ferocious snarl. Screaming, he hurled himself at Tol.

The boy was so shocked he didn’t respond until the white fingers were almost around his throat. With a sudden burst of self-preservation, Tol threw himself backward. The chains pulled Vakka Zan up short, but he hurled himself against them again and again, trying to reach the boy. Flat on his back, Tol scrambled away on elbows and heels.

Guards came running, shouting for quiet. When the Pakin refused to calm down, they pummeled him with the butts of their billhooks. He went down under their blows, but continued to scream threats at them all.

The corporal of the guards hauled Tol to his feet. “Sweet Mishas, what did you say to him?”

Tol stammered a reply, and the guard said, “So it’s true, eh? You helped capture him.” To his men he shouted, “Easy, boys. Don’t kill him! Lord Odovar will have all our heads if the Pakin dies before his time!”

The heavy mantle of clouds had lightened, heralding the dawn beyond the rain. Massed, slow hoofbeats sounded on the stony street, and a contingent of the Household Guard, led by Egrin, appeared at the south end of the square. They were most imposing in their scale shirts and angular helmets. Egrin deployed them around the platform. While the riders moved into place, Egrin rode through the guards, who drew back out of Old Acorn’s path. He halted beneath the edge of the platform.

“Stand up, my lord,” he said to Vakka Zan. The Pakin noble tried, then slumped back to the ground.

“Get him up,” Egrin said quietly. Two footmen dragged Vakka Zan to his feet. At Egrin’s order, a bucket of clean water was brought, and the Pakin noble was allowed to wash his face and hands.

“You’re to die soon. I can’t change that,” Egrin said. “But there’s no reason you have to perish like a pig, in mud and filth.”

“Your time will come, all of you,” Vakka Zan replied fiercely. “When word of this outrage reaches the true emperor, this entire settlement will be razed, and everyone inside will die a slow death!”

“The true emperor is our liege, Pakin III, who reigns in Daltigoth, not the charlatan you bow to,” Egrin said.

“The throne in Daltigoth is held by a usurper, with no right to the Pakin name! His head will soon rot on the highest spike in the empire!”

A crowd of townsfolk was gathering, drawn by the promise of a rare spectacle. The mob parted as Lord Odovar arrived on horseback in full armor, with Morthur Dermount beside him. Trailing them, the marshal’s retinue rode under a wide canvas awning supported by poles carried by mounted servants. Tol recognized bald Lanza and the marshal’s plump, blonde lady.

“Your voice carries far,” Odovar boomed at Vakka Zan. “But I doubt it will reach the Pretender in his squalid exile’s camp.”

The Pakin recovered his composure at the sight of his enemy. “It may reach Lord Grane,” he said coldly.

Odovar’s retinue shifted nervously, and the marshal flexed a gauntleted fist around his reins. The threat had touched a vulnerable spot. Grane had nearly gotten Odovar once, and was still at large with forces of unknown strength.

“Proceed with the course of justice,” Odovar commanded. “Warden, are you ready?”

“At your command, my lord,” said Egrin.

The chains were unwound from Vakka Zan, and the rivets of his shackles driven out. Burly footmen yanked his hands behind his back and lashed them with cord. Eight soldiers mounted the platform, taking positions at each corner and midway between. Facing outward, they presented their spears. Vakka Zan, followed by two guards, climbed the wooden steps to the platform’s summit.

“Lanza, do your part,” Odovar said.

The rotund man got down carefully from his horse and walked to the front edge of the canopy. The mist had become a slow rain, and he took care not to get his shiny pate wet.

“Great Manthus!” he intoned, lifting his hands high. His sleeves slid back, exposing hairy forearms. “See now our fair justice! Protect our Lord Marshal from all enemies, both of flesh and spirit! Disperse any curses laid upon him by the condemned or his blood kin, for he dies adjudged of the crimes of treason, rebellion, and the taking up of arms against his lawful sovereign! Hear us, O Manthus!”

So saying, he clapped his hands together thrice, then dipped first his right hand, then his left, into the voluminous pockets in his robe, bringing out dark red rose petals. These he slung in high, wide arcs. They fell on Lord Odovar, his horse, and the pavement around him.

Lanza nodded to his lord, and the marshal said, “Let it be done!”

In the center of the platform was a simple bench made of heavy planks. Without prodding, Vakka Zan walked to the bench and knelt behind it, facing Odovar and his retinue. He flung his long white hair aside and laid his head, right ear down, on the block.

Egrin mounted the steps. Tol’s heart pounded. He saw why Lord Vakka had turned his head the way he did: so he didn’t have to watch Egrin approach with blade bared.

Disdaining pomp or ceremony, Egrin shucked the scabbard from the gilded sword. Even in the dull light and drizzle the Silvanesti-forged blade sparkled like a fine jewel. The crowd of common folk strained forward against the ring of mounted warriors, eager to miss nothing.

Egrin did not wait. Taking the grip in both hands, he turned sharply on one heel and drew back the sword until the curved tip just touched the small of his back, then swung it down.

Tol did not close his eyes. Many around him did, soldiers included. He saw the gold-streaked blade flash through the air. Egrin let his knees bend deeply, putting his full weight behind the stroke. There wasn’t the slightest hesitation or delay when blade met flesh. Silvanesti iron passed smoothly through the Pakin’s neck and through the wooden bench beneath.

Egrin immediately recovered his stance and brought the blade up again. Simultaneously, the bench collapsed into two halves and Vakka Zan’s head landed with a thump on the platform.

The crowd let out a spontaneous roar of approval. The cost of the Ackal-Pakin war had been high, in lives lost, in misery, and in grievous trade disruptions. One less Pakin seemed a fine idea to those watching.

Egrin descended the steps, the unsheathed sword held at his side. His hands were spattered with blood. More blood coated the blade. Without a word, he presented the weapon hilt-first to Lord Odovar. The two men’s eyes did not meet, but Odovar took the sword by the handguard and tossed it to Morthur, beside him. Lips curled in distaste, Morthur held the Silvanesti sword for his liege lord. Crimson droplets fell from its tip.

Odovar turned his horse around and rode away. His entourage was slow to follow, as the long line of women and household retainers sheltering under the awning shuffled awkwardly around, trying to keep out of the weather.

Egrin’s second-in-command, Manzo, brought Old Acorn forward. Tol stepped up and took the reins. He led the horse to the warden, still standing where he’d handed Lord Odovar the gilded sword. Egrin accepted the reins and laid a strong hand on Tol’s shoulder. It remained there only a moment, then was withdrawn.

At Manzo’s command, the Householders formed up and rode out. Next, the corporal of the footmen ranked his men and pushed the curious onlookers out of the square. Soon the only people left were Egrin, Tol, and the two men from the town charnel house, come to take the body away. Vakka’s head Odovar had reserved for display in his hall.

After the body had been removed, Egrin mounted Old Acorn and departed. Tol ran after him, feet splashing in puddles.

The square was empty at last. Despite the rain, bloodstains remained on the platform for a long time.

*

In spite of all the wonders he had seen, and the kindness and good fellowship of Egrin and the stableboys, Tol decided to leave Juramona. Lord Odovar’s cruelty, matched by the viciousness of the condemned Pakin noble, left him feeling sick and disgusted. Life with his family, even amid the farm’s ceaseless toil, was better than the wonders – and incomprehensible ways – of this town.

He had made the decision to leave by the time he’d returned to the boys’ hall after the execution. The place was empty, as everyone was out working, but Tol huddled by one of the fires and dried his sodden clothing. The only food was the leavings of the boys’ communal breakfast – dried-out oat porridge and some crusts of black bread. Tol ate all the porridge left in the pot and put what crusts he could find in a scrap of old cloth. He would need food for the journey.

The master of the boys, Zolamon, found Tol in the hall, and drove him out with shouts and buffets. He was given a wide wooden fork and set to mucking out the horse stalls with four other boys his size. The work was no worse than what he did every day at the farm, and he quickly outstripped his fellows, clearing two stalls to every one they managed. He welcomed the labor; it kept his mind from dwelling on Vakka Zan or, worse still, his severed head. He could’ve sworn that, as the head rolled free on the platform, the dead man’s strange, pinkish eyes had shifted as though he were still alive and searching for someone ….

Zolamon returned. He was called “Big Stick” by the stable-boys, and the origin of the nickname was obvious. He tapped a thick hardwood cudgel against his thigh as he strolled down the line of stalls, inspecting the boys’ progress. Tol thought Zolamon would be pleased with what he’d done, but the taskmaster yelled at him just as he did the others. Still, he didn’t hit Tol as he did two other boys, so Tol decided his work must have been satisfactory after all.

Supper in the boys’ hall was a noisy, confusing affair, but what surprised Tol was the quantity of food available. Certainly not as rich as the capons, venison, and beer consumed by the Riders of the Horde, but the boys’ stew and black bread were plentiful and filling. He’d never starved on the farm, but he never seemed to get quite enough to eat, either. And he seldom got real bread, only flat, hard disks of firecake, so even these coarse loaves were a treat. As he ate his fill among the raucous boys, Tol had no trouble secreting away several hunks of bread.

When supper was done, the healer arrived. Felryn served the marshal’s entire household, from Lord Odovar down to the least stableboy. He was middle-aged, with curly black hair and dark bronze skin. Over a brown linen robe he wore a pantherskin tabard, tied with a heavy sash. His most striking feature was his hands. They were unusually large and powerful, with very long fingers. As he worked his way down the row of boys, those strong hands proved surprisingly gentle.

Reaching Tol, Felryn said, “You’re new. What are you called?”

“Tol, my lord.”

“I’m not your lord.” He grasped Tol’s chin and pushed his head back, peering into the boy’s eyes. “I’m a physician. I work for my living, so don’t call me ‘lord.’”

“Yes, sir.”

Felryn did not mention the cut on Tol’s cheek. Instead, the healer said, “Show me your hands.”

Tol did so, and Felryn grunted. “They tell me you cleared more stalls than three boys of long residence here. How is it you have no blisters?”

“I’m used to work,” Tol replied. He glanced away at the high slit windows. It was already dark and he was impatient to get away.

“Farm lad?” said the healer. Tol nodded.

Felryn lifted Tol’s arms from his sides, prodded the muscles of his shoulders and upper arms, and asked his age. When Tol could only shrug, the healer said, “No matter. You’re a well made lad. Where did you dwell before coming to Juramona?”

Tol’s gaze strayed to the west window. “My family’s farm is in the hills between the forest and plain,” he answered.

Felryn pursed his lips thoughtfully. He took a ribbon of cloth from his sash, and bade Tol stand up straight. With another boy to help him, Felryn stretched the ribbon from Tol’s feet to the crown of his head. From under the panther-skin tabard he drew a small board covered with wax. He made a few marks in the wax with a metal stylus then tucked the board away.

“Very good,” he said, one large hand toying with the stylus. “I will see you again, Master Tol.”

Felryn moved on to the next boy, whose hands were covered by blisters. The healer buttered them with a pungent salve that made the lad wince, then wrapped his palms with strips of rag.

When Felryn departed, the boys at last settled down. Weary older youths crawled into their low berths while the youngest boys banked the fires. Before long the first snores began, but Tol waited, making sure everyone was fast asleep.

Judging the time was right at last, he dropped soundlessly to the floor, his food bundle tucked under his arm. No one stirred as he padded outside.

Cold wind had scoured the rain away, leaving the heavens bright with stars. Tol pulled on the hide moccasins he’d been given in place of his farmer’s clogs, then hastily wrapped his woolen leggings up to his knees. Ready at last, he straightened – and found himself facing a looming dark shape.

Even as he gasped in shock, the figure moved forward into a patch of moonlight. It was the healer, Felryn.

“Can’t sleep?” Felryn asked, brown eyes crinkling in amusement.

Tol began to stammer excuses, but the healer waved them away, his expression becoming serious. “You want to go home, boy?” he said.

Tol admitted it, adding, “My family needs me on the farm.”

“Mmm.” Without warning, Felryn took him by the wrist and announced, “We must see the warden.”

Worried, Tol tried to pull away, but Felryn held him fast and began to walk purposefully toward the Riders’ Hall. Tol continued to stammer excuses and to try to free himself, but in no time they were climbing the wooden stairs to the upper story. Not wishing to embarrass himself in front of the Riders, Tol stopped his struggles as he and Felryn entered the hall.

The great room was dark but for a single candle burning at the head of the long table. Egrin sat alone there, the candlelight flickering over his face and the pewter mug on the table in front of him. He stared blankly at the mug, absently rubbing one ear, obviously lost in thought. Felryn’s approach caused the warden to look up, but slowly, as though pulling his attention back from a great distance.

“Something amiss?” Egrin asked, frowning and getting to his feet.

Felryn halted by the table. “Master Tol is taking his leave of Juramona. I persuaded him to delay long enough to speak with you first.”

The elder warrior looked down at Tol, and the boy colored in embarrassment.

“Why were you sneaking out in the middle of the night?” Egrin asked. Tol did not speak, so the warden added, “The Pakin’s death shocked you, didn’t it? Lord Odovar’s word is law. His judgment was harsh, Tol, but the law must be enforced, or there is no law. You must understand that.”

“Sir, my family will be worried,” Tol blurted. “They don’t know what happened to me. Lord Odovar has a lot of stable-boys, but my family’s got only me and my two sisters.”

Egrin and Felryn smiled at each other, the lines in the warden’s face easing. “I never intended you should remain in the stables,” Egrin said. “So, Felryn, how does he measure up?”

Felryn nodded gravely. “He is an excellent specimen, my lord. Fit for any duty suited to his age and size.”

“Fine! Tol, how would you like to be my shield-bearer, my shilder? I’ll train you in the way of the warrior. You’ll learn to ride, and fight with sword, spear, and bow. Six springs from now, if you desire to leave my service, you can do so. You’ll be free then to take any path you choose.”

It was an amazing offer, all the more so because of Tol’s humble origins. Most Riders of the Horde took on shilder from time to time, but they were always the sons of worthy retainers – not peasant boys.

“I can do anything I want six springs from now?” Tol asked.

“Aye, by then you’ll be old enough to choose your own calling.”

“Will I live in the hall with the stable hands?”

“No. Shilder have their own hall, within the walls of the High House.”

Tol nodded, then walked slowly away, head hung in thought. His injured cheek ached, reminding him of his earlier brush with the life of a soldier.

“I’m not sure I can be a warrior,” he said in a small voice, his hand coming up to touch his wound.

“Don’t judge the life by the blood you’ve seen shed,” Egrin said. “Anyone can be trained to kill. To be a warrior means much more than that. You’ll also learn when not to fight. That’s usually a far harder lesson to master.”

After another silent minute, Tol turned and faced Egrin. “I would like to be your shield-bearer,” he declared, “if my father agrees.”

The warden smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “Fair enough! Shall we go and ask him?”

*

The next morning, they left Juramona before the sun had risen. Tol’s farm lay four days’ ride south and west, in the hills beyond the plain he’d crossed with Lord Odovar. Egrin and Tol rode Old Acorn. Accompanying them, somewhat to Tol’s surprise, was Felryn, mounted on a sturdy brown horse.

The first three days passed uneventfully. Egrin explained the duties and responsibilities of a shilder, answering Tol’s many questions. For his part, Felryn regaled the boy with a colorful account of the assassination of the previous emperor, Pakin II, and the subsequent fight for the throne between his son, Pakin III, and the Pakin Successor. Tol still found himself confused by the fact that the Ackal emperor, enemy of Pakins, was himself named Pakin.

“He chose that name to honor his murdered brother,” Felryn said. “Pakin II had taken the name to reconcile the two factions.” He sighed. “He failed.”

Their third night out, they camped on the lee side of a hill, in the shade of a huge boulder. Tol, rolled up in a blanket provided by Egrin, fell asleep almost at once.

He dreamed, seeing himself and the others lying in a semicircle around their dead campfire. Something drew Tol’s gaze upward, toward the star-sprinkled sky. He sensed a presence. Although he couldn’t make out any shape, he felt that someone was staring down at them, an unfriendly someone. He sensed, too, that the formless, hostile watcher was coming closer, dropping directly down on his own sleeping body like a swooping bird —

Tol awoke, sitting up with a cry.

Egrin roused instantly, hand reaching for the sword lying next to him, and demanded to know what was wrong. Tol apologized and explained the dream he’d had.

“The evil was dropping down on me, like a hawk on a mouse.”

Felryn put his head up from the depths of his own bedroll, muttering, “I like it not. Someone else has his eye on you, Master Tol.”

“It was only a dream. Go back to sleep,” Egrin said, settling himself again on his blanket.

“There’s much stirring in the world, natural and unnatural, warden,” Felryn said sourly. “Everything is a portent these days.”

The healer’s words spoiled Tol’s rest for the remainder of the night.

Chapter 5

THE TRUE PATH

The next day they found the battlefield.

After their disrupted night, Felryn had arisen in a somber mood. What disquieted him he would not say, but as the morning progressed, signs of trouble appeared that upset them all. Thin columns of smoke rose in the distance. Crows and vultures wheeled overhead. Past noon the wind changed, bringing with it the unmistakable stench of death.

Egrin reined up. Felryn halted close beside him, glancing around with uneasy eyes.

“Where?” the warden asked.

Felryn fingered a deeply engraved white metal disk hanging from a cord around his neck. His face a blank mask of concentration, he pointed straight ahead.

They crossed a shallow creek and rode up the facing draw. The hills parted, revealing a broad, flat vale. From hill to hill, the valley was littered with the bodies of men and horses.

Egrin said nothing, merely touched his heels to Old Acorn’s sides and rode slowly ahead. The war-horse was undisturbed by the sight and smell of corpses. Not so Tol. He clung tightly to Egrin. Although he turned his head from side to side to avoid the horrible spectacle, there was no escape. Death surrounded them.

Felryn’s horse would not follow Old Acorn’s lead through the battlefield. The healer had to climb down and hood the animal’s eyes before it would advance. Even so, the terrified horse trembled in every limb, saliva dripping from its flaring lips, as it placed each hoof with care.

“Look well, Tol, and remember,” said Egrin. “This is what victory looks like,”

“What victory?” The boy’s words were muffled against Egrin’s back.

“These are Pakin dead. See the armbands, the banners?” The battlefield was Uttered with scraps of green cloth. “Those who win battles take their dead away with them. The defeated flee, leaving their men where they fall.”

The carnage was many times worse than what Tol had seen following Lord Odovar’s ambush. Egrin counted more than four hundred Pakins slain. He identified them as local levies, not of the warrior class. They were crudely equipped with leather armor, bronze-tipped spears, and the thick felt caps favored by men of the southern territories. There was very little metal among them – not much armor, no helmets. Here and there were scattered a few men of higher rank. They had been stripped to the skin, their valuable arms and armor carried away by the victorious Ackal warriors. None of their faces was familiar to the warden. Felryn agreed the men had been dead at least two or three days.

At the far end of the vale, Egrin found a mossy bank churned up by the hooves of many horses. Broken sabers Uttered the ground. He dismounted, felt the torn earth with his fingers, and studied the pattern of prints.

“This was not an ambush, but a pitched battle,” he reported. “The numbers were even, but the Pakin levies were no match for warriors of a Great Horde.”

“Imperial soldiers, here?” said Felryn, incredulous.

“Yes, see this sword hilt?” Egrin held up the stump of a shattered weapon. “That’s the pattern used by the Daltigoth Silver Blades, one of four hordes quartered in the capital.”

A horde was a fighting company made up of a thousand warriors. Each horde bore a proud and fearsome name, like the Silver Blades, the Ackal Bloods, or the Red Thunders.

“The fight started out there, on open ground. The Pakins charged, and the Imperial horde drew back, feigning retreat. Then they took the rebels in the flank, broke their formation, and drove them into this trap. Most of the Pakins died here.” Egrin stood up and dusted his hands. “Basic tactics.”

“I call it butchery,” Felryn replied.

Tol listened openmouthed to Egrin’s description of a battle he had not seen, then spoke up.

“These are the Pakins who ambushed Lord Odovar!”

Egrin regarded him skeptically. “How do you know?”

“Some of the men killed in the ambush, the Pakin ones, wore the same sort of hats. They, and the ones who came looking for Lord Odovar, had green cloths tied around their right arms, like these men. I remember wondering how right-handed men managed to do that.”

Egrin studied the fallen rebels again. “I believe you’re right. Good eye, lad!” A fresh thought struck him. “If these are the rebels who attacked the marshal, then Grane must have been with them. As far as I can tell he’s not dead on the field, so he must be on the run. He may still be in the province!”

“Calm yourself, son of Raemel!” said Felryn, as Egrin mounted quickly. “No one knows what Spannuth Grane looks like under his helm. Any one of those stripped nobles could be him.”

“True, but don’t wager on it! Grane would not stand and fight if the battle was going against him. He ran away at the battle of Thingard, and again before the walls of Caergoth.”

As he spoke, Egrin steered Old Acorn in a circle, clearly torn. Duty demanded he go after the traitor Grane, or at least ride back to Juramona with word of the Pakin defeat. But he had made a promise to take Tol home.

Felryn tried to resolve his friend’s dilemma. “Warden, the blood is cold on the ground,” he said. “If Grane abandoned his men as you say, then by now he’s three days hard riding from here.”

Egrin insisted Lord Odovar should be told.

The healer replied, “I’ll tell him. You take the lad home.”

Tol’s farm was half a day’s ride from there. Egrin promised to make straight for Juramona after speaking with Tol’s father.

“On the way back, I’ll cross country to the Caer road, in case Lord Odovar decides to sortie in search of Grane,” the warden said.

“I’D carry your words to him. Farewell, warden. Be on watch, always.”

“I shall. Fast journey, Felryn.”

The healer thumped his heels hard against his mount’s sides, urging the reluctant horse back across the awful battlefield. At the far end of the vale he turned and waved.

“He’s a good man,” Tol said, and he and Egrin waved back.

“The most honorable man in the Eastern Hundred.”

“More than you?” blurted the boy.

The warden looked away to the horizon, absently rubbing one earlobe under his short helmet. His face was devoid of expression.

“I’m not honorable,” Egrin finally said, “only obedient.”

*

The hills grew higher and closer together as they neared Tol’s farm. Mud squelched under Old Acorn’s hooves. The last of winter’s snow had melted, leaving the high ground dry but the notches between the hills sodden.

They passed the place where Odovar had been ambushed. Scarcely twelve days had elapsed, but the site was much changed. The bodies were gone, either dragged away by wild animals or interred by pious farmers. Dead horses had been butchered for meat, and the trampled wreckage of battle scoured clean by scavenging homesteaders. Only memory and the scarred soil remained. A similar fate eventually would engulf the larger battlefield they’d seen.

It was dusk when they arrived at the onion field. Tol leaned to one side to see around Egrin. Neat hills of seedling onions had been planted despite his absence. That cheered him, but his pleasure quickly gave way to guilt. His poor mother must be mad with grief, wondering what had become of him! Perhaps they’d be so relieved at his return they wouldn’t mind so much that he’d left the ashwood hoe in Juramona.

They followed the well-worn path over the hill. Beyond the crest, Egrin pulled Old Acorn to a halt.

“You’d best go in alone, Tol,” the warden said, “Let them know I’m coming. A mounted man arriving after dark would frighten them.”

Tol slid off the horse and made his way alone down the sandy slope. He took care to whistle a tune his father had taught him as a recognition sign.

The family hut was nestled tight against the facing hill, three walls of wattle-and-daub, with the hillside itself serving as fourth wall. A pigsty squatted to the side of the hut, and there was a brick cistern in the yard.

Tol’s whistling abruptly ceased. No plume of smoke rose from the chimney hole – where was the evening’s fire? And why were the windows shuttered and dark?

Tol licked his dry lips, thinking silence would be safer than whistling. He left the path and skulked along the row of hay-berry bushes that lined it. His father had planted the thorny shrubs to keep wolves and panthers away. They were as tall as Tol and practically impenetrable. Hayberry thorns were a handspan long and tough enough to punch through boiled leather.

A horse neighed nearby, and Tol almost jumped into the thorn bushes. His family was too poor to own a horse, yet three were tethered to a post on the far side of the pigsty. Two animals were sturdy war-horses of no particular distinction, but the third was a splendid gray animal, trapped with gold-edged green silk that shimmered even in the twilight.

Green silk. Pakins!

Dropping to the ground, he crawled along the base of the thorn hedge. By the pigsty he found a heap of cold ashes, and many burnt bones. Where once there had been three yearling pigs in the pen, now only two remained, stirring restlessly at the sty’s far end. Someone had obviously roasted the third.

He reached the hut at last, and pressed an ear to the wall. There was no sound from inside. All was deathly still.

Something cold and metal touched his cheek. Tol jerked in surprise and looked up. A very dirty, ragged-looking soldier stood over him, his iron saber pressed against Tol’s face. On his upper right arm, the soldier wore a blood-streaked swatch of green cloth. Snarling, he seized Tol by the collar and dragged him bodily out into the yard.

“My lord,” the Pakin soldier called out. “I caught this boy sneakin’ around.”

The door of the hut swung in, and a figure stood silhouetted against the brighter interior of the hut.

“Who is it?” said the dark apparition.

When Tol didn’t answer, the soldier slapped him. “My name is Tol!” he said, rubbing his stinging ear. “I live here! With my family!”

The man emerged into the starlight. Instead of a face of flesh, the intruder’s countenance was chiseled bronze, fixed in a hideous grin. Tol instantly recognized the armor and carriage of the man he’d met before at the onion field, the lord who had hunted Marshal Odovar and commanded the monstrous panther-creature. It was Spannuth Grane, leader of the Pakin rebels in the southern and eastern provinces.

“I know you, boy,” Grane said, voice hollow inside his closed helmet. “You’re the farmer’s son. Where have you been?”

“Carried off by soldiers, master.” Tol was surprised both by his own easy lie and that such a lordly fellow would remember him after their brief meeting. “I was made to work for them until a few days ago, when I ran away.”

The leering bronze visor nodded slowly up and down. “Put him with the others,” Grane said. A second Pakin warrior came out of the house, and together he and his disheveled comrade shoved Tol inside.

His family was there, huddled by the hillside wall – his father, Bakal, his mother, Ita, and his two sisters, Zalay and Nira. His father had taken a beating: his face was bruised, and one eye was blackened and swollen shut Tol’s mother whimpered with relief and tried to stand and take him in her arms. She was stopped short by a cord tied to her wrists and ankles.

The Pakin soldiers shoved Tol at his anxious mother. They sprawled in a heap on top of his sister Nira. Sorting themselves into sitting positions, they had a low-voiced but joyful reunion.

“How long have they been here?” Tol asked softly.

“Since sundown yesterday,” muttered his father through split lips. “They killed our best pig, and mean to take the others —”

“Shut yer hole,” one soldier snapped. Bakal prudently obeyed.

One man went back outside, to stand watch. Lord Grane shut the door and sat down in the only chair, Bakal’s, by the cold fireplace. A lamp flickered on the hearth near his knee.

Grane removed his fearsome helm. Beneath it, he wore a close mail coif, so all Tol could see of his face was his nose and eyes. He did not resemble Vakka Zan, the White Pakin, for Grane’s eyes were as black and cold as unburned coal.

“Is this all your brood, farmer? Are we to expect any more visitors?”

“This is all,” Tol’s father grunted.

With arms folded, Grane sat facing the cowering family. Tol kept his eyes downcast, even as he strained his ears to hear any sign that Egrin was coming. He heard nothing, and finally his curiosity would not be denied.

“Sir, what are you going to do with us?”

His father growled at him to hush, but Grane replied, “A fair question. Since you were brave enough to ask, I’ll tell you. I shall tarry here awhile, resting. If you do not vex me, I shall spare your lives. When I depart, I shall resume the campaign of my master, the Pakin Successor, against the Ackal tyrant.”

The carnage of the battlefield was still vivid in Tol’s mind. “But your army’s dead,” he blurted.

The Pakin soldier snapped a vulgar word at him. Grane merely shrugged. “Ah, you saw the battlefield,” he said. “A setback, I admit. My cavalry commander mistook Imperial troops for Odovar’s local lackeys. He paid for his blunder with his life.”

His escort sputtered, “My lord! Many a loyal follower of the true emperor died in that fight!”

“‘Life to the strong,’” was Grane’s ironic reply. He didn’t even glance at his man.

“Are these your strongest, then?” Tol muttered, glancing around.

The soldier advanced, blade bared. “Shut up, whelp or I’ll feed you to your own pigs!”

“Sit down, Yarakin,” Grane snapped. “The stableboy is baiting you, and you’re swallowing it like a starving dog. Sit.” Reluctantly, the anxious soldier complied.

Grane produced a short dagger with a sharply pointed, triangular blade. Tol’s mother grasped his wrist in alarm, but the Pakin lord merely dug the tip into the chair arm, idly whittling.

“By daybreak we’ll be gone, boy, so let us spend a quiet night, eh? Sleep, all of you. That is my order.”

Tol’s eyelids fluttered, and he yawned. The rest of his family followed suit.

“Sleep. Rest. Speak no more till sunrise …”

Grane’s voice had taken on a gently insistent tone. Although his mind was racing, Tol felt himself growing more and more tired. His mother’s grip on his arm slackened, and her head rested on his shoulder. Zalay and Nira sighed in unison, their heads drooping. His father yawned so widely his jaw cracked. The soldier Yarakin was already snoring, standing up, leaning on his spear.

“Sleep, all. Sleep. Close your eyes and visit the vale of dreams.”

Grane was working magic, putting everyone to sleep! Tol tried to fight the spell. He was certain Egrin would come to their rescue, and he needed to be awake to help the warden.

But his efforts came to naught. He felt as though soft weights were collecting on his limbs and his eyelids. His head grew so heavy he couldn’t hold it up.

“Sleep, stableboy. Sleep.”

The last thing Tol saw was Grane dragging the chair away from the hearth, into the deep shadows behind the door. The Pakin lord sat down again and drew one of Ita’s rag quilts close around his shoulders. The shadows swallowed him completely; only his greaves were visible, and light from the guttering lamp glinted on their rivets.

As sleep claimed him, Tol heard – or thought he heard – the deep voice of Grane, chuckling.

*

Light roused Tol. He cracked one eyelid. Slim bands of sunlight came through cracks in the shutters. In the beams, silent cascades of dust danced. Tol opened his other eye. Recognition returned as he looked around. His family, the Pakin soldier Yarakin, and Lord Grane slumbered on.

Tol shifted slightly, easing his mother’s head from his arm. With his family at their mercy, the Pakins apparently didn’t consider Tol a threat, and he had not been tied. If he could snatch Yarakin’s spear before the warrior woke, he could perhaps hold him at bay until his father got free.

He listened hard, but heard no sounds from outside. Why hadn’t Egrin come to save them? He was certain the warden wouldn’t simply have ridden away, but he couldn’t risk wasting this opportunity. Yarakin was slumped by the hearth, snoring gratingly. Tol crept toward him. When his hand closed over the spear, he tugged..

The movement unbalanced Yarakin. The soldier slumped forward, and sunlight fell on his face. His eyes opened.

“Ha!” he shouted, taking firm hold of the shaft. He dealt Tol a sharp blow on the thigh, then another in the ribs. Tol went down, dazed with pain.

“My lord, awake!” Yarakin cried.

Deep in the shadowed chair, Lord Grane did not move. Tol’s family did. His father thrust away from wall and, despite his hobbles, butted the Pakin soldier in the stomach. Yarakin reeled back, stumbling over Tol, who was curled up on the floor in agony.

Tol’s mother wept with terror, but his father and two sisters lost no time in falling upon the soldier as soon as he went down.

Tol could hardly believe his sisters would attack so fearlessly. Zalay, the eldest, butted Yarakin’s face repeatedly with her head, and sturdy Nira sat on the hapless fellow’s stomach, lifting herself a short distance and dropping her whole weight on him over and over.

Tol heard noises outside, men’s voices, the ring of metal on metal. Swordplay! Still Lord Grane did not rise from his chair, speak, or assist in any way.

Seeing his father and sisters could handle Yarakin, Tol crept on hands and knees around the hearth, toward the motionless Grane. He took up a length of firewood. It was seasoned oak, and made a good club.

Tol abandoned stealth. He got up, let out a yell, and charged, firewood held high.

He brought it down hard, smashing into Grane’s left knee. The articulated armor plates took the blow, and Grane’s right boot fell to the floor. The quilt covering him fell away and, in a motion that scared Tol half to death, his armored sleeve fell from the chair arm, clanging against the floor. A dark powder streamed from the boot and Grane’s sleeve.

Tol cupped his hand under the stream, filling his palm with cold grit. Black sand. The armor slowly collapsed as the sand poured out. Tol flung back the visor in time to see the empty coif sinking into the suit’s neck. There was no one inside the richly gilded metal. Stunned, Tol stood there staring at the rapidly deflating suit of armor.

Yarakin broke free of his tormentors and made for the door, howling for help at the top of his lungs. He flung the door open and dashed outside. Immediately he gave an inarticulate yell and snatched the saber from his belt. Tol heard the clash of blades, backed by a chorus of neighing horses.

With Grane’s helmet in hand, Tol ran to the door. The second Pakin soldier, the filthy one who’d caught him last night, lay facedown in the yard. Blood was pooling beneath him. Yarakin was trading frenzied cuts with a man in red-trimmed scale-mail. Egrin!

Yarakin jabbed at Egrin desperately. With power born of desperation, he managed to rake the tip of his sword down Egrin’s left cheek. Blood flowed, and the warden of Juramona gave ground, backing toward Old Acorn, who stood by the pigpen fence.

Tol thought of lobbing the gilded helm at the Pakin, but he wasn’t sure of his aim. The last thing he wanted was to hit Egrin.

Clutching the helm and yelling encouragement, Tol was startled to see his father come charging out of the house with Yarakin’s spear in his hands. He caught the Pakin soldier from behind and drove the spear’s bronze head in. Yarakin whirled, slashing at Bakal. The farmer leaped back, tripped on his unwound leggings, and fell against the cistern.

Blood streaming from his lips, Yarakin brought his saber up, but he’d reached the end of his strength. The sword fell from his hands, and his knees buckled. He was dead by the time he hit the ground.

Freed of their bonds, Tol’s mother and sisters spilled out of the hut, all talking at once. They converged on Bakal. Fortunately, Yarakin’s saber had barely nicked the farmer, making a shallow cut across his windpipe. A hair deeper, and he would have been dead beside his attacker. Ita bound the cut with a strip torn from her skirt, clucking worriedly yet proudly all the while.

Egrin shoved his weapon back in its scabbard and caught Old Acorn’s reins. While the warden tied his horse to the sty, Tol held up Grane’s helmet and cried, “Come inside, sir! Lord Grane!”

Egrin’s hand went to his sword hilt. “Is he here?”

“Yes! No! Well, some of him is!”

Puzzled, the warden followed him into the hut. They examined the empty suit of armor from coif to boots. Every lacing was tied, every buckle fastened. Even the frog at the neck of Grane’s cloak was still hooked. All that remained of the man inside was two hundredweight of fine ebon sand, drifted now around his sabatons. It looked for all the world like Grane had wafted away, leaving behind his fine armor filled with dust.

“I wish Felryn were here,” Egrin said. With the blade of his dagger, he scooped up a small sample of the black sand into his belt pouch. “He might make sense of this.”

Tol told of the sleep spell Grane had cast. Egrin nodded grimly. He’d realized Tol’s peril fairly quickly the night before and had followed in after him, but just as he got close to the hut, he’d fallen into a strange sleep himself. The Pakin on sentry duty had been a victim of his master’s sleep spell too. Fortunately, the sentry dozed in the shade, while Egrin had been awakened as the first rays of the rising sun struck his upturned face.

Outside, Tol’s father had made a tidy pile of the two dead Pakins and their weapons. The dead men’s metal and horses would bring a pretty price at the next trader’s fair.

Egrin left the hut with Tol, and both regarded Grane’s fine gray horse, still tied with the other two. The warden scratched his bearded chin in puzzlement. Lord Odovar would have to be told of these doings, and word sent to the emperor himself.

At his mother’s urging, Tol introduced his family to the warden. Tol’s family were awed that their son knew the warden of Juramona by name.

“You’re Bakal, son of Boren?” Egrin said to Tol’s father. “Those sound like dwarvish names.”

The farmer shuffled his feet in the dirt. “Folks say that, but my father was a man like any other. We do come from the highlands near Thorin, but we had no dealing with dwarves.”

“And you, good lady?”

Her cheeks colored. “I’m Ita, daughter of Paktan and Meri.”

Tol’s sisters, openly admiring the valiant warden, fetched him food and water. While Egrin refreshed himself, Tol brought water and fodder for Old Acorn.

Ita praised Egrin profusely for his care of Tol and his help liberating the farm.

“It’s nothing, lady. Your son and I are comrades,” Egrin said good-naturedly, clapping the boy on the back. “Saved my life, Master Tol did.”

Still deferential, Bakal asked why the warden had come in the first place. Was he tracking the mysterious Lord Grane?

Egrin explained the proposal he’d made to Tol, that the boy return with him to Juramona and become his shield-bearer.

Ever plainspoken, Bakal asked, “Why, master? Why our Tol?”

Egrin held out his hand to the boy, who was holding a bucket of water for Old Acorn. “I’ve seen your son face danger,” he said. “He’s a brave lad, with a cool head and sharp wits for his age. He could go far.” Egrin looked at his own calloused and scarred hands. “And he saved my life at great risk to his own. To become a shield-bearer is a great honor. This is my way of settling the debt.”

Bakal pondered. Tol’s leaving would mean a great loss of help around the farm, but Zalay and Nira were strong and willing helpers and soon would have husbands to help in the fields. The more he thought it out, the more convinced Bakal became.

“I’m for it,” he said at last.

Thinking of Tol’s departure, so soon after he had been restored to the family, set Ita to weeping. Egrin consoled her with talk of visits and gifts. Tol would earn a wage as a shilder, he explained.

Tol’s father called the boy over. “This excellent sir wants you to be his shield-bearer,” Bakal said. “What say you, son?”

“I say, yes!” he replied, and then ran to his mother, who was weeping harder now, and hugged her. He would have done the same to his father, but it no longer seemed like the thing to do.

His uncertainty lasted only a moment before Bakal put out his work-roughened hand. For the first time, father and son shook hands, in the way of men.

*

Two days later, on the road to Juramona, Tol was swaying uncertainly on the back of Grane’s gray horse. Egrin had left the other two Pakin horses and all the soldiers’ gear with Bakal to sell, but he’d taken Grane’s fine armor to present to Lord Odovar and had given the gray gelding to Tol. Scorched on the leather harness with a branding rod was the animal’s name, Smoke. Tol could not read, but Egrin told him what the letters meant.

Tol wondered why Grane had run; how had he known Egrin was near? The warden shrugged, saying, “That sorcery of his may have warned him. He’s escaped every time we’ve tried to take him. One day …” His words trailed off. Egrin’s lips firmed to a hard, thin line. “One day, we’ll get him.”

The land was greening with spring. With the destruction of Grane’s Pakin rebels, farmers, hunters, and herdsmen returned to their work, resurrecting the rhythms of everyday life. It was good to see, but Tol found himself unable to enjoy the sight. Something was nagging at his mind, a feeling that he’d left something undone, or unfinished.

It was not until they reached the village of Broken Tree that the niggling question was resolved. They stopped to have a farrier repair a loose shoe on Old Acorn. While they waited, the farrier shouted for his stableboy, telling the lad to pump the bellows and heat the forge fire.

Stableboy!

“Egrin!” Tol shouted.

The warden was haggling over price with the farrier. Tol’s yell made both men jump and caused the farrier’s lad to drop the bellows.

“Great Draco Paladin! What is it?” Egrin demanded.

“Grane! I know who he must be!”

The warden strode over to Tol, who was still mounted on Smoke.

“What are you talking about?”

“I know who Grane is! He as much as told me so himself at the farm! He called me ‘stableboy,’ more than once. Why would he call me that unless he’d seen me working in a stable? The only stable I ever worked in was the Household Guards’, in Juramona! Grane must have seen me in Juramona!”

Egrin looked stunned. “The traitor’s in our very midst. Still, we don’t know who —”

Tol was shaking with excitement. “I know exactly who he is: Morthur Dermount!”

Egrin’s frown broke and he laughed, unconvinced. “That fool of a feast-hall warrior? How could he be Spannuth Grane?”

“I saw his eyes! Grane wore a hood up to his nose, but I very clearly saw his eyes. They were black, just like Lord Morthur’s, and he has the same thin nose and white skin!”

“It’s little enough to recognize a man by,” Egrin said. “Lord Morthur is an important man in Juramona. How could he leave and assume the guise of Grane without being detected?”

“The same way he left his empty armor in my father’s chair.”

Egrin lowered his voice. “Look here, Tol. You’re a smart lad, but keep this to yourself! By the gods, you can’t go’round accusing a scion of the Dermount clan of being a traitor! A word from Lord Morthur, and you and I both would end in unmarked graves.”

“But shouldn’t Lord Odovar be told?”

“Yes, but let me tell him. Odovar despises Morthur, but even the marshal of the Eastern Hundred has to be careful who he brands a rebel.”

Old Acorn finally had his new shoe, and they departed from Broken Tree. Egrin was not convinced by Tol’s identification of Morthur Dermount, and he coolly refused to discuss it until they reached Juramona.

Once home, they found the town abuzz with news: The Pakin army in the Eastern Hundred had been defeated by Imperial troops under Lord Regobart, which Egrin and Tol knew already. Besides those killed in battle, hundreds of Pakin levies had scattered across the province. Lord Regobart, one of the greatest warlords of the empire, was hunting down the stragglers. He pointedly declined to invite Lord Odovar to join in the roundup, a snub which put the marshal in a towering rage.

Seeing – and hearing – Lord Odovar’s fury as soon as they entered the High House, Egrin stayed clear of his liege. He sent word of his safe return, but lingered in the High House, keeping to the side and watching the flow of lackeys, servants, and petty officials. Tol asked him what he was waiting for.

“I think I should pay my respects to Lord Morthur,” Egrin said evenly.

Tol’s heart beat fast. “Will you face him, sir?”

The warden put a strong hand against Tol’s back, and propelled him forward. “We shall face him!”

Lord Morthur was a cousin of the imperial house, a direct descendant of Ackal Ergot, first emperor of Ergoth. One did not antagonize so powerful a person with impunity. Tol’s heart continued to hammer as they wound their way through the intricate passages and then mounted a spiral set of steps leading to the floor where Lord Odovar and other high nobles of the province dwelt.

Egrin walked up the door to Morthur’s suite and knocked loudly on the carved oak panel. “My lord!” he boomed. “My lord, I must speak to you on important business!”

A lackey should have answered the warden’s summons, but all was quiet within. Egrin drew his saber and delivered a mighty kick to the door jamb. Tol was appalled. He wished he’d never spoken of his fantastic theory.

Egrin slammed the door again with the sole of his heavy boot, and the wood splintered. Shouldering in, Egrin quickly surveyed the antechamber. It was in disarray. Sheets of parchment were scattered about. Caskets and chests had been flung open, and their contents – mostly clothing – had been tossed all around.

“Lord Morthur!” called Egrin warily. “Where are you?”

Silent as a ghost, the man they sought appeared in the doorway of a side chamber. Morthur Dermount was dressed in a smooth silk robe and velvet vest the color of ox blood.

“How dare you barge into my chamber!” he said. “You’ll pay for this insolence, Warden.”

Egrin extended his saber. “I don’t think so, my lord Dermount. Or perhaps I should call you Spannuth Grane?”

By rights, Morthur could have denied the charge and rejected the warden’s label. Instead, his gaze flickered to Tol, standing behind the warden, and he whipped his right hand out from behind his robe, revealing a long, thin court blade. He lunged.

Egrin parried, shouting at Tol, “Bar the door! Don’t let the traitor escape!” Tol used all his might to drag a heavy chest in front of the broken door.

“Traitor?” Morthur said, laughing. “The blood of emperors flows in my veins – how can I be a traitor?”

They traded four fast cuts, neither man gaining an advantage. “You subvert the rightful emperor in favor of the Pakin Pretender!” Egrin declared.

“I worked with the Pakin claimant, true, but in no one’s favor but my own.”

“You have designs on the throne yourself? You must be mad!” Egrin said. Morthur was many generations out of the line of succession.

The sorcerous noble made practiced, wicked thrusts at Egrin’s eyes. More than once Tol thought the stalwart warden would be blinded or killed, but each time Egrin fended off Morthur’s blade.

“There is only one truth in this world,” Morthur said, panting. “Power belongs to the one strong enough to take it!”

So saying, he drew back suddenly and swept the empty air before him with his sword. Magical sparks fell from the narrow blade. Then voices called from the stairs. The tramp of many heavy feet resounded. Tol heard Egrin’s name being called. He jumped off the chest and shoved it aside, flinging open the door.

“Here! We’re here!” he cried. “Hurry! Help!”

A line of soldiers came storming up the steps. Morthur was inscribing an intricate pattern in the air with his sword, and Egrin could only watch helplessly. Although he strained mightily, grunting with effort, his feet were rooted to the floor.

Felryn led a squad of soldiers through the open door. He snatched the medallion from his neck, uttered a swift, incomprehensible sentence, and hurled the bright metal disk into the room. There was a clap like thunder, and Tol was thrown down. When he regained his senses, Felryn was standing over him. The healer drew him upright with ease and set him on his feet.

Lord Morthur’s suite was now filled with a fine haze, like smoke, but without any odor of burning. Egrin was down on one knee, shaking his head to clear it. Of Morthur Dermount, also known as Spannuth Grane, there was no sign.

“He has escaped?” Egrin asked as the soldiers helped him stand. He was uninjured, only stunned.

Felryn shrugged. “I had to choose: save you two or stop Lord Morthur’s flight,” he said simply.

Egrin asked Felryn how he’d known to come to Lord Morthur’s rooms with troops.

“I’ve been scrying, watching the boy,” Felryn admitted. “When I saw you standing before Lord Morthur’s door with a drawn saber, I knew there’d be trouble.”

They thoroughly searched Morthur’s rooms, finding a collection of magical scrolls, and a wax tablet impressed with the seal of the Pakin Pretender. No one could read the strange glyphs on the tablet, but there was more than enough evidence left behind to confirm Morthur’s duplicity.

Curiously, Lord Odovar refused to believe his second was Spannuth Grane. He accepted the proof of Morthur’s complicity with the Pakins readily enough, but his pride would not let him admit that the cunning foe who had ambushed his troops and nearly killed him was the pleasure-seeking fool he knew as Morthur Dermount. Still, from that day forward, no one ever again mentioned the names of Morthur Dermount or Spannuth Grane to the marshal, on pain of his violent displeasure.

Chapter 6

THE EMPEROR’S SUMMONS

Two score horses pranced and chivvied, their hooves sending up clouds of dust. Sword blades flashed, and unwary riders toppled from their mounts to the ground. Juramona’s shield-bearers were getting their first lessons in formation riding. It was no simple matter, the eager boys learned, for forty horses and riders to stay together, charge, and fight as one. They collided at every turn, and lost their seats at the first exchange of blows. Clad in quilted jerkins and leather helmets, armed with blunted swords, theirs was no game for children. Unhorsed boys staggered out of the melee with bloody noses and missing teeth.

Mounted on Old Acorn, Egrin watched the boys whack at each other and fall hard. Beside him under the only shade tree on the practice field, Felryn was astride a swaybacked mule named Daisy. The healer alternately chuckled or gasped at the boys’ antics. He knew he was in for a busy time later.

“I don’t see Tol,” said Felryn, scanning the press of boys and horses. “Where is he?”

“In the thick of things, as usual,” Egrin observed.

A riderless roan galloped from the fray and in the gap it left the two men glimpsed Tol. His helmet was gone, and his neat queue had come undone, leaving his long brown hair flying. He laid about on all sides, unhorsing a boy with every blow he landed.

“He’s very strong, isn’t he?” said Felryn. “I see now why you let him lead the teaching. Has the makings of a fine warrior.”

“He’s already a fine warrior. He has the makings of a great one,” Egrin replied.

Just then Tol received a violent blow on the back, and the warden shouted, “If he remembers to watch behind him!” Felryn could not help but laugh.

The farmer’s son had grown into a powerful youth, not as tall as some, but broad in the chest and shoulders, and muscled beyond his size. Although Tol’s father had denied it, both Egrin and Felryn still wondered whether there might not be some dwarf blood in Tol’s past.

Tol had more in his favor than mere strength. Being a peasant’s son, he remained humble and unafraid of hard labor. Most shilder were the sons of Riders of the Horde, and a few could boast truly noble parentage. These young lords thought themselves too good to clean the older men’s armor or scrub the floors of the Householders’ Hall. Tol’s cheerful compliance with such mundane duties galled them. That he enjoyed the favor of the warden and officers of the guard further annoyed them. Things might have gone hard on Tol had he not been so formidable. He thrashed a few bullies in bloody bare-knuckle brawls, and that put an end to his troubles. No one picked on Tol more than once.

The companions of his leisure were not his fellow shield-bearers, but former stableboys or sons of village tradesmen. Narren, the tow-headed boy who’d given Tol a drink of water his first morning in Juramona, had become a foot soldier in Lord Odovar’s employ. Tol’s other close friend, Crake, had forsaken arms altogether and now played a wooden flute in a tavern. Through him Tol learned the follies of drink, and made the acquaintance of barmaids.

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.

It worked, for now. His choler subsiding, Odovar said in a low voice, “Bring in the kender.”

A side door opened, and sentries waved in the new arrivals. They were fashioned like humans, except for their small stature and pointed ears. One had his long brown hair in dozens of tiny braids, each with brightly colored wooden beads worked in. These clattered noisily whenever he moved his head. His companion’s lighter, sand-colored hair was pulled to the top of his head and fell to the middle of his back in a single horsetail. Both kender wore homespun shirts over buckskin trews, and vests stitched in bright colors and decorated with painted beads.

“Hiya,” said the braided one. “Is this a ceremony?”

His partner thumped him soundly in the gut. “Hold your tongue, Rufus. These guys are important.” Spreading his hands wide and skinning back the sleeves of his shirt, he added, “Nothin’up my sleeve!”

Tol didn’t understand the gesture, but the kender went on without explaining.

“Me, my name is Forry Windseed.” Tossing his thick hank of hair to one side, he gestured at his braided companion. “This ugly joker is my brother-in-law, Rufus Wrinklecap.”

The braided kender, spread his hands also and shook out his sleeves. “Not the Rufus Wrinklecap,” he added. Without pause he said to Sinnady, “That’s a nice sapphire you got there, ma’am. Really sparkles in this light.”

Windseed shook his head so that his beaded braids clattered and clashed. “Not a sapphire,” he said authoritatively. “Blue topaz.”

Wrinklecap’s snort was eloquent. “Topaz my a —”

“Explain yourselves!” thundered Lord Odovar, interrupting the high-pitched disagreement. Everyone present flinched, even Egrin, but the kender merely grinned.

“I bet he could kill it single-handed,” said Wrinklecap. “Did you smell his breath? He could knock ol’ Xim out with that —”

Odovar, face once again purple with rage, stood, and drew the sword hanging from the back of his marshal’s chair. The sight of sharp iron brought the kender at last to the point, so to speak.

“There’s this monster, you see …” resumed Windseed.

“Called XimXim,” his partner prompted. His Hylo accent made it sound like “Zeem-zeem.”

“We know the beast,” interjected Egrin. “The empire has sent warriors and mages to battle XimXim some eight or nine times.”

“I know of eleven instances myself,” said Kastel. “No survivors returned from any of them. Eleven expeditions, one hundred-twenty men slain without result. No one even knows for certain what the monster looks like.” He explained that the creature’s very name was a testament to his mystery; the kender had dubbed him XimXim because of the sound he made in flight: zimm-zimm-zimm.

“I’ve always thought it must be a dragon,” murmured Lady Sinnady, paling at the thought.

“It’s most unlikely, ma’am. Since the defeat of the dragons two and a half centuries ago, no such beast has been seen in these parts,” Kastel answered.

“XimXim has been quiet for years. I thought him dead or gone away,” said Odovar. He sat down heavily, resting his sword across his knees. “What’s the foul creature done now?”

Windseed said, “In the spring he crossed the Ragtail River and destroyed the village of Skipping Trace —”

“It was the Froghead River,” Wrinklecap corrected.

The marshal forestalled yet another disagreement by raising his sword again. The kender contented themselves with trading narrow-eyed looks, and Wrinklecap continued.

“Anywho,” he said, “XimXim moved into the caves above Skipping Trace, and there he sits, eatin’ kender right and left just like boiled eggs – crack, snap, gulp.”

Both kender seemed amazingly untroubled by the terrible events they were relating. They stood side by side, hands clasped behind their backs, rocking lightly from heels to toes.

“If nothing’s done, all of western Hylo may be depopulated,” Lanza said, frowning.

“An alarming prospect,” murmured the marshal, though he was suddenly smiling. The kender stopped rocking.

Kastel’s face was serious. “My lord,” he said, “the empire has trading rights in Hylo town, and in the ports of Windee and Far-to-go. Something must be done to protect life and property.”

Odovar drained his tankard dry, and bawled for more. “You can’t have it both ways, sir! Either my warriors go to fight the foresters, or they ride to Hylo. Which do you want?”

The great hall was quiet. In the stillness, the marshal’s son started hiccuping. At a wave from Sinnady, a lady-in-waiting scooped him up and hustled him away.

“The kenders’ request is valid,” Egrin said thoughtfully, “but an imperial order takes precedence, does it not?”

“It does,” declared Lanza, patting his forehead with a small white cloth. The robes of his office were heavy, and he suffered in the summer heat. The kender seemed fascinated by the beads of moisture trickling down his bald pate.

“Then this foolishness is a waste of time!” Odovar said, glaring at the kender. “My order stands. Prepare the hordes to ride to Caergoth.”

The kender opened their mouths to protest, and the marshal added quickly, “When the campaign against the forest tribes is done, I’ll send someone to look into your monster problem. I have no warriors to spare until then.”

The courier stroked his pointed beard thoughtfully. “My lord, could you not send someone now to discover the nature of the threat? Perhaps your seneschal?”

Lanza’s eyes widened in horror. “Me? Hunt a monster?” His mellifluous voice rose to a squeak.

“You need not fight XimXim, merely stalk and observe him.”

“Do it, Lanza,” said Odovar, bored with the whole discussion.

“My lord, please! I cannot abandon my duties as priest and seneschal, and I am not a young man! Travel is so difficult. My health —”

“You eat better than I do, and little less,” snapped the marshal. “Go with the kender! Take a pair of footmen with you to ward off danger. Find out exactly where – and what – this monster is, and report back here. That is my order!”

Lanza could only bow his head and withdraw, but the expression of terrified dismay remained on his sweaty face. The kender followed him, talking rapidly to each other.

“Poor man,” Egrin said under his breath.

“You fear the monster will get him?” Tol whispered.

“I fear that after two weeks among the kender, he may prefer XimXim’s company!”

*

The atmosphere of the town quickly changed. Heralds were dispatched to outlying estates to call the retired gentry to arms, and everyone in Juramona set to work preparing for the campaign, each doing his or her part to serve (or exploit) the situation. Unlike Odovar’s expedition against the local Pakin rebels five years earlier, this was to be a real campaign, shoulder to shoulder with hordes from all over the empire. In command of all would be Crown Prince Amaltar, eldest son of Emperor Pakin III.

Riders of the Great Horde mustered in the square where Vakka Zan had lost his head years before. Each rider had to provide his own arms, two horses, a shilder, and provisions for ten days. There weren’t enough shilder in training to accommodate every warrior in Juramona, so servants and stableboys were pressed into service.

Foot soldiers, chiefly the guards who manned Juramona’s wall and kept the gates of the town and High House, assembled in a side street. They were not considered very important in the scheme of war-making. Their chief job on campaign was to march with the supply train and protect it from bandits or enemy raids. Commanding them was Durazen the Lame, also called One-Eyed Durazen.

Once a Rider of the Horde, Durazen had not earned his injuries in battle. Blind drunk on a boar hunt, he’d fallen from his horse into a hayberry hedge. His leg was badly broken and he’d lost an eye to a hayberry thorn. No longer fit for mounted warfare, he had been given command of Juramona’s foot soldiers.

Besides actual fighting men, hundreds of ordinary folk in town prepared to go to war as well. Sutlers, blacksmiths, and healers, as well as quacksalvers of every stripe, packed their bags and waited to follow the warriors. A ponderous civilian wagon train formed up outside the wall. It was laden with everything from spare spearshafts to barrels of brown beer.

Tol had imagined war as a grim business, with hard-faced warriors gazing at the horizon, watchful for a cunning enemy. In truth, the preparations seemed more suited to a festival or fair. He saw his friend Narren among the footmen and Crake among the sutlers. Tall and lean, his heavy scale hauberk hanging from his shoulders, Narren looked calm as he leaned on his spear and listened to Durazen, mounted on a sturdy cob, rasp out marching orders. Crake, reclining on a canvas tarp covering a wagonload of beer, played dreamy airs on his flute. Tol knew Crake’s hunting bow would be stowed in the cart as well. Although he liked his ease and his pleasures, Crake never took chances. He wouldn’t dream of going into harm’s way unarmed.

Lord Odovar appeared on the back of a black charger. Sleek and powerful as he was, the animal looked strained by the massive burden he had to bear. Rumor had it the marshal weighed twenty stone – without his arms or armor.

“Poor beast,” Egrin said tersely, echoing Tol’s thoughts. “He won’t last five leagues. Odovar will be in a wagon before we reach the river Caer.”

Tol gave his own horse an affectionate pat. He still rode Smoke, the horse left behind by Spannuth Grane at Tol’s family farm. Smoke had proved to be a strong, clever beast, and Tol valued him greatly.

The whole of the army mustered outside the walls of Juramona, covering the pastures and road. Drovers lashed at unruly bullocks, and competing carters shouted and shook fists at each other as they jockeyed for position. Children and dogs ran among the files of stolid footmen who sweated in their mail jerkins. It was a sultry morning, heavy with the promise of more heat.

Odovar made a short speech that few heard, and even fewer remembered. He rode forth with his private bodyguard to the front of the three columns of horsemen. The center column was the horde known as the Plains Panthers, veterans of the civil war between Ackal and Pakin. The left wing, the Firebrand Horde, included the landed gentry and men of rank and wealth in the province. The right wing, the honor wing, was led by Egrin. Behind him rode eight hundred twenty-seven horse, including Tol and his shilder comrades. Though not a properly constituted horde, the right wing was given the name Rooks and Eagles, signifying their mixed nature – which combined youth and vigor with age and experience.

“Ho, you men!” Manzo called. “Bring out the standard!”

Two veteran warriors pushed their way on foot to the head of the column. Between them they carried the Eagle of Juramona, carved from the trunk of an ancient oak and painted in lifelike colors. It was twice the size of a normal bird, and as the men held it, a large pole was inserted into the base between its clawed feet.

“Too bad there’s no rook to go with him,” a shilder remarked.

Egrin waved his hand in a circle like a conjurer. Grinning, the warriors turned the eagle around. Rather than the same brown and gold coloring, the bird staring out from the reverse had been painted black. It was cleverly done. Viewed from one side, the figure was a soot-black rook; from the opposite side, a noble eagle.

Egrin’s own remarks to his men were very brief. Lifting his dagger high, he invoked the bison-headed god of battle, declaring, “May Corij ride with you all!”

The elves of Silvanost were known to sing as they marched, and the dwarves of Thorin went to battle blowing horns and beating enormous brazen gongs. It was traditional for the hordes of Ergoth to ride in silence. They spread out across the land like a flood, and the wordless, inexorable block of saber-wielding horsemen brought great fear to its enemies. The countryside ahead of an advancing horde emptied of travelers, traders, bandits, and brigands. Game animals fled the massive onrush of metal and men. For leagues in advance of an Ergothian army, all was still and empty. Farmers abandoned their fields and bolted themselves in their huts. Even insatiably curious kender stayed clear of the army’s leading elements, but they were drawn to the long, winding baggage train behind it as ants are drawn to a trail of honey.

Juramona was located ten leagues north of the headwaters of the Caer River’s twin branches. Working from maps drawn in the Silvanesti style, Egrin chose as his line of march a trail that arrowed south, toward the confluence of the two branches. The other two segments of Juramona’s army swung east, a longer but easier route. They would skirt the tip of the river’s eastern fork, then angle south-southwest for Caergoth. Egrin’s route required fording the river, but it cut a full day off the journey, insuring his men would arrive at the crown prince’s camp before the other two columns.

The land between Juramona and the great confluence was friendly territory, though devoid of settlements and nearly empty of people. Fine weather favored their advance. Towering masses of white clouds rose up like fortresses in the air, separated by clear blue. Gently rolling grasslands provided plenty of fodder for their animals, and Egrin sent his shilder ahead of the main body to scout the line of march.

After two days’ travel, Tol found himself nearing the confluence in a group of six shilder under the command of Relfas. The red-haired youth was the youngest son of the noble and wealthy house of Dirinmor. Relfas’s patrol was charged with finding a likely fording place. Relfas had split up his small band, ordering the shilder to reconnoiter singly.

Tol rode over a stony hilltop and saw the meeting of the two river branches below. Converging from either side of the bluff, the western and eastern streams formed the mighty Caer, which flowed by the walls of Caergoth. Cattle were watering on the western bank. Herders moved among them, swatting slow beasts with long willow switches.

Tol’s presence did not go unnoticed. Dogs barked an alarm. The herders spotted Tol silhouetted against the sky and took fright. They drove their animals from the water, hurrying the beasts west over the next hill, and were out of sight in a trice. They knew warriors of any allegiance meant danger. Under imperial law, hordes could confiscate any provisions they needed from the local population. They were supposed to pay for what they took, but in practice few did so.

Though the herders couldn’t know it, their cattle were in no danger from Egrin’s men. The herd was on the west side of the river, and Egrin’s force was riding east. It was fortunate they didn’t need to ford the western branch. The West Caer was narrow here but deep and very swift. Huge square boulders, gray as beaten iron, dotted the surface of the water and broke the flow into foam. The sound of rushing water was loud.

Tol was about to descend the hill on the east side when something caught his eye. It was a ruin of some sort. He could see worked stone protruding from a tangle of ivy: cut blocks still layered one atop the other, and the stumps of massive columns, all of the same dark gray stone as the boulders in the river. Curious, he directed Smoke off the well-worn trail for a closer look.

As he drew nearer, Tol saw the ruins were very old indeed. The stonework was extremely weathered and had lain undisturbed for countless centuries.

The vines soon grew too thick for him to proceed further on horseback, so he dismounted and tied Smoke to a convenient sapling, slashing his way through the undergrowth with broad swipes of his saber.

What he’d taken for a foundation stone turned out to be the stump of an enormous column, so wide he could have lain across it and still had room to spare at head and heels. The waist-high column had a spiral groove as wide as his hand cut into it. Up close he could see it was made of bluestone. Farm boy that he was, Tol despised the pale blue rock. Turned up in a field, the hard stone could easily break a hoe blade or plow. Old Kinzen, the root-doctor in Tol’s neck of the woods, called the blue rock Irdasen – stone of the Irda.

Those long ago masters of the world, called “the beautiful Irda” by storytellers, had supposedly been kin to the gods. Yet they had fallen into evil ways and been destroyed by their own corruption and black desires.

Tol circled the broken column. Tumbled among the choking weeds were more fragments of bluestone. Great blocks as big as a tall horse were cut with dovetail mortises and tenons of impossible size. These Irda must have been giants, or else had giants to do their building for them.

A piercing whistle signaled Relfas’s recall. As Tol turned to go, the glint of metal halted him. The reflection came from a circular hole in the underside of an upturned block. Thinking he might find an ancient coin, he probed the hole with the tip of his saber. It was only elbow-deep, and seemed snake-and spider-free. He pushed back the sleeve of his ring mail shirt and eased his gloved hand inside. He found what he sought – metal, hard to the touch – and withdrew it from its stony hiding place.

It was a circlet made of three kinds of metal braided together like a woman’s hair – a dark reddish metal intertwined with silver and gold. As thick as his smallest finger, it fit easily in the palm of his hand. The circlet’s two free ends were joined by a spherical bead of the odd red metal. On the bead was etched a complex pattern of angular lines and curving whorls. Completely filling the center of the circlet was a piece of black crystal.

If this was a relic of the Irda, it had to be uncounted generations old. Yet it was completely unblemished by tarnish or corrosion. Its strange markings flashed in the sun like the facets of a gemstone. It was surprisingly lightweight, not heavy as might be expected of gold or bronze.

Tol held the circlet up to the sun and squinted through the center. The crystal did not blot out the bright orb of the sun, merely darkened the distant fire to a bearable level. Tol thought the crystal must be glass rather than a black gem like jet or night jade, because it was flat and dull, not shiny at all.

The whistle sounded again, and Tol slipped the ancient artifact into his belt pouch. He untied Smoke’s reins from the slender elm tree, mounted, and galloped up the hill to meet his comrades.

Relfas, his freckled face red from heat and sheened with sweat, grumpily asked why Tol had taken so long to return. Tol pleaded the noise of the river’s rush as the reason he hadn’t heard the recall at first.

“Well, we found a crossing,” Relfas told him. “The warden’s sent word we’re to join up, right away!”

The Rooks and Eagles rejoined at the ford Relfas’s scouts had located. Everyone made it safely across, and the quick splash through cold water was welcomed by men and horses alike.

Because their wing of the army was so far ahead of the others, Egrin called an early halt to the march, well before sundown. They pitched camp and fortified it with a ring of sharpened palings to prevent surprise cavalry attacks. When the hedge was finished, Egrin ordered more riding drill for the shield-bearers. Groaning and complaining after a full day in the saddle, the youths went off to practice formation riding and mounted sword fighting until well past dark.

When the shilder fell onto their bedrolls at last, they slept like dead men. So tired was Tol, he forgot to show his strange artifact to Egrin, or to ask Felryn if he could divine its purpose.

Chapter 7

HIGH AND LOW

East of the river, the Rooks and Eagles found clear signs they were not alone. They crossed wide areas of grass trampled flat by scores of cart wheels and hundreds of horses. Once they turned south, the evening sky ahead was illuminated by massed campfires; by day, stragglers and coveys of camp followers dotted the countryside.

Before noon on the fourth day out from Juramona, Egrin halted the horde and called in all his outriders. He climbed a convenient stump and addressed the youthful contingent among his soldiers.

“Lads, we’ll soon be joining up with warriors of the Great Horde. There are things you should know. The empire is wide, and those who serve the emperor come in all shapes, sizes, and colors. You’ll see many who dress differently, and bear strange arms. Don’t be distracted! Listen to your orders, don’t converse with strangers. You’ll be offered every sort of vice you can think of, and many more you haven’t yet imagined. No one expects you to behave like priests, but beware! Nothing is free. If an offer sounds too good to be believed, then believe it not. Pay up front for what you want, or you’ll pay a far higher price later.”

“Sir, what about the enemy?” called out a youth in the rear ranks.

“Your commanders will have an audience with the prince and his advisers, and we’ll know more after that. All I know myself is the enemy is said to be forest tribes, living in the Great Green. They’ve raided imperial lands around Caergoth, looting, pillaging, and carrying off captives.”

“Are they men?” asked Tol.

“Can’t say. We’re near enough Silvanesti land, there might be wild elves, Kagonesti, among our foes.”

Egrin got down from the stump and mounted Old Acorn. The Rooks and Eagles formed into a compact column and resumed their southern course.

Evidence of movement was all around them. Tol saw so many dust clouds he stopped counting them. Trampled grass became common, and the thickening stands of trees shielded sight but not sounds. All around them they heard the creak of harness leather, the fall of horses’ hooves, and the thump of wagon wheels. On ridges, the silhouettes of riders, all heading south, could be seen. One band in particular caught the attention of the shilder – a group of dark-skinned men in breech-cloths and wicker breastplates. Each carried a short bow and a sheaf of throwing spears – javelins, Manzo called them. They never overtook the Juramona horde, but merely dogged their heels. Their ghostly presence got on Relfas’s nerves, and he asked permission to chase them off.

“Think you can?” asked Egrin.

“Give me twelve horse, and I’ll banish them!” Relfas vowed.

“Take your choice, but no bloodshed, mind you.” To Tol, riding near him, Egrin said, “Will you go?”

Tol thought for a moment, then said, “No, I’ll stay with the column.”

Relfas picked twelve of the best riders among the shilder and led them off to chase the lightly clad riders away. Waving their sabers, they charged across the dusty plain. In a markedly unhurried manner, their quarry cantered behind a nearby hill. Relfas divided his eager group, sending four shilder out wide to cut the riders off, and leading the remainder behind the hill.

Tol twisted in the saddle, straining to see what was happening. Dust rose from behind the hill, but no horsemen appeared. A short while later, Relfas returned, his puzzled and dejected troop behind him.

“What happened?” Tol demanded.

“They vanished!”

Egrin, Manzo, and the other veterans laughed.

“Of course they vanished! Those are men of Alkel!” Manzo exclaimed, naming a province far to the west, on the shores of the sea. “They’re called Wind Riders, and it’s said they can disappear from sight – man and horse – in broad daylight.”

“You might have told us,” Relfas grumbled.

“Lessons are best learned by doing,” Egrin told the youth. “The Wind Riders serve the emperor as we do. They trail us for sport.”

Under the glaring noonday sun, the Rooks and Eagles emerged from a grove of hardwood trees onto a broad ridge. The air shook with the sound of hoofbeats, a ceaseless, rolling thunder. From the top of the ridge, they saw an awesome panorama spread out beneath them. Egrin halted the column and let the shield-bearers take it in.

The plain below was filled by a huge city of tents – hundreds and hundreds of them – tall, wedge-shaped tents in the southern style; conical canvas huts common to the Eastern Hundred; and vast, flat-roofed beehives called Daltigoth tents. Temporary corrals were sprinkled throughout the tent city. Most were filled with milling horses, but more than a few contained fat bullocks to feed the multitude. There was no fence of sharpened stakes around the camp. The site was so vast, there wasn’t enough timber available to surround it.

Smoke ascended from a thousand fires, and brightly colored banners hung limply from their poles in the hot, still air. Red was the dominant color, with gold a close second. In addition to the banners, horde standards were thick as daisies in an upland meadow. Egrin pointed out some famous ones: the crossed iron thunderbolts of the Red Thunders, the gap-toothed brass skull of the Deathriders, and the white onyx ox head representing the Bulls of Ergoth. Standards of nine different hordes encircled a huge tent in the center of the camp. With the addition of Lord Odovar’s three hordes, some twelve thousand warriors would be assembled to enforce the emperor’s will on the foresters.

“Raise our standard!” Egrin commanded. Men and boys cheered as the pole was lifted.

Egrin ordered them forward and called for another concerted cheer. “Let them know the men from Juramona have arrived!” he cried.

Chanting Jur-ra-mo-na! The newest horde in the emperor’s service descended the ridge to the camp. At the time, amid the noise and chaos of the vast assemblage, their entry was barely noticed. Only much later would many claim to have seen the Rooks and Eagles arrive.

*

Lord Odovar reached the encampment just after dawn on the next day with the balance of his army, completing the force poised to invade the forest known as the Great Green. Egrin, accompanied by his lieutenants and Tol, sought out his commander. They found Odovar reclining in the back of an ox-drawn wagon. The marshal’s breathing was labored, his right leg propped on a roll of canvas.

“My lord, are you ill?” asked Egrin.

“Ill enough,” the marshal groaned. “That cursed horse collapsed on me two days ago. Threw me to the road and sprained my right knee. Useless beast! I had his throat cut.”

An empty flagon dangled from Odovar’s fingers. Without being asked, a dusty servant filled it with beer from a wooden bucket.

“Can you walk, my lord? Prince Amaltar will expect us to present ourselves soon.”

“Damn the protocol,” Odovar grumbled, but he knew Egrin was correct. He called for help. Two sturdy footmen dragged him off the back of the wagon. Wincing, he tried to put weight on his right leg. It crumpled, and only with considerable struggle did the soldiers prevent the marshal from landing on his cherry-red nose.

Felryn ordered a crutch made from a pair of spearshafts. While the men saw to the erection of the tents, Odovar and the commanders of his three hordes prepared for their audience with the Crown Prince of Ergoth. Durazen the One-Eyed would not be going. As captain of the footmen, his position was too lowly.

The leader of the Plains Panthers was a taciturn warrior named Pagas, whose misshapen nose was the result of a blow from a centaur’s axe. Pagas had the hard look of a seasoned fighter, allied with a surprisingly high-pitched voice, a side-effect of his deformed nose. He spoke as little as possible, since the sound of his voice undermined his fierce appearance.

Unique in the army, the wealthy gentry of the Firebrand Horde elected their leader. He was an old campaigner named Wanthred. With his silver hair and full beard, lacquered shield, and old-fashioned studded mail, he cut a far more impressive figure than the wheezing, corpulent Odovar. Yet, he, Pagas, and Egrin waited loyally for their marshal to lead them, hobbling, to the crown prince.

Nervously, Tol wrapped and rewrapped his sweating hands around the pole displaying the ceremonial banner of Juramona. Lord Odovar had tapped him to carry the triangle of scarlet cloth as they marched through the bustling camp to the imperial tent. Tol could hardly believe his good fortune. He, son of Bakal the farmer, was going to see the heir to the throne of Ergoth!

The sprawling army camp resembled a barely contained riot. Men and women dashed back and forth between tents, shouting, laughing, or screaming. Some were done up in armor, while others wore light linen shifts, such as well-born folk slept in. A few revelers of both sexes crossed Tol’s path, naked as newborn babes. Unclothed women were still a mystery to Tol, and he almost tripped over his own feet while trying to remedy that gap in his education.

A torrent of smells assailed him – some delightful, some foul. Cooking spices and incense mingled with the odor of horses and unwashed flesh. Pipers warred with drummers and lute players, while a cacophony of sutlers’ cries strove to overbear them all. Traders strolled along the tent line, loudly hawking their wares: beer, wine, nectar from Silvanost, roast meat, trinkets and trifles, amulets to heal wounds, ointments to sooth saddle sores, linen scarves, woolen leggings, silken smallclothes, and a host of other goods.

The nearer they got to Crown Prince Amaltar’s dwelling, the calmer the camp became. The wide lanes were patrolled by pairs of footmen in polished cuirasses, with battle-axes on their shoulders. Tol saw three such guards subdue a drunken warrior who’d wandered too close to the imperial enclave. The drunk was a brawny fellow, but the guards clubbed him quickly to the ground and dragged him away.

The men of Juramona paused to allow the burdened guards to cross in front of them. Odovar, taking a deep pull on the flagon he carried, said, “There you see the folly of vice, young Tol. Take heed.” The marshal belched.

Tol inclined his head. “Yes, my lord.”

Directly ahead was the enormous imperial tent, ringed with banners and standards. At the entrance, armed guards halted Odovar’s party with crossed weapons.

“Who would enter the house of Amaltar, first prince of Ergoth?” demanded the watch commander, a towering warrior with an elegant, drooping, dark mustache. “Name yourselves!”

“I am Odovar, marshal of the Eastern Hundred, and these are the masters of my hordes!” For a moment, the old bark returned to the marshal’s voice.

“I am Wanthred, son of Orthred, lord of Six Pines.”

“Egrin, son of Raemel, warden of the Household Guard.”

Pagas was unhappy at having to speak, but said firmly in his high voice, “Pagas, son of Janjadel, master of the Plains Panthers.”

The watch commander nodded. “Disarm, my lords.”

The men were taken aback. Odovar spoke for all. “You ask Riders of the Horde to surrender their swords? Why? We are free and loyal men!”

“It is the will of Crown Prince Amaltar. He remembers too well the fate of his uncle, Emperor Pakin II, assassinated in his own hall by ‘free and loyal men.’”

Everyone knew the evil tale. The late emperor had been widely admired for his skill in ending the civil war and preserving the empire. For this he’d been dubbed “the Conciliator.” In spite of his successes, a cabal of lords from within his own house had murdered him, touching off the rebellion that had sent Odovar into battle and ultimately brought him to the onion field and Tol.

Although they understood Prince Amaltar’s caution, the Juramona men still felt it was unseemly to ask warriors to give up their swords. However, the watch commander’s iron gaze was steady on them. Odovar glared back.

Egrin broke the impasse by unbuckling his sword belt, and handing it to the nearest guard. One by one they submitted. Even Tol had to surrender his saber. But where his betters had taken affront, he found the requirement curiously pleasing. In this small way, he was his masters’ equal, considered as dangerous as these accomplished warriors.

They entered the tent and left the coarse outside world behind. Under their feet was a thick carpet the color of old wine. The tent’s side walls were a loose weave to let in the daylight. From deeper within the structure, hidden by the interior cloth walls, an oddly cool breeze wafted over the startled warriors.

Odovar paused, eyes closed, leaning on his crutch. The others hovered behind him.

“What is it, my lord?” asked Wanthred, concerned.

“Nothing … a memory from long ago.” Odovar looked at the flagon in his hand as if seeing it for the first time. He flung it out of the tent.

“When I was not much older than you, boy,” the marshal told Tol, “I was taken before Emperor Dermount III. I received my honor dagger from his own hands. He was served by a corps of magicians who surrounded him with sweet, cool air like this. Strange how one remembers small things from so long ago.”

Easing Felryn’s makeshift crutch out of his armpit, Odovar leaned it against the tent wall. “I’ll not go before Dermount’s grandson a cripple,” he vowed. He squared his heavy shoulders, his face white from the pain of standing unaided.

Egrin signaled Pagas, and the two warriors took up positions close on either side of Odovar. The marshal glared at them.

“Peace, my lord,” Egrin said. “Grant us the honor of walking by your side.”

Odovar’s cheeks took on new color as they bolstered him. “Right,” he growled. “Follow me!”

The cloth corridor wound ever inward in a left-hand spiral. At one point the men of Juramona heard gentle, tinkling music. Further along the curving path, they found a wind chime stirring from the cool outward flow of air. Shards of clear crystal hung on pale threads fine as hair. The crystals touched lightly, playing the tune. Tol was delighted. He had never seen such a thing.

A small room opened in front of them. In it, a mixed group of warriors awaited the crown prince’s pleasure. There were seafarers from the north, black-skinned like Tol’s friend Crake, and dressed in white silk and peaked iron caps; bare-chested Wind Riders, their skin painted with mystic signs; Imperial Guards, with clean-shaven chins, and wearing crimson cloaks; and a lone kender. Dressed in fringed buckskins, the kender was telling jokes to the assembled warriors, who were laughing uproariously.

An Imperial Guardsman with gold chevrons on his helmet saluted by clanging his iron-shod heels together.

“Lords of the Eastern Hundred? You are expected. Follow me.”

He held open a flap, and they passed through into a larger room, likewise carpeted from wall to wall. An assortment of dignitaries and favor-seekers waited here, sipping wine from golden goblets and conversing in low tones. All wore civilian dress. Three were dwarves with elaborately curled beards and rich, heavy robes of black and gold brocade. A singular trio, two men and a woman, were dressed in billowing trews, wide sashes, vests, and flat cloth hats. Tol had seen merchants in Juramona dressed in similar fashion and knew the three hailed from the city of Tarsis, far to the south of Odovar’s domain.

The Tarsans fell silent as the Juramona men passed by. The woman’s eyes, Tol noticed, were the deep, rich color of honey. She was twice his age and exuded an air of worldly charm he could sense as clearly as he smelled her perfume. She didn’t lower her eyes, like the girls in Crake’s tavern did, and her frank perusal made him uncomfortable. He looked ahead and tried to ignore her knowing gaze.

Once they were in the next room, their escort said, “You’ve just seen Hanira, ambassador from Tarsis.”

“The lady?” asked Odovar, and the guardsman nodded. “I’d heard Tarsan women share rule in their city – a foolish indulgence,” the marshal said firmly.

“But a handsome woman,” said Wanthred, stroking his silver whiskers.

“And ruthless, they say,” murmured the guard.

This third chamber was like the one they’d just left, a waiting room for those seeking an audience with the crown prince. Folk even more exotic to Tol’s eyes were gathered here – a gaggle of six little men, bald as eggs but bearded. All were talking at once and waving little wooden tablets at each other.

“Gnomes. A delegation from Sancrist Isle,” said their guide.

The gnomes were shorter even than kender, coming barely up to Tol’s waist. Their skin was a warm brown, and all had large noses and curly white beards. Their clothing was as peculiar as their appearance: each wore cloth trews stitched to a sleeveless top, with straps crossing over the back and buttoning at the shoulders. Squares of cloth were sewn to the front of these garments, and the squares bulged with slivers of chalk, snarls of string, and oddly shaped metal instruments.

“… it’s as simple as hydrodynamics!” said one gnome in a rapid, high-pitched shout.

Odovar looked questioningly at the Imperial Guardsman, but he only shrugged and said, “Gnome-speak.”

Leaving the babbling little men behind, the Juramona delegation and their escort entered a fourth room. It was the largest of all, ten paces wide at least, and the ceiling rose twice the height of a man. A buzz of conversation permeated the room, which was crowded with richly dressed folk of many nations and races. By this time Tol was growing accustomed to exotic strangers, but his mind reeled at the spectacle overhead.

At the peak of the canvas roof a flock of birds circled. They were shaped like geese, but weren’t like any birds Tol had ever seen. They were transparent! Solid and clear as spring water, their wings wafted up and down as they endlessly rounded the room, sending a cool downdraft over the assembly. As they passed beneath them, Tol saw the transparent geese were dripping water from the flapping wings. A droplet fell on his cheek. It was very cold. At last he understood – these birds were made of ice!

To one side, a quartet of serene-looking men stood, eyes closed, lips moving silently. The man on the end twirled a silver bead on a thread, each revolution matching exactly the motion of the ice-birds overhead. Dressed in white homespun robes with red jackets and red sash belts, each man wore a thick silver medallion on a chain around his neck. They were Red Robes, mages of the Order who served the gods of Neutrality.

The Imperial Guard led them out of this room. The Juramona men passed through a wide curtained doorway and beneath a series of wooden arches, each one wider and grander than the last. At each stood a pair of armed guards with spear and shield. This close to the Royal Presence, Tol was relegated to the back of the delegation, behind Lord Wanthred. Voices and music filtered back to him, and the splash of running water. He strained to see over the old noble’s broad shoulders.

“Wait here,” their escort said. He stepped forward, and spoke in a low voice to a richly draped man of middle years. This fellow had a big nose and leaned on a gold-capped staff.

“Ah, yes, bring them ahead,” the big-nosed man said. His face was scrubbed pink, and his fingernails gleamed like mother-of-pearl. He was the cleanest man Tol had ever seen.

Lord Odovar announced himself and his vassals, and the man nodded.

“I am Valdid,” he said, “second chamberlain to His Highness. My lords, attend upon me.”

He turned away, the hem of his blue brocade robe flapping, and they followed him into the heart of the tent-palace.

It was a single great room, thirty paces wide, filled but not crowded with warlords, courtiers, favored guests, and diplomats. Tol’s gaze was caught by a white-robed figure surrounded by a dozen attendants in light, etched armor plate. By their slim, angular features and upswept ears, he realized he was seeing Silvanesti elves for the first time.

He had no time to stare, for fresh wonders were ahead. A carpeted platform rose from the center of the room. Tripods with unlit braziers flanked four corners of a heavy wooden chair, which was padded with leather and carved with the arms of the House of Ackal. The prince’s throne was empty.

Tol looked this way and that, trying to decide which of the many lordly men present was the prince. Perhaps the tall, muscular noble in burgundy velvet? He wore a silver circlet on his brow. Or maybe the rather portly lord speaking to the elves in a musical tongue that must be their own language. Or could he be the handsome blond fellow, only slightly older than Tol, laughing in a group of young women?

Valdid, the second chamberlain, went down on one knee. “Your Highness,” he said, “the marshal of the Eastern Hundred is here with his warlords.”

None of Tol’s guesses was correct. Crown Prince Amaltar was perched on a folding stool, a scroll in his hand. He was dressed in a simple robe of midnight blue silk, cinched at the waist by a wide leather belt. A jeweled war dagger was thrust through the belt, the only visible weapon in the room. The prince’s black hair was cut shorter than the fashion, barely brushing his collar, and unlike all the other men present he sported neither beard nor mustache. Around his neck on a fine gold chain he wore a woman’s golden torque, set with a pair of rubies – said to be a memento of his deceased mother.

Putting down the scroll he held, the prince’s dark eyes inspected the Juramona men as they knelt before him.

“Long life to Your Royal Highness and to your noble father. Death to all enemies of Ergoth!” Odovar cried. The fighting men and many of the women present echoed the marshal’s sentiments, but the foreigners merely looked on, quietly amused.

“Rise, loyal vassals,” said Amaltar.

Grunting from the task of raising his bulk on a sprained knee, Odovar managed to stand without help.

“How long has it been since I last saw you?” asked the prince.

“I last met Your Highness eleven years ago, after the battle of Torgaard Pass.”

“That’s right! You gained the pass from the Tarsans with a picked force of fifty men, as I recall.”

“Your Highness favors me by remembering,” Odovar said, bowing his head. “Aias, we did not hold the pass for long.”

“No matter.” Amaltar gestured to the stool he’d vacated. “Take your ease, my lord. Your leg obviously pains you.”

Odovar colored. “I cannot sit in Your Highness’s presence!”

Amaltar’s pleasant demeanor vanished. “You can if I order it. Sit, marshal.”

Odovar slumped onto the stool, stiff leg extended, embarrassed both by the breach of protocol and by how obvious his need for it was.

The prince snapped his fingers, and a light camp table was carried over, its top covered with scrolls. At another imperial command, four nobles, each the commander of a horde, unrolled a large parchment and held it open by the corners. It was a grand map of the vicinity, drawn in vibrant colors. The blue Caer River snaked across the landscape. Caergoth, three leagues away, appeared as a black ring on the west bank of the river. The only spot on the map devoid of color was the forest itself, east of Caergoth. A line of green delineated its boundary, but within the border no features were depicted.

“The Great Green, my lords,” Amaltar said. He waved a beringed hand across it. “One hundred and fifty leagues end to end, varying from eighteen to thirty leagues wide. We know the dimensions and fringes of the forest thanks to our own surveyors – and our friends the Silvanesti.” He nodded to the listening elves. “But the interior a day’s ride beyond the border is as hidden to us as the far side of the red moon!”

A line of scribes stood behind Amaltar, ready to note any imperial utterances. Four waited with styluses poised, while the fifth was writing, rapidly but discreetly, recording every word the prince said.

Amaltar smote the map with his fist. “Since the days of Ackal Ergot, this region has sheltered brigands, runaways, rebels, and savages. My uncle, Emperor Pakin II, thought he could pacify the forest tribes with gifts and soft words. All he gained for his efforts was the worst series of raids since the founding of the empire. The foresters have continued to block our attempts at eastern expansion, and in their latest raid they murdered my cousin Hynor. No asset to empire was Hynor, but the killing of imperial relatives cannot be allowed to pass.”

“The foresters respect nothing but force, Highness, and heed nothing but cold iron,” Odovar said staunchly. His fellow warlords murmured agreement.

“That’s why we are here,” said the prince. “We will harrow the Great Green like a farmer does a patch of weeds. Any pests we don’t destroy will be forced to flee over the mountains.” With one finger, he traced a line across the unknown land, east to the north-south course of the Kharolis range.

“Is that our limit, Highness?” asked the black-haired noble in burgundy who wore the silver circlet.

“It is, Lord Urakan. When your men reach the western slopes of the mountains, they’ll have ridden far enough.”

Prince Amaltar went on, specifying goals for the invasion. Ten hordes would enter the Great Green in five different locations. They would move parallel to each other as they drove into the woods. Two hordes would remain outside, to guard against sallies by the tribesmen and to catch anyone who tried to escape back into Ergoth.

The three Juramona hordes would not be fighting together. The Firebrands, under Wanthred, would fight alongside another horde from southwest Ergoth, the Corij Rangers. The Rooks and Eagles and Pagas’s Panthers, with Lord Odovar, would enter the Great Green through a large meadow known as Zivilyn’s Carpet.

Amaltar called on the flaxen-haired, white-robed Silvanesti. The elf glided to the map table, trailed by his entourage. This included several dark, painted faces – elves of the woodland Kagonesti race.

The prince said, “My good cousin, Harpathanas Ambrodel, speak of your experiences.”

The tall elf bowed slightly to the heir of Ergoth. “I have fought my way through the great forest seven times,” he said. His voice was mellifluous and pleasing, though it carried a definite air of command. “Each journey brought new battles against new foes. You will find humans, Kagonesti, and, occasionally, ogres.”

The assemblage stirred at the mention of ogres. Harpathanas spoke again, calming his listeners.

“Most ogres never leave the high slopes of the mountains, far to the south,” he said. “Single marauders sometimes stray north to the lowlands, but not often.”

The Silvanesti smiled thinly, showing narrow white teeth. “Humans are the most numerous folk in the forest, as they are elsewhere. The forest humans live in tribes, as humans did centuries ago on the plains. The sizes of the various tribes are hard to measure. At one skirmish my archers had to contend with two hundred human fighters, but I believe more than one tribe was arrayed against us. I would say a typical tribal war party would include ten to fifty warriors, including women. They fight alongside their men.”

The handsome young warlord laughed at that, tossing back his long blond hair. “I look forward to meeting them!” he said.

“Be careful what you wish for, Lord Tremond. Forest women are ferocious in combat and collect the heads of any foes they vanquish,” Harpathanas replied gravely.

“And sometimes they take other parts,” said one of the Kagonesti. Rough laughter encircled the table. None of the elves joined in.

At Harpathanas’s behest, a Kagonesti left his entourage and stepped forward to describe forester weapons and tactics. The Kagonesti’s muscular build and tanned face, painted with red and blue loops and lines, seemed at odds with his attire – a plain yet good-quality dark green robe.

“They are good archers,” said the Kagonesti, “but use only short bows, which may not penetrate iron plate armor. Their favorite tricks are deadfalls and pit traps, which they also use against wild beasts. Take care when pursuing tribesmen who flee too easily. They are likely leading you into a trap.”

“Do they use metal?” asked Wanthred.

“Such metal as they trade for or take from their victims. Elsewise, they use flint weapons.”

Odovar leaned an elbow on the map table. “What about the forest elves? Will we have to fight them?”

Harpathanas and his Kagonesti retainers exchanged glances.

The painted elf replied, “Some of my woodland brethren have mated into human tribes, and some humans have likewise joined Kagonesti bands. These mixed groups will fight you. The pure Kagonesti bands will not, unless trapped and forced to give battle, but there are few west of the mountains anyway.”

The war council continued well into the afternoon. Tol strove to absorb everything, but late in the day he began to think over the crown prince’s plans. Amaltar accepted as fact the notion that Ergothian cavalry could fight in the forest, and none of his warlords objected, but Tol wondered. As a very minor member of the imperial army, he had no right to question his masters. That night in the tent he shared with Relfas and four other shilder, he expressed his doubts.

“It seems wrong,” he said. “How can mounted men fight in thick woods? The foresters go about on foot, I’m told. They fight from behind bushes and from treetops. How will our hordes come to grips with them?”

Relfas, tipsy from cheap Kharolian wine, shrugged broadly. “Don’t worry so mush – uh – much. Ol’ Egrin will see us through,” he said blithely. “The warriors of Ergoth will defeat the rugged – rag – uh – ragged root-eaters! You’ll see!”

The other boys cheered his bravado, and Relfas added, “I’m going to clip the ears off the first tribesman I kill and wear them home as trophies.”

“I want one of those woods-women,” said Janar, also befogged with drink. “Simpler than courtin’ the girls back home!”

They all laughed, but Tol didn’t feel merry. When his comrades staggered out to find more wine, he remained in the tent. By the light of a tallow candle, he prepared his armor, honed his saber and spearheads, and continued to brood over the morrow.

Chapter 8

THE HARROWING

Wanthred’s Firebrand horde departed at first light the next morning, after taking leave of Marshal Odovar. Shortly thereafter, the remaining two hordes from Juramona left the imperial encampment. They arranged themselves in a formation suitable for moving through enemy country. Out front in a wide arc were lightly armed skirmishers, provided with horns of different sizes, each of which sounded a distinctive note. A hundred paces back was the main body of the Eagles and the Panthers, in a compact mass moving ahead at a steady walk. Next came the Rooks, three hundred shilder ranging in age from fifteen to eighteen. Although without rank, the shield-bearers acknowledged several chiefs of their own: Relfas, by his noble blood a leader; Janar, blond, genial and popular, and widely rumored to be Lord Odovar’s natural son; and Tol, who owed his station to his strength and fighting skills.

Trailing them was the baggage train, forty-four carts and wagons drawn by oxen. These bore everything needed to keep the hordes in the field, from a rolling blacksmith’s shop to kegs of Lord Odovar’s favorite beer. Marching alongside the baggage wagons were two columns of foot soldiers, four hundred thirty men commanded by Durazen the One-Eyed. Last of all was the rear guard, two hundred veteran warriors from Juramona chosen for their steadiness and courage. It was their job to reinforce a successful attack, or form a last defense in case of disaster. Command of the rear guard was given to Egrin’s old comrade Manzo.

Hordes ate on the move, falling back in groups of ten to the provision wagons. Cooks handed them skewers of meat, roasted over pots of coals. Two skewers per man was the daily ration, plus a stone-hard biscuit, all washed down with a jack of salat – beer cut with water.

On their first campaign, the shilder were excited, keyed up for a fight. They laughed too much and talked too loudly. The summer heat, wide clear blue sky, and verdant open meadowland made for a general feeling of being on a grand adventure.

Lord Odovar ignored the boys’ high spirits until the army had forded the Wilder River. Now within a few leagues of their goal, the marshal sent a rider back to silence the noisy shilder.

“Why so stern? No one knows we’re coming!” Relfas complained, as the warning messenger galloped back to the front.

“Think again. We’re probably being watched even now,” Tol replied, eyeing the dark smudge on the horizon that was the edge of the Great Green.

“How do you know?” Janar asked.

“It’s what I would do. Even if the foresters don’t expect an invasion, they must have sentinels to watch for travelers and merchant caravans to plunder.”

His reasoning sobered the boys. Their chatter steadily declined as they rode inexorably closer.

Midmorning of the next day, the Juramona hordes ascended a rise and beheld their destination at last.

Zivilyn’s Carpet was an enormous open meadow, a full league across, bordered by the forest on three sides. Summer’s heat had turned the hip-high grass brown, but the meadow was thick with flowers. Enormous drifts of white daisies, blue cornflowers, and yellow running roses covered the field, tossing their heads in the mild breeze. Even more startling were the islands of tall sunflowers sprouting from the turf. They grew in thick clusters as high as a horse’s back, and their flat brown faces were as wide as trenchers. A steady mix of bees, butterflies, and other insects crisscrossed the meadow, feasting on the abundant pollen. Beyond the lake of flowers, the distant forest was a dark green wall, as solid and featureless as a cliff face.

Before noon, Odovar halted his men. The baggage carts formed a square near the eastern end of the vast meadow. Footmen fell to erecting a palisade around the square, and Odovar called in his scouts and skirmishers. Sweating hard, the marshal nonetheless sounded more like his old self when he addressed his lieutenants.

“We will enter the woods at once,” he told them. “It’s important we strike the tribes without delay, before they can unite. I will lead the Panther horde personally. Egrin, you’ll remain here till the sun is at your back; then you will enter and follow on the track we make.”

Again Tol was surprised. Divide the hordes? Wouldn’t it be better to keep them together? He studied Egrin’s face, but couldn’t tell if the warden was frowning from the sun in his eyes or from his disapproval of the plan.

“What about the rear guard and the shilder?” asked Manzo.

“Form your men with Egrin,” said Lord Odovar. “The boys will remain here, with the baggage train.”

Many of the shilder openly groaned when they heard that, and Odovar barked, “Those are my orders! Do any of you infants care to dispute with me?”

More temperately, Egrin said, “You boys will be our reserve. If we get into a serious fight, you’ll be called to join in.”

“There won’t be much fighting,” the marshal snorted. “I expect the savages will run for the mountains as soon as they hear us coming.”

The other warriors hailed this bold boast, but Egrin seemed unmoved. As the hordes sorted themselves out, he took Tol aside.

“Note this well,” he said quietly, ignoring the tumult around them. He mashed a common jackberry, a bitter and unpalatable fruit, in the hollow of his left hand. After smearing the juice on his ring, he pressed the ring against the back of Tol’s hand. The emblem of Egrin’s house – a crescent moon – remained, printed in dark berry juice.

“If I send for you, the messenger will have this mark,” the warden said. “Otherwise, ignore any call you get to join me. The enemy we fight are not honorable warriors. They’re plunderers and scavengers, and may resort to all manner of tricks. If anyone tries to summon you to my aid without this mark, kill them, or beat them to get the truth. Is that clear?”

Tol nodded gravely. Egrin clasped arms with him, not like master and student, but man to man. The youth was poignantly reminded of the day he’d left his father’s farm to join the ranks of the shilder, when his father had gripped his arm just that way.

Odovar and Pagas led the Panther horde into the Great Green. It took quite a while for the thousand mounted men to penetrate the green wall of bushes and saplings. For a long time after the last Panther disappeared from sight, Tol could hear them crashing through the undergrowth.

Egrin sat on the ground by his horse, reins loosely tied around his wrist, regarding the forest with a silent frown. Tol asked if he was troubled by the coming expedition, but the warden denied it. The dense woodland, he said, reminded him of his youth. He offered no further comment, but found a rose in the trampled grass and idly plucked its saffron petals.

Time passed. The sun reached its zenith. Most of the soldiers made a quick meal of cold meat and hard biscuit. Egrin remained where he was, sitting by Old Acorn, as the sun began to move westward. At last, he stood and mounted the roan. Without a spoken order or horn call, the men of the Eagle horde did likewise, sorting themselves into squadrons of twenty. Egrin placed a peaked iron helmet on his head, adjusting the chin strap to a comfortable fit. He wrapped the reins around his left hand, thumped Old Acorn’s flanks, and started toward the trees. The Eagles followed him without fanfare or fuss.

Watching from a wagon, Relfas sniffed. “Our warden is no gallant, is he? He lacks Lord Odovar’s style.”

“He’s a great warrior,” Tol objected.

Janar waved the chunk of biscuit he held, saying, “Fighting is one thing, leadership another. I agree with Relfas – Egrin has no sense of glory!”

They often talked this way, and Tol never could understand their thinking. Surely the measure of a warrior was how well he fought, not how well he dressed or bellowed commands? To his mind, Egrin was worth a dozen Odovars. The marshal was brave enough, but impatient, even rash. In a battle between equal hordes, one under Egrin and one under Odovar, Tol would ride with Egrin, no question.

The Eagles were swallowed by the forest in less time and with much less noise than the Panthers. Once they were gone, a pall fell over Zivilyn’s Carpet. The sun declined further and the brightness of the day was swallowed by deep shadows. The bustle and noise that had accompanied the full camp gave way to the nervous quiet of those remaining. To many of the youths it seemed as though they had been taken to the edge of the world and abandoned.

Tol left his shilder comrades to hunt up Narren and Crake. He found the former off-duty and playing knucklebones with other footmen behind the healer’s wagon. Tol joined the gaming for a time, lost a small amount, and quit.

“Seen Crake?” he asked, as Narren’s fellows raked in their winnings.

“Probably napping in the wine cart.” Narren often accused others of vices he wanted to commit himself.

In fact Crake was awake, though comfortably ensconced with his feet propped up on the driver’s box of his wagon. The young flutist was enlarging the holes in his instrument with a slim, sharp blade. He hailed Tol’s arrival.

“A new flute?” Tol said.

“Naw, an old one. They get soft, you know, from spit and breath blowing through them,” Crake explained. “The wood swells, changing the pitch, so I have to open up the holes to keep things in tune.”

Tol climbed in beside his friend. He pulled off his helmet, running his ringers through his sweat-sleeked hair and glorying in the fresh air. For a moment he envied Crake’s pleasant life, and told him so.

“It isn’t bad,” the youth replied. He dipped a hand below the driver’s box and brought out a half-full wineskin, offering it to Tol. It was politely declined, and Crake set it aside. “But there’s a lot of ugly work in tavern life, too.”

Tol prompted him to go on.

“Dealing with drunks is the worst. How would you like to wrestle nightly with besotted soldiers who think they’re the emperor’s champion swordsman? If you tap one with a persuader, then you have to drag his arse outside, and nothing weighs more than a lifeless body. But leave the fellow on his feet, and he’ll either take a swing at you, or heave his supper on your shoes.” Crake blew a random note on the flute. “Some life, eh?”

Tol gazed into the woods. The low, westerly sun washed the Great Green with bloody light, yet the brilliance seemed to penetrate only a few steps into the forest.

“I wonder what it’s like?” he said. “Battle, I mean.”

“Loud, I imagine. Sweaty. And scary.”

“Do you suppose they’re fighting now?”

Crake laid the flute on his chest, and gave his friend a thoughtful look. “You really do wish you were with them, don’t you?”

“Better than waiting here, doing nothing.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, my friend,” Crake said, and smiled, a quick flash of teeth in the gathering dusk. “We’re not doing nothing. I’m tuning my flute, and you’re daydreaming.”

He pulled the stopper of the wineskin and let it dangle on its cord. The potent aroma of red wine filled the air between them. Crake took a drink, then passed the skin to Tol.

“And now you’re drinking,” he said wryly. “That’s not nothing, either.”

*

Tol thought he was too excited to sleep that night, hut nodded off on his bedroll before the campfire had burned down to embers. Night passed peacefully until a firm hand prodded him awake.;

“Eh, what is it? Who are you pokin’, Janar, you dolt —”

“Wake up, boy. There’s trouble.” The voice belonged not to Janar, but Felryn. The healer looked worried.

Tol bolted upright. “What trouble?”

Felryn hushed him and said softly, “Not here. In the woods.”

He beckoned the puzzled youth to follow. They went to Felryn’s wagon, a large, canvas-roofed vehicle drawn by six oxen. Inside, the air was hot and heavy, laced with musky incense. At the far end of the wagon was a small altar to Mishas inscribed with arcane symbols of the wizard’s craft. A thick candle burned on one side, and several pewter talismans lay beside the steadily burning light. Tol and Felryn squeezed in, and the healer closed the flap.

“First, I must anoint you,” the healer muttered. “So as not to offend the gods.”

He took tiny brass vial and shook out a few drops of clear oil on his fingertips. He dabbed the oil first on Tol’s forehead, then his chin, and finally both cheeks. As the liquid warmed, Tol detected a faint, spicy aroma.

“I was consecrating talismans for the protection of Lord Odovar and his warlords,” Felryn said. “Nothing was going well. I broke my stylus, and the sacred candle went out twice …” He frowned. In the candlelit gloom, his form seemed to merge with the shadows. His strong face resembled a mask carved out of smooth, dark wood.

“Bad omens, but I put them down to nerves. I was nearly finished with the dedication of these two medals to Corij when there was a flash of fire, and this happened.” He held up the two medallions: they were fused together, edge to edge.

“What does it mean?” Tol asked, head swimming a little from the overpowering aroma of incense.

Felryn closed his long fingers around the ruined medals.

“The air here is heavy with magic. There are powerful spells being cast, not far away – spells against our people – and, I fear, much danger for Lord Odovar.”

“Who’s casting these spells? Foresters?”

“No, not the local shamans; their power is drawn from the realm of Zivilyn. There are stronger forces stirring.” When Tol looked alarmed, Felryn stared at him silently for a few seconds, rubbing the fused talismans between his hands. “I will see what I can see,” he said at last.

He pulled the silver Mishas medallion from beneath the neck of his robe. Clenching it in one hand and the fused Corij talismans in the other, he closed his eyes, lowering his chin to his chest. Tol held his breath, waiting to see what would transpire.

The silence deepened. One by one the night sounds from outside – the chirrup of crickets, the muted call of an owl, even the whisper of wind in the long grass – all ceased. Soon, Tol realized he could no longer hear even his own breathing. The lack of sound was absolute, pressing against his ears like a thick blanket. He could feel himself gasping for air, his mouth wide, but still heard nothing.

Felryn began to tremble. When at last he spoke, although his voice sounded flat and toneless, Tol felt a huge surge of relief. Any sound was welcome after the dreadful, smothering silence.

“Great forces are at work. They do not originate in the forest – though that’s where they’re working,” Felryn intoned. “Lord Odovar faces death – a trap, an ambush!” His eyes sprang open, wide and worried. “And so does Egrin!”

Tol’s hands clenched into fists. He wanted to shout questions, demand more information, but he feared distracting the healer from his vision. So he waited.

After a pause, Felryn closed his eyes again, and continued: “Six leagues from here is a stream, bent like a horseshoe, in a deep ravine. A large tree lies across it, like a bridge. The marshal cannot advance on horseback across the ravine. He dismounts and starts over the log on foot. The log breaks when he’s halfway across; it has been sawn through, save for the last bit on top. Odovar falls into the stream. It’s only chest-deep, but with his bad leg he can’t get out.”

Eyes still shut, Felryn turned his head, as though looking at something in the scene he described.

“Arrows fly – the foresters are all around.” Felryn’s voice lost its toneless quality, and he exclaimed, “Men struggle to reach Lord Odovar, but all who try are slain! The enemy is in the trees … they have good bows. The marshal is hit! He brandishes his sword and calls for a charge. But the mounted warriors have no room to maneuver among the closely growing trees. They are felled from all sides by arrows and thrown spears. Egrin —”

The healer grimaced, moving his head left and right, searching, then reported, “I cannot see. Something impedes my sight.”

Tears oozed from under Felryn’s rightly clenched eyelids – red droplets – blood, not water. He opened his eyes and inhaled deeply. Immediately the oppressive silence ended, and the familiar nighttime sounds flooded back into Tol’s grateful ears.

“I will rouse Durazen and seek his counsel!” he said, gripping Felryn’s arm. “He’s the senior warrior in camp.”

The healer slumped wearily against the side of the wagon, but he assured Tol he was well. Tol left him and ran to the center of the square, shouting Durazen’s name. Soldiers and shilder sat up all around, but he didn’t see the commander of the footmen.

Narren suddenly came running, wearing only a breech-clout and clutching a blanket around his shoulders. He had a war dagger in his free hand.

“Tol! Come quick!” he panted. “It’s Durazen!”

Tol raced through the roused camp. In the far corner, Narren stopped and stood over an unmoving figure on a bedroll. For a moment Tol thought Durazen must be dead or drunk, but Narren kicked the blanket aside to reveal not the commander’s body, but a bundle of grass and vines, cunningly lashed together to resemble a man.

“Torches!” Tol yelled. “Search the camp! Find Durazen, or anyone who doesn’t belong here!”

By now the whole camp was in an uproar. Brands blazed; shilder and foot soldiers searched the camp, even turning out the civilian wagons. Durazen could not be found.

No one slept for the rest of the night. At dawn, the nervous shilder and foot soldiers greeted the sunrise with relief, though there-was still no sign of their missing commander. And with Durazen gone, there was no clear leader among the footmen or shilder.

Tol, mounted on Smoke, addressed the assembled warriors and civilians. He told them of Felryn’s vision of an ambush.

“We must find Lord Odovar and Warden Egrin,” he declared. “I need at least a hundred men to do it. Who’s with me?”

“We can’t leave camp,” Janar protested. He was only half-dressed, his broad chest bare and blond hair askew. “Our orders were to stay here.”

“The marshal is in trouble – he maybe dead already!”

“We don’t know that,” said Relfas skeptically. “Felryn is an admirable healer, but I’ve never heard he was a seer.”

Tol turned to the older man for help. Felryn said, “I am a priest of Mishas, chosen by the goddess to serve the marshal of Juramona. If she grants me visions of my charges, you can believe them.”

The shilder remained unconvinced. “We should send a few riders to contact Lord Wanthred and the Firebrands,” Relfas countered. “That would be the wisest course.”

Many relieved voices supported this plan. Tol’s frustration grew.

“If Lord Odovar is to be ambushed and cut off, every hour is precious,” he insisted. “For the honor of the empire and the safety of our comrades, we must do something!”

On and on they wrangled, until a delegation from the footmen interrupted. Relfas disdained to discuss strategy with mere foot soldiers, but Tol went to speak to them.

“It’s Durazen. We found him,” Narren reported. Tol looked relieved until Narren added, “He’s dead, Tol. Come and see.”

Shilder, civilians, and foot soldiers streamed out of the camp behind Tol. Narren led them to the extreme eastern end of the meadow.

“Boys from the cook wagon went out a little while ago to collect tinder for their fires,” Narren explained. “Instead they found this.”

Forty steps from the edge of the woods, the crowd halted as though they’d all been turned to stone. Lashed to an oak tree, his hands bound behind him, was Durazen. The shaft of an arrow protruded from his throat, effectively pinning him to the tree trunk. His belly had been cut open, and his entrails wound around the tree.

The forest folk had not simply killed the commander of the Ergothian camp. They had sacrificed him to the spirits of the trees in which they lived.

The sound of retching behind him broke through Tol’s shock. He had to clear his throat twice before he could speak. Even then his voice was hoarse.

“Cut him down,” he rasped. No one moved. Dazed, he drew his dagger and did the job himself. Felryn knelt by the body, examining it closely.

“Why did they do this?” Tol asked, stunned by the method of the old warrior’s death.

“To propitiate their ancestors’ spirits – and to terrify their enemies,” Felryn answered tersely.

Tol stared at the bloody tree. Was Lord Odovar going to meet a similar fate in the forest? And Egrin?

His name, sharply spoken, called him out of his horrified daze. Narren and the footmen had gathered around.

“We’ll go with you, Tol,” Narren said. “We’ll find Odovar and the warden, and pay back the savages for what they did to Durazen, too!”

Tol surveyed the foot soldiers’ hard faces. Aside from Narren and a few others, they were generally older than the shilder, some as old as thirty. Of humble birth, they were used to being looked down upon by Riders of the Horde. None of that mattered now. Their blood was up, and they would take the battle to the devious enemy in their own way: on foot, face to face.

“Pick a hundred men, Narren, no more. Each man is to bring food and water for two days, his sword, dagger, helmet, a pair of spears, and breastplate. Everything else stays behind – we have to move fast,” Tol said. He looked up at the mid-morning sun. “We’ll leave as soon as you’re ready.”

Narren took off running, to do as Tol said. All the way back to camp Relfas, Janar, and the other shilder harangued Tol, warning him not to go. He was disobeying orders, they said. He was inexperienced. He was risking the lives of the ignorant footmen who chose to follow him.

Tol ignored them. Finally, Relfas quieted the others and said, “So be it! If Tol wants to throw his life away, that’s his choice. At least he won’t weaken the Rooks doing it!”

Considerably more than a hundred footmen lined up to follow Tol into the forest. He sent a third of them back, not wanting to leave the camp’s defense so weakened. Among the volunteers, he was surprised to see Felryn and Crake. The healer refused to be left behind, insisting that, as his auguries had stirred them up, he felt responsible for the expedition.

To Crake, Tol said, “You’re not a soldier. You don’t have to do this.”

“None of your men has a bow. You’ll need one,” Crake said with a shrug. Flashing a smile, he added, “Just don’t try to order me around, all right?”

Before they set out, Felryn took Tol aside and showed him the arrow that had been removed from Durazen’s throat. Made of ash wood, blackened with soot and fletched with crow feathers, it would be nearly invisible at night. It was obviously forester workmanship, except for its head, which was a sharp triangle of bronze. Common knowledge held that the foresters used flint heads.

“Also,” Felryn added, “the cuts on Durazen’s body were too smooth and even to have been made with stone blades. He was cut with metal.”

“Where would the forest tribes get metal?” Tol said. “Taken from those they’ve slain?”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps the foresters have found someone to supply them,” Felryn suggested darkly.

With a minimum of fuss and no noble speeches, the rescue expedition slipped into the woods. The trees closed in behind them, and Zivilyn’s Carpet was quickly lost from sight.

Chapter 9

THE PLACE OF BONES

The Great Green was denser than any forest Tol had ever seen. Ancient trees stretched lordly limbs up to the sky, blotting out the sun. The glare and heat of day gave way to a sort of muted twilight. Gray lichen clung to the trunks, and thick carpets of moss filled the space between gnarled tree roots. Not only were there majestic oaks and broad maples, but several of the truly gigantic vallenwoods united to form a leafy canopy under which lesser plants could not grow.

By the time they’d gone ten score paces into the forest, the Ergothians found the way clear of the clinging growth that first had hampered their progress. The forest floor was covered by a thick bed of dead leaves, broken here and there by islands of mossy boulders. The soft light and great tree trunks made it impossible to see much more than a dozen paces in any direction. A thousand savages could be hiding within a stone’s throw and they’d never know it, Tol thought. He wondered how Odovar’s and Egrin’s hordes had gotten anywhere on horseback in this maze.

The forest was still as death. No birds sang, and there was no game in sight, not even a rabbit. The weird silence brought out a kind of nervous tic in the soldiers. Every few steps, each man would pause and look around, certain he was being observed by hostile eyes. Even Felryn succumbed to the sensation.

Without asking permission, Crake slipped away from the soldiery. For a flute player who spent most of his days in a tavern, he was remarkably stealthy, moving ahead of them through the leaf-litter with hardly a sound.

A shrill whistle brought Tol’s band to a halt. He continued forward and found Crake crouched by a pit dug in the center of the trail. Sharpened stakes lined the bottom of the pit. Their points were darkly stained.

More traps, all likewise sprung, were found – snares dangling in the air, deadfalls tripped, more of the stake-filled pits. A few traps held dead horses, and there were plain signs Odovar’s men had fought back: tree trunks defaced by sword cuts, blood spattered on leaves, scraps of shredded buckskin. Still, there were no human bodies, living or dead. That mystery played on the soldiers’ already taut nerves.

When the rescue party topped a slight knoll they beheld an even more startling sight. A series of vines had been stretched between trees directly across their path. From the vines hung skulls, more than a hundred of them. Their missing lower jaws gave them an especially horrible aspect: they seemed to be silently screaming.

The soldiers shifted uneasily, drawing closer together. Their muttering was loud in the silence. Even the veteran campaigners among them were powerfully affected by the sight.

Felryn took a small vial from his belt pouch. He flung droplets from the vial at the screen of skulls. A musky, sweet aroma surrounded the men.

His banishing oil used up, the healer gripped Tol’s arm. “It’s woodland magic,” he said. “A display meant to cause fear.”

Tol swallowed hard. “It works well.”

Felryn examined the nearest bones with professional detachment.

“Human, elf, human, human – and judging by the size of those two, kender, or perhaps gnome,” he said. “And they’ve been here for years. Bones don’t get this dry overnight.”

Tol felt a flush of anger drowning out his earlier horror. “Cut them down! Cut them all down!” he commanded, drawing his saber.

The task helped dispel the last traces of the Ergothians’ fear. When the way was clear, Tol sheathed his saber and the rescue party moved on.

At the top of the next rise, behind a tangle of bracken, they found a distinct path worn into the mossy earth. It was the first real trail they’d seen, and as it ran along their line of march, Tol decided to follow it. Wary of traps, the Ergothians paralleled the trail on either side, moving single file through the closely growing trees. Crake alone chose to walk down the worn path, bow in hand.

Crake suddenly stopped. Keeping his right hand low, by his side, he waved for everyone else to halt as well. The Ergothians knelt in the leaves.

The young flutist nocked an arrow very slowly, hands still held low. Raising the weapon swiftly, he loosed the arrow at a high angle. There was a screech, and something heavy came hurtling down from the tree tops.

“Tol! Now!” Crake shouted.

Trusting his friend, Tol rose with his sword in the air. “Have at them!”

They ran forward with no thought of stealth. Ahead, the path passed between a pair of tall boulders, and more waist-high rocks formed a barrier between the pair. Shouting the name of Juramona, the foot soldiers leaped onto the rocks. On the other side, still scrambling to grab their weapons, were several dozen foresters.

Tol dropped into the midst of the shocked tribesmen. Though he’d never attacked anyone with lethal intent before, the heat of the moment seized him, and he slashed forward without mercy. In such close quarters, most of the Ergothians abandoned spears and drew swords too, hacking at the unprepared enemy. The foresters fought back as best they could with wooden spears, stone axes, and clubs.

Tol struck a spear from the hands of an older man, then followed this with an underhand cut. It caught the tribesman under one arm and sent him reeling. Tol leaped over his fallen foe, not even bothering to see if he was alive or dead. He ran the next man, a painted half-elf, through, then spun around and recovered his blade. As the foot soldiers battled below him, Crake stood atop a convenient boulder, picking off enemies with his bow.

The fight was quickly over. Not one of the foresters escaped. The Ergothians, flushed with battle fever, were dazed as the fight ended abruptly. They gathered in the center of the camp and surveyed the carnage.

“I can’t believe we were able to steal up on them,” Tol said, panting. His mouth was searingly dry, his voice little more than a croak. One of the older footmen passed him a waterskin.

“They had a sentinel,” Crake said. “I shot him from the path.”

“Odovar must have come this way,” Narren observed. “The fools thought the danger had passed. Only one man on watch? Stupid!”

Twenty-eight foresters had been killed in the skirmish. Eight were half-elves – and four were women. As the elf Harpathanas Ambrodel had warned in Prince Amaltar’s camp, the women had fought as hard as their men, and died just as bravely. The Ergothians had lost not a single man, though five had received minor wounds.

One tribesman still lived, though he was wounded. He had long blond hair pulled back in a queue, and a short beard. His ears swept up to blunt points. Some of the men, eager to avenge Durazen, were ready to cut the injured half-elf s throat. Tol forbade it, though the footmen grew angry.

The awful scene of Durazen’s death would live in his dreams for a long time, but Tol stood firm. Looking at the fair-haired prisoner, the face of Vakka Zan came back to him. Tol adamantly refused to allow them to kill the captive.

One or two might have disputed the decision with force, but they were drawn away and calmed by the rest. Tol called for Felryn.

The healer examined the wounded forester, reporting the fellow had a sword cut on his calf. He applied a herbal powder and tied up the wound with a scrap of soft leather.

“It’ll hurt like a bite from the Dragonqueen, but he should live,” Felryn said.

Questioned, the green-daubed man would not reveal even his name. Felryn gave the ends of his leather bandage a tug. The tribesman’s face whitened.

“Nara,” he finally grunted. “Name’s Nara.”

There was no time to waste on interrogation. The forester’s comrades might even now be massing a force to counterattack the Ergothians. Over Felryn’s protests, Tol put him in charge of the half-elf s safety. Without the healer’s protection, Tol knew the other soldiers would likely finish the prisoner.

Uncertainty gnawed at Tol. As he walked along the row of slain tribesmen, he wondered if he had made a terrible mistake disobeying orders and coming into the forest. Like a hunter trembling after taking his first buck, he was sickened by the sight of death. His hands were shaking, and his eyes stung with tears.

Narren came up beside him, also gazing at the enemy bodies. Tol clenched his jaw, forcing the lump back down his throat. He would not shame himself by weeping at a time like this.

“Why do they color their faces?” Narren asked. He’d taken off his helmet, letting his fair hair blow free.

“To look fierce?” Tol suggested. “Or to better hide in the greenwood?”

His own words sparked a thought, and Tol turned abruptly. He clamped a hand on Narren’s arm.

“That’s it! That’s how we’ll get through!” he exclaimed. Narren’s confusion was plain, so Tol added, “We’ve been fortunate so far, don’t you see? The Panthers and the Eagles must have drawn off most of the tribesmen in these parts – the best armed, the ablest fighters. That’s why we’ve encountered only these ragged scavengers. If we go on, we’re sure to run into more fell warriors.”

“What of it?” said Narren. “We came to find our comrades. We’ve no choice but to walk the way in blood.”

Tol managed a smile. The plan forming in his mind chased away his earlier doubts. “Odovar, with two hordes at his command, foundered, so how can we hope to get through with only a hundred? We can’t, unless …” He looked again at the lifeless half-elves and their verdant skin. “Unless we become foresters too!”

*

It was easily done. Among their scant possessions, the slain tribesmen had small bags of paint, compounded from boar grease, leaves, and sap. There wasn’t enough pigment for the entire Ergothian band, but the veteran soldiers didn’t much fancy the idea of painting themselves up anyway. Tol and thirty-two of the youngest soldiers shed their armor and smeared their faces, arms, and hands with paint. As best as possible they copied the markings Nara bore, for extra authenticity.

The day was well advanced by the time they finished, and night would fall early under the shield of leaves. After a quick, cold meal in the boulder-ringed camp, the Ergothians set out again. Tol and his painted comrades led the way.

They detected signs of activity. More paths, leading off in various directions, were discovered. A faint smell of smoke drifted on the breeze, and twice they heard the distant pulse of drumbeats. At dusk, the drums grew louder.

By Felryn’s estimate, they’d come some five leagues from Zivilyn’s Carpet. Everyone was weary, but no one asked to stop. Night had truly fallen when they reached a small clearing. Tol signaled for the company to kneel in the shadows at the edge of the clearing. He called for Felryn.

Stars shone overhead in a clear circle where the trees had been cleared. The white moon was just peeping over the trees. In the center of the clearing stood a single white column. It was two paces tall, a handspan wide, and shone brightly in Solin’s light. The column stood on a low base of dark stone. Indistinct objects lay in heaps around its base.

“An altar,” Felryn explained softly. “There is power here, much greater than the simple fear-spell at the wall of skulls. This is a consecrated spot, though from this distance I can’t tell to which god it belongs.”

Tol took a deep breath and stood up. Felryn grasped his wrist, hissing, “What are you doing?”

“I’m a forester,” Tol replied coolly. “I’m not afraid to be seen here.”

He walked into the clearing. No alarm was given, so he advanced boldly to the white column.

The pillar was eight-sided, its top cut off on a slant. A smooth yellow gem was inset in the angled top. Around it and all down the sides of the column were finely carved hieroglyphs. Tol knew the writing was not Ergothian.

He squatted to examine the objects piled up around the pillar. To his surprise, he saw they were pieces of bronze weaponry – arrowheads, spear tips, knife and sword blades. All looked newly made and unblemished by corrosion.

Taking a spearhead to show Felryn, Tol started back toward the trees. Before he was halfway there, he was brought up short by a sharp command.

“You! Stop!”

Tol froze, then slowly turned. Out of the darkness strode two figures, one in a maroon cloak, the other wrapped in black. Like apparitions, they entered the narrow stream of moonlight and the silvery beams glinted off the bronze helmet worn by the maroon-cloaked fellow. He was a Silvanesti warrior in full array; of the other figure all that could be seen was the hooded sable cloak that covered him to his toes.

“What are you doing, half-breed? The Isaren Glade is a sacred place, and that bronze is not for you!” the elf said. The haughtiness of his expression matched the arrogance of his tone. Arms folded into voluminous sleeves, the hooded one said nothing.

Even as he wondered what a Silvanesti was doing so deep in the Great Green, Tol affected what he hoped was a rustic woodland accent and replied, “Uh, sorry. I didn’t think anybody would notice one bit o’ metal gone.”

The elf knocked the spearhead from Tol’s open hand. “This belongs to Chief Makaralonga!” he snapped. Spotting the saber hanging over Tol’s shoulder, he said, “An iron blade! Where did you steal that? Give it to me!”

Tol glanced over his shoulder at the trees – but couldn’t see any of his men. They were in hiding.

“I said, give me that iron blade!” he said, shoving Tol roughly.

“As you wish!”

Tol abruptly whipped his saber out and cut at the elf. He felt the edge scrape along the Silvanesti’s cuirass. Exclaiming in his native tongue, the elf warrior leaped back, groping for his own sword. He blundered hard against his comrade, and the man’s black hood fell back, revealing a familiar face.

Morthur Dermount!

Tol’s heart raced. What was a Silvanesti doing in the Great Green, and in the company of the empire’s most wanted fugitive? The man also known as Spannuth Grane had not been heard of since he’d disappeared from Juramona years earlier.

The elf whipped out his sword, as Morthur Dermount laughed. “No need for such exertions, Kirstalothan. I’ll down him for you,” he said. Fingering a length of slender copper chain, Morthur began to speak in the sing-song voice that Tol remembered from that night at his family’s farm.

Tol backed away a pace and threw a desperate glance at the trees. What was Felryn waiting for? Where were his men?

Even as Morthur continued to chant and finger the links of the chain, Tol realized he wasn’t feeling the heavy, irresistible sleepiness. Morthur’s look of consternation brought a fierce grin to his face as he lifted his sword again and launched himself at the Silvanesti.

No sooner had their blades met than six of Tol’s green-faced men burst from cover and joined in the fray. They bore the Silvanesti down. Black-garbed Morthur backed out of arm’s reach and dashed for the trees.

“Get him! Stop him!” Tol cried.

Four men raced after Morthur, but they soon returned empty-handed. The treacherous sorcerer had easily eluded them in the dark.

“It was Morthur Dermount!” Tol told Narren, who was sitting on the Silvanesti’s back.

The name meant nothing to Narren and the other foot soldiers; they had long forgotten Odovar’s former lieutenant. Grinding his teeth in frustration at having let the criminal escape, Tol snapped, “Spannuth Grane!”

That evil name all recognized. Felryn declared Grane had been the source of the evil magic that he’d detected. Yet he no more than the rest could say what Grane might be doing here, and with a Silvanesti warrior to boot.

They dragged the unconscious elf back to the trees. Bound and gagged, he became their second prisoner.

Felryn examined the white column. He declared the writing to be Dwarvish. According to the inscription, he said, this place was called the Isaren Glade, and was dedicated to the smith-god Reorx.

He added, “Yet elves don’t worship Reorx. Neither do the forest tribes. Perhaps someone merely wants us to think dwarves have been here. As for Lord Morthur —” Felryn shook his head. “There’s more at work here than meets the eye.”

As the foot soldiers discussed the strange doings among themselves, Felryn said quietly to Tol, “He cast a befuddlement spell on you. Didn’t you feel it?”

Tol said he hadn’t, and thanked the healer for his protection. Felryn stared at him silently for a moment. “I did nothing,” he finally said, but Tol could offer no explanation for the failure of Morthur’s spell against him.

With renewed care, the Ergothians passed through the mysterious glade after first hiding all the bronze weapons in some nearby bushes.

Back in the trees again, they began to hear movement. More than once Tol spied dark figures gliding through the woods alongside them. He kept his hand on his sword hilt, but no one else bothered them. The strangers must assume he and his party were foresters.

Eventually, the trees grew more slender and undergrowth appeared between them. As they made their way through the brush, they saw a glow ahead. Loud masculine voices rang out – Ergothian voices!

Narren started to push past Tol, but was held back.

“If we are near, now is the time for patience,” Tol whispered. Narren agreed reluctantly.

Keeping the unpainted soldiers in the rear, Tol and his disguised comrades pushed forward. The ground sloped upward. They could hear the gurgle of a stream and smelled smoke. Parting the last barrier of brush, Tol beheld an astonishing scene.

Ahead was a large knoll, rising sharply above the surrounding land. The sides and rear of the knoll dropped into a steep ravine, through which a creek coursed. Across the open end of the knoll, large logs had been piled to create a low, zigzagging bulwark. Two bonfires blazed behind the fallen trees. Hundreds of Ergothian warriors and a similar number of horses were crowded together around the fires. All the warriors were dismounted, swords drawn and spears ready. The dead – foresters and warriors both – lay in heaps on both sides of the bulwark.

They strained every muscle trying to make out Lord Odovar, but could not find him, Tol did spot Egrin, slouched against a boulder, and his heart leapt with relief.

“The warden lives!” he said. In eager whispers, this news was passed back from the disguised soldiers to the rest of the footmen.

Outside the fitful light of the bonfires lurked hundreds, perhaps thousands, of tribesmen. Both groups of combatants were plainly exhausted.

“We’ll wait for sunrise,” Tol told his people. “We can’t attack now. Our own comrades might fight us. At dawn, one side or the other will attack again, and that’s when we’ll strike.”

No one had a better plan, so the footmen settled down in the dark to wait. Tol was amazed. He and his troop were surrounded by foresters, but none paid them any heed. Aided by darkness, they hid in the midst of their enemy. He couldn’t imagine falling asleep, poised on the very cusp of danger, with myriad questions about Silvanesti intruders and Morthur Dermount racing in his head, but sleep he did. Exhaustion finally got the better of him and he slumped against the base of an oak tree.

*

A high-pitched scream tore his eyes open.

Swarms of foresters came howling out of the woods, waving clubs, axes, and spears as they charged up the knoll. The Ergothians under siege braced for the onslaught, a bristling hedge of spears lining the length of the improvised wall. Ten paces from the bulwark, the foresters paused to hurl spears and stones. Armor was no protection against a fist-sized hunk of granite, worn smooth in a tumbling creek. Ergothians went down, faces bloody, under the barrage.

Tol kept his men hidden, watching the battle develop. He saw the attack for what it was – an obvious feint, an attempt to wear down the defenders with noise and thrown missiles.

“Footmen to the front,” he called softly. The undisguised soldiers worked their way forward.

“When the foresters attack the barricade, form up and hit them from behind. Shout ‘Juramona’ to let our countrymen know who we are. Those of us in paint will stay in the woods and cut off any reinforcements moving up against you.”

It was a dangerous plan. The footmen were outnumbered. If the tribesmen stood their ground in the face of the footmen’s surprise rush, the Ergothians could be overwhelmed. Although the risks were plain, no one spoke against Tol.

Every soldier was aching to come to blows with the enemy.

They did not have long to wait. The bombardment of the bulwark ended with the foresters scrambling back down the hill into the trees. Two breaths later, a mob several hundred strong erupted from hiding, screaming and running up the knoll. The first wave reached the line of felled trees and climbed over, only to be impaled on Ergothian spears. Still the wild-eyed tribesmen pushed on, shrieking like fiends, climbing over their fallen comrades, and letting their weight bear down the deadly spears.

For a moment Tol took in the horrible panorama: tribesmen naked to the waist, wielding a stone axe in each hand; women warriors, their long hair woven into braids, lofting arrows over the throng; painted Kagonesti and half-elves with slings and spears; and the grim, bloodied faces of the trapped Ergothians, finding three fresh foes behind every one they felled.

The veteran footmen were led by Caskan, one of the soldiers who had wanted to execute Nara. They fell upon the rear of the forester mob. Chaos reigned as the tribesmen struggled to turn and meet this unexpected blow. Behind their bulwark, the embattled Ergothians were plainly astonished, but took new heart from the recognized rallying cry. The rest of Tol’s band, those painted like foresters, slipped sideways through the trees, watching for any fresh threats.

A gang of tall, rugged-looking humans emerged from the ravine and moved to strike at the rear of Caskan’s band. Tol let them collect in a tight mass for charging, then hit them before they got clear of the trees.

Shaken at being attacked by men they had taken to be allies, the buckskin-clad humans retreated, before recognizing their new enemies and counter-attacking ferociously.

With difficulty Tol wounded a foe a head taller than himself, leaped over a prostrate forester, and traded cuts with another tribesman. This one had a magnificent head of golden hair, a thick beard, and eyes the color of a summer sky. He wore a brass circlet set with crudely cut gems, and carried an ancient straight sword of the kind used in Ergoth a century past. Three times Tol’s age, he was still a powerful man. The youth’s hands stung every time their blades met. If the golden-haired warrior had thrust with his straight blade, he might have killed Tol, who was no duelist. Fortunately for Tol, his untutored opponent chose to fight as if he had a saber, slashing overhand again and again.

The press of the fight propelled them both to the edge of the ravine. Below, the stream was stained with blood and littered with bodies. The blond tribesman delivered a mighty blow at Tol’s left shoulder, which the boy deflected by using both hands on his sword hilt. Pressing forward with all his strength, Tol slid his curved blade down his enemy’s straight one until the iron tip drove deep into the older man’s shoulder.

The forester was strong. He did not lose his grip on his sword even with a span of cold metal in his flesh, but as he backed away from the thrust, he did lose his footing and pitched backward into the ravine.

Tol slid down the muddy bank after his foe. He planted a foot on the fallen forester’s chest and shoved. Golden hair sank beneath the muddy water. Tol held him down, knocking the sword from his hand. When bubbles ceased coming from the warrior’s lips, Tol let him float to the surface.

“Yield!” he cried, digging the tip of his bloody saber into the man’s bearded jowls. “I will spare your life!”

“Traitor half-breed!” sputtered the beaten forester. “Makaralonga yields to no man of ill faith!”

Makaralonga. The Silvanesti warrior captured at the Isaren Glade had invoked this man’s name. He was a chief!

Tol swiped a sleeve over his face, scrubbing away paint. “I’m no forester,” he announced. “I am Tol, shilder to Egrin, warden of Juramona!”

Makaralonga blinked through sodden strands of hair. “A grasslander!”

“Yield, and you shall be honestly treated.” Tol stepped back, drawing a deep breath into his aching chest.

Above, Tol’s charge had broken Makaralonga’s attack, and Caskan’s footmen broke the foresters’ latest attempt to storm the knoll. When Tol emerged from the ravine with Makaralonga at sword point before him, a wail went up from the foresters. Although they still outnumbered the Ergothians ten to one, they lost heart at the sight of their chief in the enemy’s hands. They began to back into the underbrush, but their retreat became a rout when Ergothian soldiers flung themselves on the horde’s surviving horses and charged after them. The log barricade was dragged down and horsemen thundered down the knoll. They sabered scores of fleeing tribesmen, following them into the trees in their eagerness to pay back their tormenters.

Tol prodded Makaralonga to the broken bulwark. Waiting there was Egrin. Wan and bloodied, he still sat proudly on Old Acorn.

“By the gods, Tol! How did you get here?” Egrin exclaimed.

Tol told him quickly of Felryn’s vision and how they’d mounted a rescue.

The warden looked over the scattered members of Tol’s little host. “Footmen? You entered the forest with two hundred footmen?”

“One hundred,” Tol corrected. “Half remained behind to guard the encampment.”

Egrin shook his head, but put aside his astonishment to stare at the man Tol had captured. On learning the fellow’s identity, the warden was amazed anew. “The chief of the Dom-shu!”

“I am,” said Makaralonga proudly. “I yielded to this warrior on the promise of my life.” He grimaced, clutching his shoulder where Tol’s sword had cut deeply. “You raise bold fighters in your country, horse-rider.”

“So it seems,” Egrin said, staring at his shilder. He was torn. He didn’t know whether to upbraid Tol for disobeying orders and entering the forest, or praise him for his astounding success. In the end, he simply ordered him to secure Makaralonga inside the bulwark, then had horns blown to recall his vengeful warriors from their pursuit of the fleeing tribesmen.

At the crest of the knoll, they found Lord Odovar. The foolhardy, courageous marshal had been laid beneath a broad elm tree, arms crossed reverently on his chest. His armor was deeply scarred,, and he bore many terrible wounds.

“He died fighting like a bull,” said a nearby warrior, badly wounded himself in an earlier fight. “The savages tried four times to capture him, wading out with nooses and nets, but hip-deep in water, Lord Odovar slew so many they drew back and rained arrows on him until they killed him.”

The hardened warrior put his head down and wept, and Tol grieved for the loss as well. So much had happened to him since that day in the onion field when he’d first met Lord Odovar. After the terrible head wound he’d received from Grane, the marshal had grown into a harsh and impatient man, yet he represented Tol’s first taste of a wider world, the world beyond the narrow confines of farm and family. Staring down at the still form, Tol silently thanked Odovar of Juramona for giving him the chance to make a better life for himself.

“A good death!” Makaralonga declared. “I would wish for the same.”

Tol blinked away his tears and looked up at the brawny chief. “Yet you surrendered. Why?” he asked.

The chief of the Dom-shu tribe, favoring his wounded shoulder, sat down heavily on a slab of sandstone.

“I could see you are a great warrior. There is no shame being beaten by a man like you.”

Later, when Makaralonga saw Tol scrubbed clean, the chief was surprised at his conqueror’s obvious youth, but showed no shame at having been captured by one so young. In fact, the knowledge only made him prouder.

“This one will be known to the gods some day,” Makaralonga declared. “And when they speak his name, they will say, ‘His first victory was over Makaralonga of the Dom-shu.’”

Chapter 10

HOSTAGE OF VICTORY

Egrin and Pagas led the survivors of the Panther and Eagle hordes out of the Great Green. Collecting their people and baggage from Zivilyn’s Carpet, they rode back to Caergoth to report the death of Lord Odovar, their sighting of the traitor Morthur Dermount, and not least of all, their repulse by the surprisingly well-armed and well-led forest tribes.

The news they brought was not unexpected – nor warmly received. Elsewhere, too, the war was not going as Prince Amaltar and his advisers had anticipated. Wanthred, leading the Firebrands alongside the Corij Rangers, had been attacked on three sides at once. His men had to resort to setting part of the woods ablaze in order to stage a fighting withdrawal under cover of the flames. The pillar of smoke from the conflagration could be seen all the way back to Caergoth.

Further south, two hordes under the dashing Lord Tremond had fared better. They penetrated deeply into the wilderness, sacking a dozen small settlements and taking hundreds of prisoners. In the shadow of his success, blame for Odovar’s and Wanthred’s failures was laid squarely at the feet of those two commanders.

Tol was present when Egrin disputed this injustice before the prince. Lord Urakan, the general of all the armies of the empire, angrily dismissed Egrin’s explanations. Urakan, looking nearly as regal as the prince himself in the burgundy velvet robes he favored, berated the accomplished warrior as if Egrin were a blundering neophyte, using abusive language Tol had never heard before. Behind the enraged Urakan, Crown Prince Amaltar slouched silently on his high-backed throne.

When Egrin tried to point out the hidden dangers of the Great Green, Lord Urakan cut him off.

“You failed, that’s all that matters!” Urakan stormed, black brows drawn down in a ferocious scowl. “Odovar let the foresters hoodwink him into an obvious trap, and you failed to extricate him!”

“My lord. Your Highness,” Egrin said to the general and the prince, “it is true Lord Odovar did not take adequate precautions against ambush. He was a loyal and formidable warrior, but not a skilled tactician. However, it was because of one of Lord Odovar’s chosen men that we were able to fight our way back with valuable information and captives.”

With a bow to the prince, Urakan said dismissively, “A shield-bearer claims to have seen Lord Morthur Dermount in the forest. The prisoners Warden Egrin brought out of the forest, Highness, are hardly compensation for the shame of our losses!”

Egrin did something unprecedented; he bypassed Urakan, his superior, and spoke directly to the prince.

“Your Highness, our two captives are of considerable importance. One is the chief of a major tribe in the northern forest. The other is – well, he may have dynastic importance.”

“How dare you!” Urakan’s face went purple with rage at being disregarded. His hand reached for the hilt of his sword, but he was wearing no weapon in the presence of the prince. He declared, “I will have satisfaction for this insult!”

“You’ll have no such thing,” Prince Amaltar said, sounding bored. He gestured for the burly general to stand aside. “Warden, bring the prisoners to me, and I will judge for myself.”

“They await Your Highness’s pleasure,” Egrin said, bowing. He snapped his fingers, and the two captives were hustled in.

Makaralonga hobbled forward, weighted down with heavy chains on his wrists and ankles. Despite his disheveled appearance – his garments muddy and bloody – his expressive face and noble bearing were still impressive.

Slightly behind the forester chief was a second prisoner, likewise shackled, but with his head and shoulders covered by a canvas hood. Two guards guided the hooded captive, while a second pair kept an eye on Makaralonga.

The chief stopped beside Egrin. He openly gawked at the elaborate tent and richly dressed folk around him. When he spied Tol in the crowd, he bowed his head gravely to the young man. He did not bow to Prince Amaltar, much to Lord Urakan’s anger.

“Are you the chief of the grasslanders?” Makaralonga. Asked.

Amaltar smiled thinly. “I am his first-born son.”

“Ah! As the chief of the Dom-shu, I will treat only with the chief of your people.”

“Impertinence!” Urakan fumed. “By the gods, your head will decorate a pole above this tent before nightfall!”

Prince Amaltar, accustomed to the quick temper of his general, ignored him, and said to Makaralonga, “I regret my father, the emperor, cannot be here to deal with you, Chief. In his place he has sent me.”

Makaralonga acknowledged this with a shrug. Tired of standing in his heavy chains, he gathered the links in his hands and sat down on the thick carpet.

Chamberlain Valdid gasped at the forester’s liberty. Before he or Lord Urakan could object, Amaltar gestured to the second prisoner.

“You said this man’s capture had dynastic importance, Warden. Let’s see his face.”

“As you wish, Highness. But he is not a man.”

The hood was whisked off, revealing the Silvanesti warrior captured in the glade sacred to Reorx. Dazzled by sudden daylight, the elf blinked and squinted. His blond hair was lank and unwashed, his face smudged with dirt, yet his bearing was one of haughty disdain.

A loud murmur rose from the crowd behind Tol. Lord Urakan was stricken speechless by the sight of the Silvanesti.

“What does this mean, Warden?” demanded Amaltar, shaken at last out of his habitual calm.

“This elf, Kirstalothan by name, was taken in arms at a place called the Isaren Glade, near where Lord Odovar and I were ambushed. He was found in company with Grane, who evaded capture. In the glade was a shrine dedicated to Reorx, and these ‘offerings.’”

At Egrin’s signal, Tol and Narren approached, carrying two sacks. These they dumped on the carpet at the prince’s feet. Bronze arrowheads, spear points, and blades clattered out.

Amaltar asked to see one of the objects more closely. Valdid picked up a spearhead and handed it to the prince. Amaltar examined it closely.

“Chamberlain,” he said, “we had reports of foresters using metal, didn’t we?”

Valdid bowed to his lord. “Yes, Highness. Bronze arrowheads and the like were sent to us by several commanders, from all parts of the forest.”

The prince lifted a hand. “Send for Harpathanas Ambrodel, envoy of the Speaker of the Stars,” he commanded.

Valdid dispatched two heralds to the task. Prince Amaltar descended from the dais, tapping the spearpoint against his palm. He stood nose to nose with the elf warrior.

“You’ve been trading weapons to the forest tribes, yes?” he said, dark eyes narrowed. When the elf did not answer, the prince shouted, “Haven’t you?”

Kirstalothan averted his face and said nothing.

“What part did Morthur Dermount, alias Spannuth Grane, have in this plot?” Still the stubborn elf would not reply.

Amaltar stepped back. “Take him away and make him talk. I must know all about this!”

Hood replaced, the hapless Silvanesti was dragged out. No sooner had he departed than Valdid’s heralds returned. They held a hasty whispered conference with the chamberlain. Valdid’s face reddened.

“Let me guess,” Prince Amaltar said, anger in every syllable. “Harpathanas is no longer in camp?”

Valdid sputtered, “His tent is still pitched alongside yours, Highness, but no one is within! My heralds report that none of the Silvanesti has been seen since yester eve.”

Amaltar hurled the spear tip to the floor. “Is there no end to the treachery of elves?” he cried. “I see now why the Speaker’s envoy made so many perilous trips through the Great Green to visit us – he was distributing arms each time!”

“So it would seem, Highness,” said Egrin. “I’ll wager they hired Morthur Dermount to obscure their deeds with his magic.”

Amaltar went to the warden and took him by the shoulders. “You’ve done well, Egrin. By your service, you’ve opened our eyes to a deep and dangerous plot.”

“I thank you, Your Highness, but the honor of this service is not mine.”

Egrin held out his hand to Tol, kneeling with Narren by the piles of bronze weaponry.

“This lad, my shield-bearer, led the men who captured Kirstalothan and brought back the evidence of Silvanesti perfidy,” the warden said. “He also defeated the chief of the Dom-shu in single combat and made him Your Highness’s prisoner.”

Amaltar regarded Tol with unconcealed surprise, ordering him to stand. Although the shilder was little more than half the prince’s age, the two were of a height. Amaltar studied him for a moment, then said, “You shall be rewarded.”

“Thank you, Your Highness,” Tol said nervously. “But I was just one of a larger band of willing warriors. My deeds were no greater than theirs.”

Egrin described Tol’s rescue of the two beleaguered hordes with a hundred footmen.

Amaltar openly stared. “Who are you, boy? From which line do you descend?”

“No line, Your Highness. My father is a farmer, as was his father, and all the fathers before him.”

The crowd of nobles, courtiers, and foreigners whispered amongst themselves, making much of Tol’s humble origin. As their titters and ugly comments came to his ears – “peasant upstart” being the kindest of the lot – his embarrassment vanished. He straightened his back and glared at the gaudily dressed idlers around him.

Prince Amaltar returned to his throne. He held up a hand for silence.

“You have served the empire well, Master Tol, and the empire does not forget. Three days hence, I shall confer on you the rank of Rider of the Horde, with an award of five hundred gold crowns.”

Turning to Valdid, the prince said, “Let it be written in the chronicle that Tol of Juramona was raised this day to the rank of warrior, with all mention due that honorable position. Draw five hundred crowns from my personal cache to give to him.”

“Yes, Highness,” said Valdid as the scribes busily took down the prince’s edict.

The audience was over. Tol stood dazed. The bronze weapons were cleared away for shipment to Daltigoth, where Prince Amaltar would place them and the story of their origin before the emperor. It could mean war with Silvanost. At the very least, it meant a temporary halt to the campaign in the forest. Faced with such a well-armed force, a radically different strategy was required.

Guards lifted Makaralonga to his feet. Hearing the chiefs chains clank, Tol’s attention snapped back to the here and now.

“Your Highness!” he said with newfound boldness. “What will become of the chief?”

Lord Urakan frowned at the shilder’s presumption and said, “He will lose his head! That’s the fate of all those who lead wars against the empire!”

“Must it be so, my lord? Chief Makaralonga is an honorable foe. He surrendered to me because I promised to spare his life.”

“His life belongs to the empire,” Urakan snapped.

Prince Amaltar sighed deeply. A liveried lackey placed a golden goblet of wine at his side.

“I’m afraid my imperial father will insist on his death,” he said, sipping wine. “It is the law of the realm.”

“Then, Highness’ — Tol stepped up to the foot of the dais — “as part of my reward, may I be his executioner?”

The tumult around Tol died. Everyone from Egrin to Valdid betrayed open surprise.

The prince’s black brows rose. “Strange request,” he said. “Why do you want to do it?”

“I captured him, Highness. If he must die, let it be by my hand, with the same sword I used to defeat him.”

Silence reigned in the assembly. At last, the prince smiled and waved a hand at Chamberlain Valdid.

“Put that in the scrolls too,” Amaltar said. “I give the task of executing the captured Dom-shu chief to Master Tol, in token of his service to the empire.”

And so it was that six days later Tol found himself standing alone before the fighting men of Juramona, dressed in new leather armor and a brilliant white mantle. The three hordes – Firebrands, Panthers, and Eagles – and the shilder company, the Rooks, were drawn up on a hillside outside the imperial camp at Caergoth. They were awaiting the arrival of Crown Prince Amaltar. A south wind blew, piling clouds into gray pinnacles, promising much rain. Tol wore his empty saber scabbard, and an equally empty sheath for his war dagger. Even here, in the open air, the crown prince would allow no weapons near his person.

An honor guard two hundred strong thundered out of the camp. All rode white horses with bright crimson trappings. In their wake came more than a hundred mounted courtiers in their finery of velvet and silk, polished leather and thick brocade. Behind the courtiers were eight richly bedecked young women, each in her own chariot drawn by a pair of horses. The open, two-wheeled carts, the preferred mode of travel in the capital, were ill-suited to rough ground, and the women clung to their drivers as they bounced along. The eight women were Amaltar’s wives – polygamy was another custom reserved to persons of the highest rank.

The honor guard split into two sections, drawing up on each side of Tol. Courtiers formed a living avenue for the imperial party, and the chariots bearing Amaltar’s wives rattled down the line. They drove past Tol, pivoted, and stopped on the slope between him and his comrades.

At last, with the stately deliberation acquired by long practice, Prince Amaltar cantered up on his black horse. He rode well, and looked at ease in the saddle. That, like the crown of Ergoth, was his birthright. His ancestors, back to the great and terrible Ackal Ergot, had lived and died on horseback. In the words of the poet, the first conquest an Ergothian warrior had to make was “the kingdom of the saddle.”

Amaltar reined up. His personal entourage, including Lord Urakan and Chamberlain Valdid, fell into place behind him. All looked solemn and serious, save for Urakan. His beetling black brows met over his nose in a deep scowl aimed directly at Tol. The youth realized that although he might have won the gratitude of the prince, his deeds had annoyed the noble general in some unfathomable way.

“Tol of Juramona!” Valdid’s voice rang out over the whipping wind. “Advance to your sovereign lord, His Royal Highness Amaltar Ackal of Ergoth!”

Tol stepped forward smartly, striking his heels together as Egrin had taught him.

“Kneel,” Valdid told him. Tol did so, and the chamberlain intoned the ritual questions: “Are you a free-born man, bound to no other lord or state? Do you swear allegiance to the House of Ackal in the person of His Imperial Majesty Pakin III and his son, Prince Amaltar?”

Tol recited the answers he’d learned from Egrin. “I am a free-born man. I renounce all loyalties to any lord but His Majesty Pakin III, and his duly anointed heir, Prince Amaltar.”

“Arise, Tol of Juramona!”

Tol stood. The prince held out an empty brass scabbard, chased with the red ribbons signifying the House of Ackal. “My eye is on you, Master Tol,” Amaltar said, placing the scabbard across Tol’s upraised palms.

“I shall strive to prove worthy, Your Highness.” Tol hung the new scabbard from his baldric.

That should have concluded the ceremony, but Amaltar broke tradition. He drew his own dagger and presented it hilt-first to Tol.

“A personal token of my gratitude,” he said in a low, friendly tone.

Breathless with surprise, Tol took the weapon. It was magnificent – a chilled iron blade filigreed with gold, set in a cross-shaped hilt of burnished brass with a ruby adorning each tip. The handle was wrapped in silver wire. The pommel was a golden dragon’s claw grasping another ruby the size of a hen’s egg.

Courtiers and imperial wives strained to see what had passed from the prince’s hand to Tol. More disciplined, the honor guard and the Juramona hordes kept their faces front, but their eyes were full of curiosity.

Prince Amaltar turned his horse and trotted away, his entourage trailing behind him in strict order of precedence. The last man in the party was Amaltar’s valet, who gave Tol two heavy suede bags. Tol grunted under the weight of five hundred crowns.

The imposing array of chariots, horsemen, and soldiers departed in a swirl of hooves and flashing jewels. Once they were gone, a roar rose behind Tol. Grinning, he turned to see Narren leading the footmen in a hearty cheer of approval. They broke ranks and engulfed him, shouting, shaking him, and pummeling his back with painfully vigorous enthusiasm.

Tol pressed the bags of gold on Narren. “A crown to every footman in the guard,” he shouted in his friend’s ear. “And don’t forget Crake and Felryn!”

Word of this generosity spread through the crowd like oil on a fire. The cheers became louder, and two stout soldiers hoisted Tol on their shoulders. They paraded him around in a circle until Egrin and the mounted commanders broke up the celebration.

“Well done, lad,” said Wanthred. “A coup worthy of my own youth!”

Pagas, laconic as always, contented himself with clasping Tol’s arm and nodding his approval.

“We owe our lives to you twice over, Tol,” Egrin said. His remark plainly puzzled the youth, and he added, “If you hadn’t come to rescue us, we might all have been slaughtered. And if you hadn’t captured the elf and the forester chief, we would have been disgraced before the whole of the empire.”

Egrin added, “And now we’ve been ordered home.”

Pagas and Wanthred were surprised, so much so that Pagas broke his silence and piped, “By whose command?”

“The new marshal of the Eastern Hundred. By Prince Amaltar’s order, subject to the emperor’s approval, our new marshal is Enkian Tumult, lord of the house of Mordirin.”

The name meant nothing to Tol, but Pagas’s and Wanthred’s faces hardened with concern. Wanthred fell to stroking his silver beard, which he did only when deeply troubled.

*

There was much celebrating in the Juramona camp that night. Tol’s elevation and his sharing of the crown prince’s bounty did much to lift the spirits of the men demoralized by their losses in the forest.

The only group not happy were Tol’s own comrades, the shilder. Because they had elected to obey orders and stay behind at Zivilyn’s Carpet, they had done no fighting and so shared none of the glory. The success of the lowly foot soldiers who had accompanied Tol added further gall to their cup. Tol’s rival Relfas was bitterest of all.

Tol did not revel late into the night with the rest. He slipped away from the bonfire where the footmen were drinking and singing. His mind was not on the celebration but on the unpleasant task he faced at sunrise – the execution of Chief Makaralonga.

He walked slowly through the darkened periphery of the camp, deep in thought. Whatever happened, he was determined to spare Makaralonga’s life. Since the brutal death of Vakka Zan years ago, he’d had a horror of executions. Moreover, he’d given his word to Makaralonga that the chief would be spared if he surrendered. Imperial law or not, Tol intended to keep his word, but he couldn’t simply let the tribesman go. Lord Urakan was expecting Makaralonga’s head, and if it wasn’t forthcoming, Tol’s own head could easily take its place on the roof of the Imperial Palace.

“Your thoughts are loud.”

Tol flinched. Deep in the shadows stood Felryn, leaning against a wagon. The healer added, “You’re pondering how to spare the life of the forester.”

“So you divine thoughts, too?”

Felryn shook his head. “No. It has been plain on your face since supper.”

They walked together outside the ring of wagons. Tol poured his feelings into the healer’s sympathetic ear, finishing with a plea for help in saving the chief.

“Why ask me? Egrin is your mentor, is he not?”

Tol drew in a breath and let it out slowly. “Egrin is a good man,” he said carefully, “but he will not go against the law. I saw Lord Odovar use Egrin’s sense of duty against him when he forced him to execute Vakka Zan. He can’t help me. But perhaps you can.”

Felryn smiled, acknowledging the wisdom of Tol’s reasoning and thinking to himself how much the callow farm boy had matured. He extended a hand. He did not clasp forearms, warrior-fashion, but took Tol’s hand in his own large one and shook it, as one priest to another.

“I will help you,” he agreed.

*

The morning brought a sky leaden with thick coils of black, rain-heavy clouds. A warm wind rushed through the camp, upsetting carefully stacked spears, rattling the tents, and awakening every man. Close on the heels of the wind came the first drops of rain. In moments the sprinkle was a deluge. The lashing torrent soaked through the oiled canvas panels of the tents, droplets falling in a steady indoor shower. In these miserable conditions, the Juramona hordes struck camp.

Tol and Felryn rode to meet the warden. Between their horses Makaralonga trudged, his hands tied. A thick halter wound around his neck, the end of the rope held in Tol’s hand.

Tol saluted with Prince Amaltar’s dagger. “I am prepared to carry out the imperial order,” he said, having to spit water and blink rapidly against the pouring rain.

“Why are you here, Felryn?” Egrin asked.

The healer indicated a large pot he had balanced on the pommel of his saddle. “Lord Urakan wants the chiefs head sent to Daltigoth,” he said. “This pot contains salt and medicinal oils. I’m to insure the head survives the trip to the capital.”

“We’ll do him in by the Wilder Green,” Tol said. In answer to Egrin’s inquiring look, he added, “The chief must die, but it doesn’t have to be here, a spectacle for all to see. The Green is a fitting place of execution for a forest chief.”

Egrin, his thoughts impossible to read, nodded. The Wilder was a small woodland several leagues east which bordered the river of the same name.

Tol and Felryn rode eastward, drenched all the way by rain. When the trees of the Wilder Green came into sight, Makaralonga broke his silence at last.

Lifting his bound hands toward the dark sky and continuing rain, the chief exclaimed, “Chislev herself weeps for your treachery! I knew a grasslander would never keep his word! So be it! When my blood flows, it will be a curse on you, Tol of Juramona. My curse on your faithless head!”

They ignored him, and he tried to plant his feet. However, Smoke continued to move ahead and Makaralonga was jerked forward. He had to content himself with raging at them as they rode stolidly onward through the rain. Once, he tripped, and Tol let go of the rope lest the chief be strangled. Immediately, Makaralonga jumped up, ready to run.

Tol drew the new saber Egrin had given him in a private ceremony. “Can you outrun a horse?”

Makaralonga’s broad chest heaved as he panted with the force of his anger. He abandoned his attempt to flee, but glared as Tol recovered the halter. Abruptly, his frustration and fury shifted to Felryn and the vessel he carried.

“My head will not fit in that cabbage pot!” he snapped.

“Probably not,” Felryn replied, “but after a few weeks in the salt, it’ll shrink down very nicely.”

A dozen paces from the edge of the forest, Tol stopped. He dismounted, never letting go of the rope around Makaralonga’s neck. Felryn likewise got down, clutching the clay pot close to his chest.

“Kneel,” Tol said to the chief.

“I won’t! I am a free man! Kill me on my feet!”

So saying, Makaralonga bolted. Tol put out a foot and tripped him. He sprawled in the dripping grass.

Tol put the sharp edge of his sword under the chiefs chin. “Stay still, or this will hurt!” he said severely.

Makaralonga closed his eyes. He felt a slight tug, then the blade came away from his throat. Stiffening, he awaited the return swing, the rending of his flesh, and the outpour of his life’s blood on the sodden ground.

“Get up,” said Tol. “You’re free.”

The chiefs eyes flew open. It was true. The halter had been cut from his neck, and Tol sliced through his bonds with a single stroke of the jeweled dagger.

“What trickery is this?” Makaralonga demanded.

“I never intended to kill you. I asked Prince Amaltar for the task so I might free you instead.”

Makaralonga looked from Tol to Felryn and back again, too astonished to take in what he was hearing.

Tol sheathed his dagger. Felryn put the clay pot down and removed its lid. The pungent smell of spices erupted, reaching their noses in spite of the continuing drizzle.

Felryn pulled on a leather gauntlet, then stuck his hand into the pot. He lifted the heavy object inside. Golden oil streamed down the face of a dead man.

“By the Blue Phoenix! It’s my head!” Makaralonga exclaimed, staggering back in shocked disbelief.

From braided locks to yellow beard to broad nose, the severed head looked exactly like the chief. Felryn returned it carefully to the pot and replaced the lid.

“How is it possible?” Makaralonga asked.

“Our masters in Daltigoth expect a trophy. We could not disappoint them,” Tol said. “Felryn used his magical skills to alter the appearance of another man – a victim of war.”

“His suffering was already over, and now, so is yours,” said Felryn.

He clapped the chief on the shoulder and hauled himself onto the broad back of his horse. Makaralonga threw his arms around Tol and hugged him fiercely.

“Forgive me, noble foe! I thought you would kill me to please your masters!”

Tol struggled to breathe in the ardent embrace, his face crushed against the larger man’s chest. “All right, all right! I always meant to keep my word!”

Zivilyn’s Carpet, and the edge of the Great Green, lay another six or seven leagues east. Makaralonga would have to tread carefully to evade capture and reach his forest kingdom safely. Capture would mean death not only for him but for Tol as well, if his failure to behead the chief became known.

Makaralonga looked down at Tol, the rain running down his face.

“Henceforth, you are my son!” he declared. “I will make peace with your people, for your sake!”

Tol hadn’t expected this. “Very well,” he said. “Send some of your people to Juramona, and we’ll make a pact of peace. Don’t come yourself! Remember, you’re supposed to be dead.”

Makaralonga’s face split wide in a grin. “I shall be the best of corpses, brave son Tol! You shall know me as Voyarunta – ‘Uncle Corpse’!”

He sprinted to the trees. Before plunging in, he turned and waved at his deliverers. Tol raised a hand in farewell, and Makaralonga vanished into the woods.

“Do you think he’ll keep his promise?” asked Felryn as they rode away.

“A man like him lives by his word,” Tol said.

*

Chief Makaralonga was indeed as good as his word. Before summer was out, a party of eleven tribesmen made the long trek from the Great Green to Juramona. They evaded Ergothian patrols up to the very gates of the town, and there asked to see “the mighty lord Tol.”

Egrin and a guard of twenty horsemen, including Tol, came out to meet the delegation. The Dom-shu were impressive folk, each strongly built and at least a head taller than the “grasslanders” who greeted them. They wore close-fitting tunics of pale buckskin and boarskin trews, embellished with beads and shells. They carried knives and bows, but on drawing near to Juramona had unstrung their weapons to show their peaceful intent.

Most striking of all were the leaders of the party, two women. One was a strapping blonde with waist-length hair. The other was an equally towering creature with bobbed brown locks.

“We are Dom-shu. We come in peace from our chief, Voyarunta,” said the blonde woman.

From his place in the ranks, Tol grinned. Makaralonga had remembered to use his new name, the one with the double meaning.

She continued. “I am Kiya, eldest born of the chief, and this is my sister, Miya. We have come to make peace between the Dom-shu and the grasslanders of Juramona.”

Egrin rubbed his bearded jaw in puzzlement. He was quite in the dark.

“I will take you to Lord Enkian, marshal of the Eastern Hundred,” Egrin said. “He commands here.”

“What of the great lord Tol?” said the brunette giantess, Miya.

All eyes in the mounted guard turned toward Tol, and Egrin pointed him out.

“Greetings, husband!” Kiya exclaimed. “We are your new wives!”

There was perfect silence for the length of four heartbeats, then all the Ergothians (save the red-faced Tol) burst out laughing. The Dom-shu did not understand what amused the grasslanders so, but they were good-natured enough to join in the merriment.

Tol urged Smoke forward, halting him in front of the two female foresters. He decided not to dismount. The sight of them towering over him would only provoke more laughter.

“I asked for no wives,” he said sternly, when the hilarity subsided.

“It is the wish of our father, Chief Voyarunta,” said Miya. Her dark hair was cut shorter than Tol’s own, but her brown eyes were softer and her face more round than her sister’s.

“We were told the great lords of the grasslanders keep more than one wife,” Kiya added. “Is this not so?”

“Yes, but —”

“It would be a grave insult to the Dom-shu to refuse us,” warned Miya.

Egrin came to the flustered youth’s rescue. “The great lord Tol is overwhelmed by your chiefs offer,” he said. “Give him time to adjust to the magnitude of his good fortune. In the meantime, please be our honored guests in Juramona.”

The Dom-shu strode into town between two lines of riders. Their appearance drew crowds along the route to the High House. Solitary wanderers and traders were common in Juramona, but fierce tribesmen from the Great Green had never been seen here before.

Bringing up the rear of the little column, Egrin and Tol went over the situation in hushed tones.

“Don’t be hasty,” Egrin said. “If it brings peace to the frontier, accepting the Dom-shu’s offer seems a small price to pay.” He smiled. “Besides, what’s wrong with having a wife?”

Tol’s voice rose. “Two wives? I don’t want to get married!”

“Nonsense. It’s time you settled down with a wife … or two,” said Egrin, chuckling. More seriously, he added, “I was married when I was your age.”

Tol was so surprised he reined up. The warden never spoke about his past, and Tol had never dared question the older man.

“Really?” the boy said. “Where is she now?”

Egrin’s face was solemn. “Her soul went to the gods many years ago. That is past. What will you say to Marshal Enkian?”

Tol watched the last of the Dom-shu disappear around the curve of the street leading up to the marshal’s residence. He gave a helpless shrug. “What can I say?”

*

Enkian Tumult, Lord Mordirin, was descended from Mordirin Ackal, fifth emperor of Ergoth. That unfortunate autocrat had been dethroned by his wife, Empress Kanira, and imprisoned in the Imperial Palace for the rest of his days. The children of Mordirin Ackal were proscribed for a century. When civil war broke out between the Ackals and Pakins, the ruling clan needed all the allies of royal lineage they could muster, and so readmitted the Mordirins to the imperial fold. The Mordirin line no longer had any claim to the throne, but constituted a powerful and wealthy clan in their own right.

Enkian was the physical and temperamental opposite of the late marshal. Where Odovar had been hearty, impetuous, and harsh, Enkian was cool, calculating, and ascetic. Burly Odovar would have made two of Enkian, who was tall but lean, and, like Prince Amaltar, pale skinned and dark of hair and eye.

Enkian had the high forehead and sharp features of the Ackals, and an equally sharp and calculating mind. According to the wags in Juramona, Odovar had been twice the warrior Enkian was, but only half the ruler.

Enkian did not laugh when Tol’s so-called wives were presented. He thanked them sincerely and promised to hold a lengthy parlay on the subject of peace. Reassured, the Dom-shu allowed themselves to be ushered into another room, where their presence was celebrated with beer and many haunches of venison.

Alone with their liege, Egrin and Tol stiffly awaited the verdict on the Dom-shu. The marshal sat in a characteristic pose, fingers folded together under his chin as he considered the matter.

“The women will stay,” he said at last. When Tol looked distressed, he added, “Not as your wives, Master Tol. We’ll keep them as hostages to the Dom-shu’s future good behavior.”

Egrin bowed. “Wisely chosen, my lord.”

“You won’t imprison them, will you, my lord?” asked Tol.

“That wouldn’t be friendly, would it? No, they shall be guests of the Eastern Hundred, and provided suitable quarters. You shall live with them, Master Tol, and keep a close eye on them.”

Again the youth looked alarmed. “What if they expect me to be a husband to them?”

“Carry a sword at all times,” replied Enkian dryly. He did not smile at his own joke, but asked, “Can either of you fathom why the Dom-shu would choose this time to make peace? We invaded their land and executed their chief not two months past.”

Egrin said, “Perhaps that’s why, my lord. The foresters respect strength. Considering what’s happened, maybe they understand the empire must be dealt with, not opposed.”

He was referring to the severance of relations between Ergoth and Silvanost, which had come about once the elves’ scheme to arm the forest tribes became known. Trade between the two nations had been cut off, and Silvanesti prestige had suffered a grave reverse among all the nations of the west.

Enkian sat back in his chair thoughtfully. “You may be right, warden,” he said. “It seems the empire has much to thank you for, Master Tol. We must find a proper place for you in the ranks of the Great Horde. Have you considered what you would like to do?”

This very question had occupied Tol’s thoughts fully in the weeks since his return to Juramona. He had discussed his future with everyone close to him – Egrin, Felryn, Crake, Narren, even Pagas and old Lord Wanthred. He could ask for assignment to any spot in Ergoth, to any horde in the emperor’s service. Ambition required that he choose a position close to the seat of power in the capital, Daltigoth, or at least on a frontier where danger paved the road to fame. A picked band of warriors was hunting Morthur Dermount in the Great Green – joining them would put him squarely on the path to advancement in the empire.

He took a deep breath. “I wish to remain in Juramona, my lord. And” — he glanced sideways at Egrin — “I would like Durazen’s old command.”

Enkian was startled. “Why would you want command of the foot guards?”

“I learned in the forest a warrior’s worth lies not in how he arrives at a battle, but how he fights once there. I believe foot soldiers can fight and win as surely as any horsemen, my lord, given the right training and leadership.”

The new marshal shook his head. “You’re a fool, boy. A lucky fool. What you did in the Great Green was a fluke, a chance favor granted by the capricious gods. It gave you an opportunity few men ever see – imperial notice, a crown prince’s gratitude. Yet here you stand, throwing the opportunity away.”

Enkian stood, plainly disgusted. “Elevation or no, you’re still a peasant, not a true Rider of the Horde. Very well. Walk with your footmen, if you wish. I shan’t stop you.”

Hardly a gracious start to Tol’s first command, but having gotten what he wanted, Tol was happy. He kept his pleasure hidden, not wishing to annoy the haughty marshal further.

He accompanied Enkian and Egrin to the Dom-shu banquet. There, he sat between Kiya and Miya, who ate prodigiously but drank little. After sundown, they followed him to the Householders’ Hall. When he explained no women were allowed to pass the night inside, they squatted just outside the door, resting their heads on their knees. Tol hesitated, thinking he should try to locate better quarters for them. The blonde, Kiya, waved him away impatiently, so he left them there.

The next morning, that’s where he found them, waiting for his return.

Chapter 11

A DANGEROUS MAN

Two horsemen, trailworn and dusty, cantered down the road. A group of men working on the south bank of the river saw the riders before they heard them. The noise from saws and the pile-driver drowned out all other sounds. The workers called a warning to their commander.

It was spring, the seventh year of the reign of Emperor Pakin III. Tol and the men of the Juramona Foot Guard were building a new bridge across Three Kender Creek. The old bridge, indifferently constructed by local folk, had been swept away by a winter torrent. It connected Juramona to the heartland of the empire, and Lord Enkian had charged Tol and his corps of foot soldiers with the important task of replacing the bridge.

Tol knew the job was not meant as an honor. True warriors – those who rode in an imperial horde – were above common labor. Still, Tol took the task cheerfully, so cheerfully in fact Lord Enkian wondered if there was some hidden advantage in the job his calculating mind had missed. Tol explained that two years of peace had left his men little to do but chase cutpurses and fight the occasional house fire in town. Rebuilding a bridge would strengthen their backs and toughen their hides.

The answer was as honest and straightforward as Tol himself, and the calculating Enkian could not believe it. He sent a personal spy, Tol’s old shilder comrade Relfas, to keep an eye on things.

Tol had hired a builder, a dwarf by the name of Tombuld, to lay out the new bridge and oversee construction. Tombuld had erected much larger structures across high valleys in the Khalkist Mountains, so a single span across Three Kender Creek didn’t present much of a challenge. His design called for a simple cantilever bridge, supported on each end by stout stone piers. Tol and his men had been at work for six days when the pair of unknown riders appeared.

Tol climbed out of the creekbed. Shading his eyes against the morning sun, he watched the horsemen approach.

In the two years since he’d rescued the Juramona hordes in the Great Green, Tol had grown stronger without gaining very much in height or girth. As a youth, his physique had been intimidating. As a man, it was deceptive. Of only modest height, all his power was in his shoulders and legs. He was agile rather than brutishly strong. Succumbing at last to masculine vanity, he’d grown a beard, though he kept it closely trimmed.

“Turn out the watch,” he said, not raising his voice.

Sixteen sturdy soldiers left their work and divided a stand of arms between them. They fell into a double line on Tol’s left. Drilled by Tol in his new ideas of fighting on foot, the men extended their spears in unison, presenting a formation both precise and dangerous. All they had to do was swing across the road and the way would be blocked by a hedge of spears.

The riders slowed, then stopped. Through the dust, Tol could see they wore complete coats of ring mail beneath sleeveless linen gambesons.

“You there,” called the rider on Tol’s right. “Is the way passable?”

“Yes. If you go carefully, you can cross,” he answered. The new bridge rails were spanned by temporary planks. “Are you messengers from Caergoth?”

The horsemen were startled. “Yes, we are. How did you know?”

“Your armor is too extensive for our local hordes. That, and the fineness of your tack speaks of the city.”

The rider grinned, pushing back his wide-brimmed iron hat to reveal a sunburned nose. “Sharp eyes! Are you a warrior?”

“I am a Rider of the Horde.”

“Why do you work in your shirtsleeves, like a common drudge? Are you being punished?”

Tol shrugged. “The bridge needed rebuilding. My men needed to sweat.”

“You provincials have strange ways!” commented the sunburned fellow. He patted the leather case around his neck. “We have dispatches for the marshal of the Eastern Hundred.”

“You’ll find him in the High House in Juramona.”

Tol called for water to be brought for the messengers and their horses. He introduced himself, and again the men looked surprised.

“Your name is known to us! You slew the chief of all the forest tribes in single combat!” said the message-bearer with the sunburned face.

Tol only smiled, for the tale had grown in the telling.

Tombuld came bustling across the bridge planking, growling at the men for shirking. Tol waved the dwarfs objections aside, pointing to the imperial couriers.

“Well, send’em on their way and get back to work!” Tombuld said, tugging on his long beard in frustration. “Bridges don’t build themselves, you know!”

Watered, the horsemen went on their way, muttering between themselves about “impudent dwarf artisans.” Fortunately, the crotchety Tombuld did not hear them.

Tol ordered everyone back to work. Down in the gully, he resumed toiling alongside his men, filling the stone pier with rubble and mortar.

“Why couriers? Is it war?” Narren asked him.

“I doubt it,” Tol replied. “War would bring more than two messengers for Lord Enkian. Besides, no recent traveler on the road has mentioned war.”

The only menaces Tol could think of were the elusive monster XimXim, still at large in Hylo though quiet for some time, and Spannuth Grane, who was presumed to have fled the Great Green for parts unknown.

Two years earlier, Lord Odovar had sent his seneschal, the priest Lanza, to report on XimXim’s depredations against the kender. Lanza entered a cave above Hylo city and was never seen alive again. Later, some kender found his head, hands, and feet, all neatly severed and left in a tidy heap at the foot of the mountain. After all this time and many hundreds of deaths, there was still no one who could say just what XimXim looked like, or even what kind of creature he was. People heard him in flight or saw his distant silhouette against the clouds, but to go closer meant certain death.

A rumor had reached Juramona that a powerful sorcerer had quelled XimXim, but no one knew if it was true. After Odovar’s death, Lord Enkian paid scant attention to the monster and did not bother to confirm the story.

As for Grane, imperial bounty hunters had scoured the Great Green for him, but never found so much as a hair. Some of the finest trackers in the empire had vied for the glory and gain to be had from collaring the renegade, but he had escaped them all, vanishing like a morning shadow at midday. No new plots or rebellions had surfaced, and many had begun to believe the high-born sorcerer dead. No, thought Tol, as the riders passed, the empire was almost sleepy with calm.

Tol’s soldiers worked until twilight on the new bridge, then returned to their camp overlooking the creek. In his tent Tol found Kiya and Miya waiting for him. Kiya had made supper, and Miya was waiting to scrub the day’s dirt off him. Although they were spouses in name only, Kiya and Miya took their responsibilities seriously. The Dom-shu women never left Tol’s side, refusing to remain in Juramona when he was away.

“Strip, husband! A healthy man must be clean!” Miya said. She held up a boar-bristle brush that could scour verdigris off a copper kettle.

“I can wash myself!” he thundered. To Kiya, he said, for the hundredth time, “Let the camp cook prepare our food! It’s his job!”

Long ago he’d learned quiet answers didn’t impress the Dom-shu sisters. They respected him only when he was as forthright as they. Respect did not, however, translate into obedience.

“It isn’t right for a stranger to cook for a woman’s husband! Mates can cook for each other, but it isn’t proper for strangers to do so!” Kiya replied, also for the hundredth time.

In truth, the three of them got along well together. They occupied a spacious timber frame house in Strawburn Lane, near the potters’ kilns. Little more than a ruin when Lord Enkian gave it to them, the house had been filthy and infested with rats, but the Dom-shu women quickly set things right. Miya crawled under the house with a club and killed or evicted all the rats in a single morning, while Kiya fumigated the interior with burning sulfur, and scrubbed walls, ceiling, and floors till they shone. Confounding village preconceptions about tribal people, the sisters were scrupulously clean and kept the house that way, too. Woe to any visitor who walked in with manure on his heels! Regardless of rank, the miscreant was likely to find himself pitched headfirst into the street and barred from entry again until he cleaned his boots.

Rather than wives or hostages, it seemed to Tol that he’d acquired a pair of brawny, bossy sisters. Their first night in the new house, he’d been relieved (if a bit surprised) when the Dom-shu women prepared a bed for themselves by the fireplace – in a room away from him. They explained that he was not the lover they dreamed of, but they were content to do as their father ordered, and live with a great warrior and serve him. He didn’t know whether to be relieved or insulted.

But Kiya proved to be a fine archer and an excellent hunter. Disdaining to buy meat from merchants in town, she ranged the pastures and woodlands around Juramona, taking rabbits, deer, and grouse. Unfortunately, she insisted on cooking what she caught. She could reduce a toothsome venison roast to a blackened cinder seemingly in moments.

Unlike her woods-roving sister, Miya took quickly to town life. She visited the markets daily and became known as a fearsome haggler. Tol saw traders fold their stalls and flee, though the day was not yet half over, when Miya appeared in the market square. She reduced the dreaded silver merchant Cosen to tears by her persistent bargaining, obtaining a silver earring she wanted for much less than his asking price. She also became known as the only human in Juramona who could trade with kender and not end up picked clean.

Now, having fended off Miya’s deadly brush, Tol was saved from indigestion when Relfas arrived at the tent. The young noble demanded to speak with him. The sisters shouted at Relfas to go away, but Tol accompanied him outside.

Relfas sported a full red beard and flowing mustache. His polished armor and faultlessly clean cape and boots stood in sharp contrast to Tol’s humbler, sweat-stained attire. Relfas demanded details of the encounter with the imperial couriers. The story was quickly told, and the young noble frowned in thought.

“I wonder what they want?” he said. “Perhaps I should return to Juramona.”

“Why don’t you? All you’re getting out here are blisters on your backside from watching us work.” It was true, but Relfas reacted to the jibe with ill-concealed contempt.

Before Tol could reenter his tent, he witnessed the clattering arrival of a dozen riders from Juramona. Leading them was Egrin’s chief lieutenant, Manzo. In the past two years, the premature graying of Manzo’s hair and beard had become complete. His old man’s coloring sat oddly on his still-young face, yet it also lent him an air of gravity.

“You are recalled,” Manzo said to him. “I am to bring you to Lord Enkian at once.”

“Is it war, then?”

Manzo shook his head. “Couriers came today with messages for the marshal, messages bearing the imperial seal. He read them, and sent me to fetch you and your men. Prisoners from the town dungeon will be sent to finish work on the bridge.”

Tol began to ask more questions, and Manzo added brusquely, “Make haste! I was bidden to have you in the High House well before dawn.”

Tol had two hundred men working on the bridge. Tired from a long day’s work, they nonetheless shouldered their axes, mallets, and shovels, and formed for the march home. Without complaint, Kiya and Miya packed Tol’s things and took their place in the marching order. Left behind were the civilians: Tombuld, two dozen expert craftsmen, and the blacksmith who was making nails. They would remain at the bridge and complete the project with the prisoners.

Tol’s mind whirled in a riot of speculation as he marched home. Manzo offered him a horse, but he politely declined. As long as he was with his men, he went on foot, as they did.

*

They reached Juramona after midnight. The Dom-shu sisters made for Strawburn Lane, while Tol wearily climbed the hill to the High House. Torches blazed in every sconce in the timber citadel. A caravan of wagons waited in the square, and servants dashed up and down the halls, carrying clothing and supplies to the wagons. Short of full-scale war, Tol could not imagine what crisis had provoked such feverish activity.

Lord Enkian, in full marshal’s panoply, was in the audience hall. He had refined its furnishings, as he had done with the rest of the High House. The tapestry behind the marshal’s dais was new and showed the empire’s founder, Ackal Ergot, receiving a golden crown from the hand of the god Corij himself. To the usual banners hanging from the rafters had been added the crimson and black standard of the Mordirin line. Brocaded draperies covered most of the formerly bare, whitewashed walls. Numerous braziers on high tripods blazed, filling the hall with light.

When Tol entered, the marshal was snapping orders to Egrin and his subordinates. He saw Tol and waved him forward.

“We’re leaving in the morning,” Enkian declared flatly. “I want one hundred of your best footmen to accompany the wagons as guards. You will lead them.”

“Yes, my lord. Ah … sir?”

Enkian had turned away to give more orders to his seneschal, an elderly, crippled warrior called Zabanath. He turned back with an impatient growl.

“May I ask, where are we going, my lord?” Tol asked.

“This is an affair of state. We are going to Daltigoth.” He lowered his voice, adding, “Your presence was specifically requested by Crown Prince Amaltar.”

Tol was thunderstruck. Daltigoth, first city of the empire! As Caergoth was a city many times the size of Juramona, so Daltigoth was many times greater than Caergoth. He knew a few people who’d gone to the capital to seek their fortunes: His old friend Crake, for example, had departed more than a year ago after a dispute with a tavern patron left the other fellow dead. One step ahead of arrest, Crake had lit out for the city. Tol had received no word from him since, and he sorely missed the flutist’s company.

Tol left the hurly-burly of the High House and assembled his tired men in the street outside the Householders’ Hall. There was no need to pick the hundred best. They were all excellent – loyal, tough, and willing fighters – so he let them volunteer. When they learned the destination was Daltigoth, several demurred immediately.

“The city’s full of wizards,” said one soldier warily. “I hear they fly around the streets, casting spells on unwary folk!”

Another gave a disgusted snort, saying, “The emperor wouldn’t allow that! I heard tell they got houses faced with pure gold, and towers of stone so high eagles nest in the rafters.”

They wrangled about the supposed wonders of Daltigoth until Tol called for quiet. Those who wanted to go drew lots, and soon he had his hundred. Narren, he was pleased to note, was among those who made the cut.

The soldiers staying behind packed the supplies for the trip while those who were going fell into their beds to catch what little sleep they could before departure. When dawn finally broke, Tol was shaken awake not by one of the Dom-shu sisters, but by Egrin himself.

“Come, Tol,” the warden said. “Walk with me.”

In the next room, Kiya and Miya were stirring. An awful smell assailed Tol’s nostrils, probably Kiya’s breakfast. He pulled on a rough woolen cloak and followed Egrin outside. The warden led him around the corner of the house to a deserted alley, then turned suddenly and laid a scarred, strong hand on Tol’s shoulder.

“I want you to be careful!” he admonished with unusual verve. “There are many dangers, many vices in Daltigoth for a young man. Swear to me you’ll be careful!”

Tol smiled, scratching his bearded chin. “You said the very same to us before we entered the prince’s camp in Caergoth two years ago. And I’m not a child, you know.”

“It doesn’t matter if you’re twice as old as Zabanath! The temptations of an army camp – even an imperial one – are nothing compared to what you’ll face in the capital. And you not only have to avoid them yourself, but lead your men away from them, too.”

More curious than afraid, Tol asked, “What sort of temptations?”

Egrin looked away, obviously remembering some past adventure. “All the usual ones – drink and debauchery are there in mortal abundance. More subtle are the dangers from the young nobles of Daltigoth. They consider it vital to their reputation at court to fight duels and kill as many opponents as they can. Any excuse will do, so beware! And there are foreigners of every race, and thieves, footpads, procurers, cheats, liars, and killers for hire. Sorcerers abound, both licit and illicit, and they can ensnare the unwary in all sorts of dangerous schemes.”

It all sounded very interesting to Tol, but the concern in his mentor’s voice led him to say, “Aren’t you going with us, Egrin?”

“No. Lord Enkian must make the journey, so I am appointed to govern the Eastern Hundred in his place.”

That cast a damper on Tol’s enthusiasm. Egrin was his second father. Not in seven years had he been separated from the warden by such distance.

“I will be on my guard,” Tol said earnestly. “Besides, the giant sisters won’t let me come to harm.”

“You’ll take them?” asked Egrin, not displeased.

“We’re supposed to awe them with the might of the empire, aren’t we? What better place for that than the capital?”

Despite the young man’s assurances, Egrin fell into a melancholy mood. He knew no one came away from Daltigoth unchanged. The idea consumed him so thoroughly he could not bring himself to see the caravan off.

The sun had cleared the nearby hills and flooded the valley with golden light when Lord Enkian and an escort of two hundred horse rode out of Juramona. Behind them came the train of twenty-two wagons, guarded by the foot soldiers.

Tol marched his contingent through streets filled with well-wishers. His men were ah commoners, well known to the ordinary inhabitants who turned out to see them on their way. Traders in the crowd were no doubt pleased to see Miya among the departing contingent. Along the way, Tol spotted healer Felryn and his disciples from the temple of Mishas, Lord Wanthred and his retainers, and many familiar faces of former shilder who had not become full-fledged Riders of the Horde. He felt a twinge of sadness at not seeing Egrin, however.

Outside the walls of Juramona, Enkian reined up, hearing, behind him, the crowd’s cheers for the lowly foot soldiers. No such display had accompanied his departure. He did not care whether the peasants he governed approved of him, only that they obeyed as was proper, but their obvious affection for Tol still sparked a flame of jealousy in his cold heart. Lord Enkian’s lean, dark face set in hard lines, and he spurred his mount to a brisker pace. It would be a long way to Daltigoth, especially for those on foot.

*

The spring weather was fine as the marshal’s caravan wended its way down the high road south to Caergoth. Red bud and dogwood trees bloomed in purple and white profusion, and goldenrod covered the hillsides in drifts of yellow.

When they reached Caergoth’s stone walls, Tol’s soldiers and the wagons remained outside while Enkian and his mounted escort spent the night within. The evening was unusually warm, and traders hurried out from the city to peddle luxuries to the soldiers. Miya snared a wine merchant and wrung a cask of pale Silvanesti wine from him at a bargain price. Tol had his first taste of “nectar, “as the elves called it, and decided he should stick to beer. The expensive and potent drink went down with deceptive ease.

Gossiping with traders, he learned more about their precipitous trip to Daltigoth than Enkian had revealed. A guild of powerful sorcerers had long desired to erect a great tower in the capital. The tower (and the buildings surrounding it) would constitute a kind of school of magic, where wizards of various orders could gather in safety and discourse with their fellows on the practice of their art. Several construction attempts had failed due to the Ackal-Pakin wars, but the time had finally come to lay the cornerstone of the Tower of Sorcery in Daltigoth.

To maintain his prestige before the great assembly of wizards, the emperor had summoned his principal vassals to the capital to attend the ceremony. Pakin III was determined to stand at the head of an imposing array of nobles, each of whom had hordes of trained warriors backing him. The message to the magicians would be plain: Tower of Sorcery or no, true power resided in the hands of the emperor of Ergoth.

No one could refuse the emperor’s call and keep his position. As head of one of the provinces farthest from the capital, the marshal of the Eastern Hundred had one of the longest journeys to make, but that made his timely presence all the more imperative.

That night, lying in the shadow of the wall of Caergoth, Tol gazed at the heavens, wondering what Daltigoth would be like. Kiya and Miya slept peacefully, one on either side of him, each in her own bedroll. So far they seemed neither excited nor anxious about the trip, taking every development in stride. On their arrival at Caergoth, the sisters spared the encircling walls and jutting towers a moment’s look, then went back to arguing with a sutler over a length of soft doeskin they wanted for gloves. Tol tried to impress them by telling them Daltigoth was much larger than Caergoth.

Miya asked, “Is it as big as the Great Green?”

He had to admit it was not. The forest covered an expanse one-third the size of the whole empire. So the sisters had shrugged, Kiya saying, “Daltigoth is not so big, then.”

Tol glanced at the sleeping women. He wished he could be so serene. His thoughts churned for the remainder of the night, spoiling his rest and making the next day’s march a long and weary chore.

*

Southwest of Caergoth, they reached the great imperial road, Ackal’s Path. Unlike the dirt track from Juramona, this road was broad enough for three wagons to drive abreast. Slightly higher in the center than on the sides, it was paved with stones pounded into a bed of sand. The Path, begun under Ackal Ergot, had been completed almost a century later under Ackal III. It was a magnificent feat, but legend held that when it rained, the paving stones turned red from the blood of the thousands of prisoners who’d died building the road.

For two days the caravan from Juramona drove along, pushing through the thick commercial traffic streaming between the two greatest cities in the empire. Lord Enkian and his mounted escort rode straight down the center of the road, sending traders’ carts into the ditches and trampling any on foot who were slow to get out of the way. Tol’s blood boiled to see such high-handed treatment. He slowed his pace, allowing his foot guards and the supply wagons to fall farther behind the marshal’s party. He didn’t want to be identified with Enkian’s brutal progress.

On the morning of their third day out from Caergoth – about halfway to the capital – Tol and his men broke camp, took to the road, and found it deserted. After the constant activity of the previous days, the silent emptiness was unsettling.

Tol scanned the sky and horizon. The terrain was open on both sides of the road – low rolling hills and widely spaced trees. A few hawks wheeled in the bright blue sky, but there was no sign at all of other travelers.

Even the stalwart Dom-shu sisters were unnerved. For the first time since leaving Juramona, Kiya strung her bow and hung a quiver of arrows on her back. Miya armed herself with a staff, which was as thick as her wrist and as long as she was tall.

Tol divided his men into two groups, placing half on the right shoulder of the road and half on the left. Between these marching columns the ox carts proceeded. Tol and the sisters walked alongside the lead wagon.

The sun rose higher. At last they came to the place where it seemed Enkian’s troop had passed the night. They found hoofprints in the windblown sand on the north side of the road, fresh horse droppings, and trash left behind by the marshal’s escort. Though this was reassuring, they still could not account for the continuing lack of other traffic.

Before noon, Miya spotted a man on horseback ahead. He was sitting motionless in the road, watching their approach. His head was bare, and he was draped in a long, dark cape. When he didn’t move from their path, Tol held up his hand and halted the caravan. He arrayed a dozen soldiers in front of the caravan, telling them to stand fast with spears ready.

Tethered to the second supply wagon was a horse Egrin had thought to provide for Tol before their departure from Juramona. Tol mounted the animal and laid a spear on his shoulder. As he trotted toward the mysterious rider, the Dom-shu fell into place on either side, running swiftly on bare feet.

There was no point in telling them to stay with the wagons, so Tol simply rode on. Several paces from the stranger – well beyond sword reach – he reined up.

“Greetings,” he said. “I am Tol of Juramona. We’re on our way to Daltigoth. Will you give way, sir?”

The staring man said nothing. He was clean shaven, with short brown hair. Tol couldn’t tell if he was armed. Everything below his neck was covered by his voluminous brown cape.

Tol repeated his request, and the man raised a hand clear of the folds of his garment. A large golden ring shone plainly on his gloved forefinger when he extended his fist toward Tol.

There was a clatter on Tol’s left. Miya, her staff falling to the pavement, dropped like a stone. Kiya’s arm went over her head to her quiver before she too collapsed.

Tol thumped his heels into his horse’s flanks, but the poor beast shuddered and went down. Tol managed to slide off its rump so as not to be trapped beneath.

Sorcery! The man had put the sisters and his horse under some spell. But why wasn’t he affected?

The stranger was obviously wondering the same thing. He clenched his hand into a fist again, and Tol thought he saw a flicker of blue light spark from the sapphire set in the golden ring. Yet, though he braced himself, still Tol felt nothing. A quick glance over his shoulder showed him the whole of his guard, the drovers on their wagons, and the oxen too, all lay inertly on the road. They’d been felled where they stood, all affected by the strange man’s wizardry.

Gripping his spear, Tol charged the man. The fellow whipped his cloak back, revealing a mail shirt beneath, and drew a quite ordinary iron saber from his waist.

Tol caught the blade on the wide spearhead, whirled it in a small circle to disengage, then thrust at the rider’s chest. The man’s horse reared, flailing the air with its legs. Tol crouched low, wary of the heavy hooves.

Iron whistled past his ear, and Tol swung the butt of the spear in a wide arc. He caught his attacker in the ribs.

The fellow grunted under the blow, but his mail shirt protected him.

Tol fell back and assumed a spearman’s ready position. For two years, he and his foot soldiers had trained, learning by trial and error the best methods of battling mounted foes. The two things a lone man on foot had to remember were keep moving – his two feet were nimbler than a horse’s four – and get into reach. Tol had had his men’s spearshafts lengthened by four spans. With spears that long they could reach the face of an enemy mounted on the tallest horse in the world.

When the rider showed reluctance to press his attack, Tol lifted his spear to shoulder height and ran at him, shouting. The man tried to fend off the spear with his sword, but the saber was too light to turn the big spear away. Tol rammed the spear tip into the man’s chest. It snagged in his cloak and tore through, skidding off his armor. Although the point did not penetrate, the momentum of Tol’s charge knocked the man off his horse. He fell heavily to the pavement.

In the blink of an eye, Tol had a knee on the fallen man’s chest and a dagger at his throat.

“Yield!” he said, pressing the dagger’s point slightly into the man’s neck. It was the finely jeweled weapon given to him by Crown Prince Amaltar.

“Kill me, and your master will die an agonizing death!” rasped the man.

“Speak plainly, or die!” Tol declared. He dug the dagger in just below the man’s chin. Blood welled around the keen point.

“The marshal of the Eastern Hundred is our captive!”

“You lie! He rode with two hundred Riders of the Horde!”

The man’s eyes shifted toward the caravan. “How many lie insensible there?” Point well taken. “If I fail to return, your marshal and all his warriors will be slaughtered!” the man added.

Tol stood, dragging him to his feet. “You’d better pray no such thing happens,” he said coldly. “If it does, your death will be an agonizing one!”

Dagger firmly against his captive’s throat, Tol marched him along until they recovered the stranger’s horse. Tol tied his hands, shoved him onto the horse, and mounted behind him.

“Take me to Lord Enkian,” he said, pressing the dagger behind the man’s right ear. Sullenly, his prisoner complied, guiding his horse off Ackal’s Path. Tol looked over his shoulder at the Dom-shu sisters and his footmen, still slumbering, and prayed for their safety in his absence.

They rode north, into the hills. Progress was slow as Tol watched ahead, reading signs and tracks, always alert for ambush. Up a dry creek, the man pointed with his chin to a gap between two knolls.

“There. You’ll find your people there.”

Without another word, Tol used the heavy pommel of his dagger to knock the stranger senseless. Once the limp man fell to the ground, Tol traded the dagger for a saber. He wrapped the reins tightly around his left hand, took a deep breath, then thumped his heels on the horse’s flanks. The animal sprang forward.

He rounded the curve of the dry streambed, sand flying from the horse’s pounding hooves. A single sentinel perched atop a boulder tried to challenge him, but Tol cut the man’s legs out from under him without slowing. He left the fellow bleeding to death on the rock and plunged on, taking another curve at full gallop.

He came upon four conical tents, a picket line with half a dozen horses, and a small campfire around which sat four men in leather brigantines. His arrival brought them to their feet in a hurry. Two, armed only with axes and small round bucklers, tried to stave him off while the other pair sprinted to their horses. Tol drove straight through them, making for the unguarded end of the picket line. He slashed it, shouting wildly to spook the horses. The animals broke and ran.

A strange sensation of heat played over Tol’s head, like warmth from an unseen bonfire. Tol whirled and spied a new threat. Striding out of the largest tent was a man in full armor, his face covered by a weirdly grinning visored helmet.

Although years had passed since he’d last seen that horrible visage at his family’s farm, it was all too familiar.

Spannuth Grane!

The armored man drew a very long, two-handed straight sword. Tol steered his horse toward him. Grane – if indeed it was he inside the familiar armor – held up his right fist. A massive ring gleamed on one mailed finger. Again Tol felt a fleeting kiss of heat on his face, but nothing more. However, all four of the fighting men he’d faced when he first entered the camp now lay insensible on the ground. Grane’s first attempt to hex Tol had felled two; his second attempt downed the others.

Tol crouched low and leaned forward in the saddle, boring in on the armored man. With a flash of polished metal, the fellow brought his blade up, striking Tol’s saber hard. Hand stinging, Tol kept his grip as his horse thundered by.

He made a second pass, and this time his sword skidded off iron shoulder plates. His foe did not cut at him, but with brutal efficiency stabbed the horse. The animal went down, shrieking, and pitched Tol to the ground. His head rang with the hard impact, and he lay stunned. Bronze sabatons crunched in the gravel, coming for him.

Get up, get up! Egrin’s voice seemed to echo in Tol’s head, shouting as he had when berating clumsy shilder. Why are you lying there like a poleaxe A pig? Your head’s still attached, isn’t it?

Tol rolled away in time to dodge a killing stroke. He got to one knee, and discovered to his joy that he still held his saber. It was too light to take direct blows from his opponent’s great blade, but it was better than fighting bare-handed.

“Spannuth Grane! I know you!” he yelled.

The sword halted in mid-swing. Calling his enemy by name had earned Tol a brief respite. “Who are you?” the man asked, voice muffled by the visor.

Tol stood up. “Tol of the Juramona City Guards.”

“Guards? You mean the footmen?” Lord Morthur Dermount laughed in his helmet. “You fight well for a hireling!”

“Where is Lord Enkian?” Tol demanded.

“He will join you in death soon!” The sword came up again.

He attacked, raining heavy blows like a hammer breaking stone. Tol’s knees quavered under the onslaught. He ducked a vicious sideswipe, saying desperately, “You’re lost, my lord! Your powers have failed you!”

Morthur laughed loudly, but checked his swing. “What do you mean, meddling stableboy?”

“You tried to hex me in the Great Green, remember? I didn’t collapse. Your hireling left every man and beast from Juramona sleeping in the road, everyone but me. Now you have felled your own men. Why not me?”

Morthur gave his words thought, but the respite was shortlived. Up came the terrible sword.

“I’D divine the answer from your bones!” he roared.

He forced Tol back with savage thrusts, scything his sword upward in terrific two-handed uppercuts. Their blades collided, and when the force of Morthur’s attack shivered down his arms, Tol spun away under the impact. Thinking Tol was going down, Morthur stepped in, dropping his left hand as he prepared to bring his blade down for the final overhand slash.

Tol continued his spin, rotating in a complete circle on the toe of his right foot. He brought the curved edge of his saber down on Morthur’s right wrist. Iron cut through bronze scale and leather, into the flesh of Morthur’s arm, and then through bone. His hand, and the sword it still gripped, fell at Tol’s feet.

Morthur staggered back, screaming. He clapped his left hand over the stump of his right, trying to staunch the coursing blood. Tol took careful aim. He thrust the slim saber into the gap between Morthur’s visor and the gorget at his throat. The high-born sorcerer uttered a horrible gurgling groan. When Tol recovered his blade, Morthur fell to the ground.

Breathing hard, Tol planted a foot on the man’s cuirass and flipped the visor up with the tip of his sword. Morthur Dermount’s pale face, thin black brows, and slender, almost delicate nose had not changed much in seven years. Now, his black eyes were open and lifeless.

Men came stumbling out of the tents. Tol shouted defiance and prepared to fight in spite of his exhaustion. With enormous relief, he realized he faced Lord Enkian and four of his lieutenants. Morthur’s death must have released them from the spell that had held them captive.

“Tol!” said the marshal hoarsely. “How did you get here?”

Tol explained the wagon caravan’s encounter with the magic-wielding rider. “His spell didn’t work on me for some reason,” he finished. “I captured him, and forced him to bring me here. I found …”

Tol stepped to one side and gestured at the dead man.

Enkian looked from Morthur Dermount to Tol, and back again. “In the name of Draco Paladin,” he breathed. “You bested him!”

The marshal ran thin hands through his hair, trying to take it in. He said, “We were stopped on the road. Next I knew, I was in this tent, awake but unable to move. I heard Morthur conferring with someone I couldn’t see. A well-born man, I think – his speech was refined, though I did not recognize his voice. Morthur said he would use magic to take on my appearance and replace me at the conclave in Daltigoth!”

Tol wondered what Morthur had hoped to gain from such a deception. The marshal couldn’t say, but neither of them doubted the dead sorcerer had intended treachery of the blackest kind.

They found nothing of interest in the camp, only the normal supplies and a small bag of Ergothian coins. When Morthur’s four henchmen came to, they found themselves looking down the blades of Enkian’s lieutenants.

“They’ll tell us plenty,” the marshal said grimly.

Before long, riders from Enkian’s escort found them. Awakening from the spell, they’d immediately set out in search of the marshal and had followed the tracks to Morthur’s camp. Enkian sent them to sweep the countryside for any more of the sorcerer’s minions.

Tol squatted by Morthur’s severed hand. The golden sapphire ring it wore seemed identical, though larger, to the one worn by the first man Tol had fought, the lone rider on the high road. The wide gold band, incised with angular symbols, held a single sapphire larger than the ball of Tol’s thumb. Within the oval stone, sparks seemed to flicker.

“Why was I alone unaffected by his spells?” Tol mused.

“Thank the gods you were,” said Enkian. “None of us would be breathing now if Morthur’s evil scheme had succeeded.”

He picked up the bloody hand and wrenched the ring free, offering it to Tol. “Morthur was my cousin, but you deserve the spoils of combat,” he said.

Tol accepted the ring and put it in his belt pouch, where it kept company with a few silver coins and the ring of braided metal and black glass he’d found in the Irda ruin above the Caer River two years earlier. No one in Juramona had been able to say what the artifact was or what it meant, not even the wise Felryn. His only advice had been to get rid of it, since relics of the cursed Irda were likely cursed, too. For once Tol hadn’t heeded the healer, but carried the ancient relic as a cherished token of his first campaign.

When Tol, Lord Enkian, and his entourage returned to the wagons on the Ackal Path, they found everyone there also awake and unharmed. Kiya and Miya, Narren and the foot guards, and the wagoners and their beasts were all well. Whatever spell Morthur had used, it seemed to have no lasting ill effect.

Lord Enkian ordered the body of Morthur Dermount put in a keg of vinegar to preserve it. The marshal intended to present the corpse to the emperor, as proof the long-hunted traitor was at last dead.

Tol’s rescue of the marshal had a profound affect on Enkian’s view of him. The marshal had always regarded Tol as a peasant favored above his station – good fodder for the city guards, but hardly the equal of warriors born to ride with the Great Horde. His successes in the Great Green, Enkian felt, should be attributed to luck, nothing more. A caprice of the gods had allowed him to capture the Silvanesti agent, Kirstalothan, and the Dom-shu chief. He was nothing special.

However, his own rescue and the death of Morthur Dermount changed all that. During the rest of the journey to the imperial capital, Lord Enkian turned the incident over and over in his nimble mind. He kept arriving at the same conclusion.

Tol of Juramona was a very dangerous man.

Chapter 12

THE CENTER OF THE WORLD

A cold drizzle had been falling all night and day. The paved road made traveling easier, but there was no shelter for those on foot. Tol tramped along at the head of his men, cloaked to the eyes, his whole body soaked. There seemed little prospect of getting dry short of Daltigoth.

The Juramona delegation reached an enormous stone bridge spanning the eastern tributary of the Dalti River. Twice the width of the road, the bridge was nonetheless clogged with anxious and irritated travelers. Horses, mules, oxen, and people struggled in the chill rain, trying to force (in both directions) three hundred carts and wagons through a space meant for a third that number. On the walls along both edges of the bridge, men of high rank stood, shouting orders at the teeming mob at their feet. They might as well have tried to command a cloudburst; no one paid them the slightest heed.

Lord Enkian was losing his temper. Normally cool-headed, his impatience at the delay was exacerbated as he was pressed on all sides by soldiers, traders, emigrants, and foreigners of every race. He was about to order his riders to draw swords and force their way through when he spied Tol and waved him over.

“The whole world comes to Daltigoth!” Tol had to shout above the melee.

The marshal was not amused. “The doings of peasants and riff-raff do not concern me. I must enter the city before nightfall. I may have come the furthest distance, but the emperor will not be told Enkian Tumult was the last of his lords to arrive!”

“Perhaps if you took only a few retainers you could work your way through.”

“The Marshal of the Eastern Hundred does not enter the imperial capital like a Caergoth clerk, with only a handful of lackeys at his heels! I will enter with my full escort!” Enkian fixed him with a hard, unfriendly eye and added, “See to it, Tol. Disperse the mob.”

Tol knew better than to ask how he was to cleave through a crowd of harmless, quarrelsome folk without causing dangerous panic or bloodshed. “I shall do my best, my lord.”

He wended his way back to his motionless men. Miya and Kiya, in grass capes and hats, offered him a steaming cup of cider. The resourceful sisters had found someone in the supply wagons with a charcoal burner. Tol sipped the warm brew gratefully.

“What are our orders?” Narren asked.

Tol regarded his friend over the rim of the cider cup. “Lord Enkian says we must part the crowd for him, but how? We can’t go through with leveled spears!”

“Too bad that Morthur Grane fellow is dead,” Miya said. “He could magic these folk asleep, like he did us.”

Her words sparked an idea. Tol dug in his belt pouch and fished out Morthur’s sapphire ring. He was about to slide it on his finger when Kiya stopped him.

“Don’t. It is an evil ring.”

“How evil can it be? You only slept. Truly evil magic would have killed you.”

Kiya was adamant. “There are worse things than death.”

He ignored her and pushed the ring onto his finger. Holding out his hand, as he’d seen Morthur do, he waited. Nothing happened.

“Maybe there must be words spoken,” Narren suggested.

The crowd rippled, forcing Tol’s group to step lively to keep their balance on the wet pavement. Kiya climbed on a wagon wheel and peered over the heads of the mob.

“More warriors arrive,” she reported. “Their banner has two blues – one dark, one sky.”

“The Marshal of the Northern Hundred,” said Tol, removing the ring from his finger. Lord Enkian would be pleased to know he was at least ahead of them.

Miya took the ring from him, and Kiya barked, “Sister! Beware!”

The younger Dom-shu grinned, saying dismissively, “Faw, grasslander magic. This ring is as lifeless as its former owner. And it’s pretty!”

She slid the ring on over her gloved finger. It was a loose fit.

“A very fine stone,” she said smugly, and brought her hand up to admire the jewelry. She had to clench her fingers into a fist to keep the ring from sliding off and being lost in the mud underfoot.

Without a sound, Narren and Kiya collapsed, along with fifty or sixty of the nearest people. Tol caught Kiya, staggering under her weight. He propped her back against the wagon, as the ox team sighed and laid down in their traces.

A momentary hush fell over the crowd, then a woman screamed. In a circle twenty paces across centered on Miya, every living thing had dropped unconscious. Men and women, a cart full of gnomes, two kender (their hands still in others’ pockets), horses, oxen, a poulterer’s caged chickens – all lay inert. Only Tol and Miya remained upright.

Cries of “A curse!” “Poison!” “Plague!” began, low at first, then rising in volume. Panic erupted as those not stricken struggled to escape whatever baleful influence had struck so swiftly. Carters lashed their beasts, turning away from the bridge. Ahead, terrified folk trapped on the bridge leaped into the Dalti. Fortunately, though the river here was deep, it was also placid.

“Put your hand down!” Tol said sharply to Miya.

Startled by the efficacy of the magic ring, she complied immediately.

A shout went up from the west bank as the bottleneck broke open. People on horseback, in wagons or carts, and on foot burst off the end of the bridge and fanned out across the riverbank. Over the heads of the stampeding crowd, Tol could see Lord Enkian, vainly shouting orders at his mounted escort. No discipline could be maintained in such a rout. The marshal and his retainers were swept away by the rushing tide of people and wagons.

Tol took Morthur’s ring from Miya and put it away. Once the ring was safely tucked into his pouch, his comrades began to stir.

Miya squatted down by her groggy sister. “I hexed you!” she announced happily. “You went down like a rotten elm!”

“Shut up,” Kiya growled.

The others roused too. By the time they had collected themselves and shaken the wagon drivers awake, the great bridge was temporarily clear of traffic.

Tol looked back at the eastern shore. The men of the later-arriving marshal of the Northern Hundred were scattered to the horizon. It would take them half a day to regroup. To the west, toward Daltigoth, Lord Enkian had vanished from view. At least the stampede had driven them in the right direction. Despite the strangeness of their success, Tol couldn’t help but grin.

“Men of Juramona, forward!” he called to his foot soldiers. The rain still fell, but the day now seemed brighter.

*

The peninsula between the two branches of the Dalti was low and flat, covered by a patchwork of rich farmland. Imperial roads had been built on causeways above the fields, orchards, and pastures, so traffic to the capital would not damage the lush cropland below. Already the neatly ruled plots of black earth were streaked with fresh green sprouts. The paved causeways were wide enough for one wagon to pass another unimpeded. Tol was amazed to see the hard stone was rutted with the imprint of the hundreds and hundreds of wheels that had passed over it.

To the southwest the sky lightened, clouds thinning and rain easing. When they came to the west fork of the river, the Juramona contingent was relieved to see ten broad bridges spanning the waters. Traffic streamed freely across the gleaming white stone bridges toward the city, now only nine leagues away.

A rider in Enkian’s retinue was waiting on the far shore to collect the baggage train, and Tol’s escort. As he led Tol to where Lord Enkian waited, in a grove of pines alongside the Ackal Path, the rain finally ceased.

Tol saluted the marshal. Enkian pointedly did not ask how he had broken the bottleneck on the eastern bridge. “I want the baggage train to stay close behind us from now on,” he said. “The streets of Daltigoth teem with thieves, and I don’t want to lose any property before we reach the Imperial Palace.”

The only way for Tol’s foot soldiers to keep up with horsemen was to ride, so he divided his men, ten to a wagon, and bade them climb aboard. He and the Dom-shu sisters rode in the lead wagon.

Enkian’s escort removed their wet cloaks and donned clean, blood-red capes. They fixed scarlet horsehair plumes to the combs of their helmets and to their horses’ bridles. Finery in place, they set off.

The valley opened before them. Like the peninsula, it was bursting with abundance. On the north side of the road were endless rows of fruit trees – apple, cherry, pear, and a host of others. The rain-freshened air was scented with the perfume of the flowering trees.

On the south side of the road, the valley floor was dotted with herds of shaggy red cattle. Hundreds grazed behind stout timber fences. All bore the same brand on their hips: a curved line with a simple cross at one end. Parver, the wagon driver, explained that the saber symbol was the emperor’s own brand. The entire vast herd belonged to the lord of all Ergoth.

An arrow-straight canal paralleled the road. Long stretches of it were banked with slabs of granite. According to Parver, the Dalti river had been diverted into the canal, which ran all the way to the city. Rafts and barges (some visible as he spoke) traversed it to the main river, and thence all the way to the Gulf of Ergoth and the sea.

They rolled past a monumental pillar engraved with many lines of hieroglyphs. Atop the marker was the bust of a stern-looking man with a square-cut beard and a tall, conical helmet. The glyphs identified him as Ackal II Dermount, son of Ackal Ergot and the builder of this section of the road..

More statues appeared along the imperial way, each at least four times larger than life: emperors, empresses, famous generals, and heroic warriors. Miya and Kiya were quite fascinated. In the forest, only gods merited images, and the women asked if the sandstone and marble effigies were the gods of Ergoth. Tol, whose rudimentary reading skills were overtaxed by the flowery language beneath the names on the memorials, lied a little and said they were.

They came abreast of two rather ominous statues whose heads had been struck off, the names on the bases effaced. Tol didn’t need labels to guess these had been images of Pakin Zan and, most probably, his son Emperor Ergothas III.

As they passed the last of the statues, the sky suddenly cleared and sunlight flooded down. Tol could see a distinct line of light and shadow on the ground behind them. The sky overhead showed the same sharp delineation; the gray clouds did not thin gradually, but rolled solid as a ceiling up to a line beyond which was only clear, brilliant blue sky and gentle spring warmth.

The wizards of Daltigoth must be great indeed to command the clouds and hold back the rain, Tol mused.

The sunlight illuminated a great mass of mellow white stone rising ahead from the surrounding fertile fields. Daltigoth, capital city of the empire, filled the valley from the canal in the east to the foothills of the Harkmor Mountains on the south and west. Tol and his people were still two leagues away, yet the city spread from horizon to horizon, blotting out everything else. A constant haze hung over it – smoke from a prodigious number of inns, taverns, temples, and family hearths – but this faintly blue pall did not dim the gleaming expanse of the imperial city.

The first things Tol noticed were the towers. A profusion of lofty pinnacles jutted skyward, in every shape and color. About half boasted high, pointed roofs covered in green copper or gray lead. The rest were flat-topped with crenellated parapets, like the wooden watch towers of Juramona. A few towers – the very tallest, gathered in a group at the center of the city – were made of a polished white stone, and their conical roofs were gilded with pure gold. Seeing them flash in the sun, the Dom-shu sisters finally lost their tribal stoicism and began to point and exclaim with excitement.

The gray stone city wall came into view. It was many times the height of Juramona’s wooden stockade, yet even this prodigious barrier was dwarfed by a truly massive white curtain wall that encircled the inner grouping of those tallest, gilded towers.

Other roads converged on the Ackal Path. From his perch on the wagon seat Tol could see streams of mounted warriors approaching on every side. Thousands of fighting men surrounded them, each with a crimson plume attached to his polished helmet. Tol recognized hordes from every far-flung corner of the empire – from the borderlands of the north, the great cattle estates of the south, and the woodlands in the east. Each contingent bore its own banners and standards. Every color in the world was represented, and the standards depicted creatures mundane and fantastic – serpents, panthers, wolves, great birds, griffins, and even dragons.

In spite of this mighty and glorious panoply, Tol knew his party was the equal of any. Ahead of the creaking wagon, Lord Enkian and his escort rode at a stately walk, the breeze filling their crimson capes. Arrogant and conniving though the marshall might be, at that moment Tol was proud of him, proud of Juramona, and proud to be a part of the magnificent procession making its way to Daltigoth.

Looking beyond the marshal at their intended destination, Tol saw the Ackal Path led straight to a massive fortified gate in the outer wall. He could scarcely credit his eyes – the gate alone was a hundred paces high, twice the height of the wall it pierced. Huge, terraced columns flanked the entrance, the arch of which was heavily carved with weathered figures intertwined in complex ways. The gate’s swinging doors were only half the height of the arch, but were still quite impressive. Tol asked the knowledgeable Parver about the fantastic portal.

“It’s called the Dragon Gate. The great hero Volmunaard fought a black dragon, Vilesoot, on this spot,” said the wagoner. “The gate was erected to commemorate Volmunaard’s defeat of the evil beast.”

“A man beat a dragon?” scoffed Kiya, and Miya snorted her disbelief.

The garrulous driver raised his eyes heavenward. “By Draco Paladin, it’s true! He dealt Vilesoot a deathblow, but Volmunaard died too, consumed by the monster’s vitriol.”

Closer, they could see the frieze encircling the Dragon Gate, which told the story. Volmunaard, twice life size, rode out from Daltigoth in old-fashioned banded armor. Pictures showing his battle with the dragon were carved sequentially around the arch. The last detail on the right side of the gate showed the dragon dead and the hero perishing in a cloud of Vilesoot’s acid-breath.

As three great roads converged here, the structure was not wide enough to handle the traffic flowing in and out of the city. Tol resumed his seat by Parver as the wagon entered the shadow of the monumental portal.

The gatehouse was a small fortress of it own, garrisoned by bored-looking men in dusty iron breastplates and short kilts. Tol nodded to them. A few returned the gesture. They were commoners, foot soldiers like his men.

As he wondered how even a gang of men could close such ponderous metal-clad gates, he saw the answer: an ogre. Twice Tol’s height and twice his girth, the ogre stood just inside the swinging doors of the gate, wearing an iron collar affixed to three heavy chains secured to the stone city wall. A human with a sharp goad stood by him, ready to prod the hulking creature into action.

Tol was amazed that an ogre would work for humans, chained and guarded though he was. Parver sagely pointed out the reason for the ogre’s acquiescence: His eyelids were sewn shut. To control their powerful captive, the Ergothians had blinded him.

Once inside, the caravan from Juramona became embroiled in a fresh snarl of traffic. Tol quickly quashed Miya’s suggestion that she use Morthur’s ring again. Fortunately, Lord Enkian hadn’t been stopped long before a gang of guards charged out of the Dragon Gate armed with cudgels. They waded into the crowd and, with well-placed blows, got things moving again very quickly. It was a harsh but effective tactic, and Tol had the feeling it happened often.

He ordered his men off the wagons. Spears in hand, the footmen kept gawkers and pilferers back as the caravan crawled through the streets at a slow pace.

Tol tried not to stare at all the sights; he was on duty now, with the good reputation of Juramona at stake. Still, it was impossible not to notice the tall dwellings lining both sides of the street, four and five stories high. At street level were artisans’ shops, vegetable sellers, sausage and cheese vendors, bakers, petty diviners, and wineshops. Where two roads met, larger establishments loomed: full-fledged taverns, inns, and houses of healing.

“What noise!” Kiya called, still riding on the lead wagon. “Why does everyone talk at once?”

Tol had once thought Juramona noisy and impossibly busy. As a boy riding into town behind Egrin, he’d nearly panicked at the commotion. Yet compared to Daltigoth, provincial Juramona was quiet as a cemetery. The sheer number and variety of people to be seen were amazing. Lowly beggars in dirty rags jostled with prosperous merchants in leather and high-horn ladies in sumptuous velvet. The wealthy went about with armed escorts and haughty retainers, parting the crowds of half-naked seamen, gnomes, dwarves, and kender who the filled the wooden walks lining both sides of the street and spilled into the roadway. A cacophony of languages assaulted the ear.

Rolling past a whitewashed inn called The Four Winds, Tol saw two shaggy male centaurs involved in a raucous conversation with a red-bearded dwarf and a handsome black-skinned woman. The woman was dressed in leather breeches and a leather tunic, with a knife nearly as long as a sword hanging at her waist. Her thick braid of hair reached nearly to her knees. He hadn’t realized he was staring until the woman turned and regarded him with hands on hips and a measuring expression in her eyes. Flushing, Tol looked away —

— and found that he himself was the object of several other pairs of eyes, unfriendly ones. Three men were idling in the doorway of the inn. Lean types, with scarred faces and tight-fitting clothes, they each wore slender swords hanging from leather baldrics. Egrin’s warning about duelists came to mind, and Tol shifted his gaze quickly ahead.

After what seemed an age, the caravan at last reached the high white wall they’d seen from the valley. This turned out to be the boundary of the inner city. From ground to parapet, the wall was covered with low-relief carvings – coronations, entire battles, and enormous images of the gods, with Corij, Mishas, and Draco Paladin predominating. Within the wall were just two households: the emperor’s palace and the college of wizards. The future Tower of Sorcery would rise from the grounds of the wizards’ enclave.

The caravan halted before a closed gate in the inner city wall. Guards handsomely bedecked in black iron armor and scarlet tabards came out to confer with Lord Enkian. The exchange went on for some time, with much nodding and pointing from the guards. At last, Enkian sent the bulk of his entourage away, to be quartered in local inns with warriors from other provinces. Tol, his footmen, and the wagons remained, waiting.

Enkian waved Tol forward. He jogged to the marshal, followed as always by the Dom-shu sisters.

“Master Tol, your men are to seek accommodation in the Canal Quarter, by the river,” Enkian said.

“Are any hostels set aside for us, my lord?”

“No, but all lodging houses in Daltigoth are required to accept provincial troops wherever they can fit them in. Your room cost will be borne by the Juramona treasury, but food and drink are at your own expense.”

Not exactly a generous arrangement, Tol thought, knowing his men would grumble, but it was better than sleeping in the street. He saluted smartly and made to leave. Enkian cleared his throat, halting his departure.

“You, Tol, are to enter the Inner City with my retinue – by the crown prince’s order.”

He stifled an urge to whoop. Kiya tugged his sleeve, prompting him to ask, “And the Dom-shu, my lord?” Two years he’d lived with them, and he still couldn’t bring himself to call them his wives.

“Oh, bring them. I daresay they can bed in the scullery or kitchens. Take the wagons with my baggage to the Riders’ Hall and see to their unloading.”

Enkian’s baggage filled four of the twenty wagons. Tol split the guarding of the rest of the wagons between the escort riders and his footmen. When all the wagons were emptied, their drivers would be paid off and dismissed.

Thinking it unmartial to enter the palace grounds in an ox-drawn wagon, Tol walked ahead of the four bearing Enkian’s baggage. Kiya strode along on his right, Miya on his left. The imperial guards, with their black armor, red scarves, and brightly polished poleaxes, watched the trio curiously as they passed through the gate.

“This is the heart of the empire,” Tol murmured to the sisters. “Mind what you say and do!”

The inner city wall was enormously thick – Tol counted sixteen paces before they emerged into daylight again. On the other side, he stopped, blinking in surprise. Surely this was the most amazing place in all the world!

Stretching before them was the Imperial Plaza, a courtyard seemingly larger in area than the whole town of Juramona. It was paved, not with ordinary stone, but with small colored blocks arranged in beautiful patterns. Red granite, blue slate, and buff limestone framed the great mosaic images rendered in chips of turquoise, agate, onyx, coal, and shell. Here, where Tol had entered, was a panorama depicting Ackal Ergot’s victory over the Pakitene tribes two centuries earlier. He could easily spend hours staring at the vibrant, colossal pictures.

As awesome as the plaza was, the landscape of the inner city was even more breathtaking. To the left of the gate stood the Imperial Palace, a complex of buildings and towers which had grown up over the years into a massive single structure. A great staircase rose from the plaza to the main doors, pausing twice in broad landings large enough to drill an entire foot company. The palace gates were sheathed in gold, and the hundreds of windows in the thick stone walls were equipped with gilded shutters. Expanses of sloping roof were sheathed in hammered lead plates, and rainspouts shaped like open-mouthed dragons perched on the corner of every gutter. Towers even taller than the inner wall shone white in the sun, while the rest of the inner city lay wreathed in the shadow of its own wall.

On Tol’s right, in a graceful park of trees, was the college of wizards. More modest and elegant than the palace, the college itself was a four-story building shaped like a squared horseshoe. Each floor of the building was faced by a colonnade, the columned walks overlooking a courtyard at the center. In that courtyard, just visible above the trees, a complicated wooden scaffolding rose. Tol realized the platforms must surround the site of the future Tower of Sorcery.

Two other buildings were visible from Tol’s vantage in the Imperial Plaza. One was a large timber frame hall directly ahead. Judging by the warlords entering it, this was the Riders’ Hall, where the emperor’s chief vassals were lodged. The other building was just inside the gate, a severe three-story stone structure with a flat roof. It had the look of a stronghold, and Tol took it to be the barracks of the Imperial City Guard.

The vast plaza teemed with activity. In addition to guards and servants in imperial livery, there were lords and ladies of the court strolling about in the latest city fashions – the women wearing tall hats shaped like curly rams’ horns, their bright gowns with long trailing hems; the men in richly colored cloaks; and both sexes dripped with gems. People in plainer dress, with little or no jewelry, Tol took to be members of the sorcerers’ college. Enormous wolfhounds bounded across the mosaic pavement, chasing a leather “fox” dragged by a fleet servant boy. When the wind stirred the trees in the college garden, flower petals took flight and collected in sweet drifts around statues and along walls.

Miya prodded him in the back. “If you don’t close your mouth, birds will nest on your tongue,” she said.

Tol shut his mouth with a snap. “Wagons, forward!” he ordered, lowering his chin to hide his flushed face.

He had the laden wagons draw up at the Riders’ Hall for unloading. From the hall came an army of lackeys, clad in matching leather jerkins and baggy trews. They swarmed over the Juramona wagons like ants and emptied them in short order.

Taken aback by the swiftness of the operation, Tol looked at the lead wagoner and shook his head. Parver grinned and doffed his cap, exposing his bare, sun-browned pate.

“Watch yourself, young master,” he said, as the wagons departed.

Tol was uncertain what to do next, but the Dom-shu sisters were looking at him expectantly. He squared his shoulders and mounted the steps to the Riders’ Hall, Kiya and Miya following. At the top, guards at the doors barred the way.

“Only Riders of the Horde may enter,” said one. The nasal of his helmet mashed his nose flat and made his voice sound odd.

“I am a rider, Tol of Juramona. These are my wives.”

“You arrived on foot – you can’t he a rider,” said the second guard.

Tol tried to convince the guards, but their logic was inflexible and unanswerable: He’d arrived on foot, therefore he was no rider; if he was no rider, he couldn’t enter the Riders’ Hall.

Tol and the Dom-shu withdrew to the bottom of the steps.

“We could rush them,” Kiya murmured, brown eyes narrowing as she studied the foe.

“No, no fighting!” Tol hissed. “Lord Enkian will vouch for us. I’m here at the order of the crown prince himself.”

“Lord Enkian may not come out for hours,” said Miya.

“And I’m hungry,” added Kiya.

Tol looked across the plaza at the wizards’ college, then at the palace. He was much less unnerved by the pomp of the royal residence than by the unknown mysteries lurking in the sorcerers’ garden, so —

“To the palace,” he said.

The sisters gave him identical questioning looks, so he winked, saying, “The food’s probably better there anyway!”

Unfortunately, when they drew nearer, they realized that the monumental entrance to the palace was patrolled by no less than three dozen guards, half of whom were mounted. If Tol couldn’t bluff his way past the guards at the Riders’ Hall, it seemed unlikely he and his Dom-shu companions could wander into the Imperial Palace unchallenged.

Striving to look like he belonged there, Tol walked boldly down the alley between the palace’s west wing and the inner city wall. It was a rather pretty shaded lane, though the palace loomed overhead like a mountain of marble and gold. Trailing red roses spilled from terraces over their heads, and to their ears came the sweet music of pipes.

The palace wall slanted in, mirroring the lozenge shape of the surrounding curtain wall. At the rear of the imperial enclave, the gentle, rose-scented atmosphere gave way to smoke and noise. Here was where the real work of the enormous household went on – smoky kitchens, a smithy, and wagons waiting to haul away the offal and slops. Cooks, servants, and artisans scurried to and fro. A few glanced at Tol and the Dom-shu, but no one paused long enough to challenge them.

Following her nose, the hungry Kiya walked up a ramp, leading the other two into a fantastic kitchen. Four great hearths were roaring. Turbaned cooks stirred cauldrons and basted a savory phalanx of chickens and ducks roasting on an iron rack. Whole oxen rotated on spits turned by gangs of boys nearly naked against the searing heat. A lordly white-robed cook raised a dipper the size of a wine keg and basted an oxen, drenching the simmering carcass in golden butter.

“By my ancestors!” Kiya exclaimed. “All I prayed for was a joint to gnaw and a tankard to wash it down!”

A burst of laughter erupted behind them. Under a low-beamed ceiling, some kitchen workers were gathered around a long trestle table. They passed trenchers laden with capon and round loaves of bread, tops snowy with flour.

Kiya grinned happily. She beckoned Tol and Miya to follow, but only her sister did. They eased themselves up to the table. Miya cracked a joke and set the workers roaring. The Dom-shu were made welcome.

Tol found he was simply too excited to eat. He wanted to see more of this fantastic place and to present himself to Prince Amaltar. After all, the prince had personally requested his presence in the inner city.

He left the Dom-shu sisters in the kitchen and slipped between the blazing hearths until he reached a cooler, quieter room beyond. Here, utensils were stacked on shelves from floor to ceiling: silver trenchers, pewter cups and bowls, forks and table knives. Tol kept moving. With no idea where he was going, or where he’d end up, he followed a narrow corridor in the general direction of the center of the palace.

He came to a pair of heavy velvet curtains. Parting them, he stepped out into a wide hall. Oil lamps burned in wall sconces, but the corridor was dim. Trying not to seem furtive, Tol walked down the hall toward a lighted chamber ahead.

“— worthless imbeciles!” someone shouted – a male voice, very angry. Tol heard the unmistakable sound of a blow against flesh. He halted.

“It’s bad enough the city is flooded with provincial nobility, but now the palace reeks of country gentlemen, too!” Another ugly impact, followed by a grunt of pain.

“Gracious prince,” a second voice gasped, “I do but obey the will of your imperial father!”

Intrigued, Tol peeked around the corner. The next room was an antechamber where three corridors intersected. An atrium allowed sunlight to penetrate, illuminating the scene. Groveling on his face was a richly dressed man of middle years. Standing over him was a younger, taller man with a fiercely upswept mustache and hair the color of a sunset. His scarlet robe was weighed down with huge golden medallions, and belted with a wide black leather strap.

“How dare you invoke my father against me!” said the strange noble, driving his booted foot into the cowering man’s ribs. The man rolled away from the blow, and Tol saw his face. He was Valdid, chamberlain to Crown Prince Amaltar, the same man who had guided Lord Odovar and his lieutenants into Amaltar’s presence at his camp outside Caergoth.

“Prince Nazramin,” the chamberlain managed to say, “I will keep the conclave guests away from your quarters —”

“And my garden too!” snarled the prince. “If I find anyone in my sanctum, I’ll slit their worthless throats.”

“It shall be done, Your Highness.”

“Cross me, you fool, and I’ll have your hands cropped off!”

Prince Nazramin stalked out of the room. Tol shrank back into the shadows. Valdid scrabbled on the floor a bit, retrieving his gold-capped cane, and used it to brace himself to his feet. Tol remained hidden, not wishing the older man to know that the prince’s cruelty to him had been witnessed.

After straightening his robe and smoothing his hair, Valdid limped away, but Tol hesitated still, worried now what else he might blunder into. Perhaps he should find his way back to the kitchen.

Turning to go, he glimpsed a set of steps ahead. Sunlight filtered down the plain stone stairwell, beckoning him upward, teasing him with thoughts of the marvels he might find. He hesitated only a moment before giving in to his curiosity.

At the top of the steps he found himself on a columned walkway between two wings of the palace. Below was a sea of rooftops and chimneys. Above were more walkways and soaring towers. He heard a hum of voices at the end of the walk and moved cautiously toward the sound. Several times servants popped out of side passages, bearing linens or trays of empty wine cups. They glanced him at him curiously, but no one questioned him. Prompted by their stares, he suddenly realized that he still wore his saber and dagger. Even the smallest weapons were forbidden in Prince Amaltar’s presence, and here he was loose in the Imperial Palace, girded for battle!

Casting about for a place to store his weapons, he noticed a passage on the right. A light curtain screened it. The curtain stirred gently near the floor, teased by a draft. Tol swept the curtain aside and ducked in.

He wasn’t in a passage, but a niche, about six steps deep. And he was not alone.

Seated on a marble bench was a girl with an open scroll in her hands. A circle of daylight fell on her from a small skylight. At Tol’s entrance, she looked up with a gasp of surprise.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I didn’t know anyone was here.”

“I forgive you,” replied the girl. “No one knew I was here.”

She looked to be somewhat younger than Tol – fifteen perhaps, sixteen at most. Her straight dark brown hair was waist-length and parted in the middle. She wore it loose, but looped behind her ears. Her pallor proved she didn’t spend much time outdoors. That, coupled with her simple gray gown, led Tol to conclude she was a servant, hiding to avoid her chores.

“Weapons are forbidden in the palace – are you an assassin?” she said calmly, gesturing at his sword.

“No!” He unbuckled his belt and stood the saber in the corner. Adding his dagger, he straightened his tunic and said, “It was a mistake. I didn’t mean to come here armed. I’m from – I’m from the provinces.”

“Obviously. Well, I hope you don’t get caught. Even without weapons, you’ll be flogged for entering the private wing of the palace.”

The sound of voices came to his ear, and he exclaimed, “Someone’s coming!”

She listened a moment, then said, “No. That’s only the Consorts’ Circle in the empress’s garden.” She waved a hand vaguely behind her, adding with a grimace, “Wives of the emperor, princes, and high lords of the court – they gather there daily. Chatter, chatter, chatter. What a bore!”

He smiled. Looking at the scroll in her lap, he asked, “What’s that you’re reading?”

“The Chronicle of Balif. Do you know it?”

He said no, and she explained that Balif was a Silvanesti noble and general who had lived during the time the elf kingdom was established. He helped found the Sinthal-Elish, the great council that chose Silvanos Goldeneye as first Speaker of the Stars. Balif could’ve been Speaker himself, she said, but chose instead to support Silvanos.

“Why?” Tol asked. Having read little himself, he knew nothing of the history of the Silvanesti. The only elf he’d ever met was the one he’d captured in the Great Green.

She pushed an escaping strand of hair behind her ear again. “He was shown his future by a sorcerer named Vedvedsica, and realized he could never be Speaker of the Stars,” she explained. “Elves are very concerned with how they look and sound. Balif learned he would be stricken by a loathsome curse. In the end, it was so awful, he had to flee the country under cover of darkness.”

Tol heard voices again, this time unmistakably male and growing louder. The heavy tramp of booted feet was plain in the corridor.

“The armed man entered this passage, sir!” a voice whined.

The booted feet halted seemingly just outside Tol’s niche. “Search the side passages!” ordered a stern voice.

Tol flattened himself against the wall, his saber within reach. If it came to being arrested, he wondered if he should fight rather than meekly submit.

A gauntleted hand grasped the curtain screening the niche. The girl let out a high-pitched scream.

“Stay out!” she cried.

The hand was withdrawn. “Beg pardon, my lady. Who are you?”

“Princess Carafel! Don’t come in – I’m not clothed!”

Tol blinked and swallowed hard. Had he been sharing the niche with a daughter of the royal house?

“A thousand pardons, Princess!” said a deeper, more imposing voice. “It’s Draymon, captain of the guard. We are searching for an armed man seen in the palace.”

“Do you think he is in here with me?” the girl said shrilly. “Go about your business, Lord Draymon, or I shall mention this incident to my father!”

“My humblest apologies, Highness. We’ll continue our search elsewhere.”

Tol crept to the curtain and listened. He heard the heavy footsteps diminish with distance. Turning to the girl, he found her shaking with silent laughter.

“Are you really Princess Carafel?” he asked, intimidated.

“That soaphead?!” She rolled up the scroll. “I’m Valaran, fourth daughter of Lord Valdid and Lady Pernina. Most people call me Val.”

He sighed with relief. “I’m Tol of Juramona,” he said. “Most people call me Tol.”

Valaran smiled. She had an intriguing smile, with a dimple just under the left corner of her mouth. It made her look even younger than he’d guessed. Her eyes were green, like the weathered copper roofs of Daltigoth.

“You’d better get out of here, Tol of Juramona,” she said. “Draymon may yet wonder what a royal princess would be doing in here unclothed.”

“How do I get back to the kitchens? I left my friends there.”

She slid off the high bench, showing a bit of pale calf as she did so. Unselfconsciously, she smoothed her gown and retied the pearl-beaded sash around her waist. Plainly dressed or not, Tol knew he wouldn’t have mistaken her for a housemaid if he’d noticed that expensive sash. She was shorter than he, but only barely.

“I’ll lead you to the kitchens. You’ll have to leave your sword and knife here,” she said, and handed him the thick scroll. “If anyone stops us, you’re escorting me to the temple library.”

Tol nodded. Valaran lifted the curtain and peeked out. Satisfied no one was around, she waved Tol out They went quickly down the corridor. Her step was light and fast. Tol commented on her confident navigation of the confusion of twists and turns.

“I should know the way; I’ve lived here forever!”

Her vexed tone made him smile. She was rather pretty. If she were a little older, he would be tempted to court her. He was a Rider of the Horde after all, he reminded himself, appointed by Prince Amaltar himself.

“Why were you in that cubbyhole?” he asked.

She frowned, crinkling her nose. “They don’t like to see me reading. Sometimes the ninnies of the Consorts’ Circle snatch the scrolls right from my hands!” She adopted a nasal, mocking tone: “‘Reading isn’t good for women. If you’re smarter than a man, he won’t like you.’”

“That’s not true. Nothing’s more boring than an empty head.” He glanced at her. “Why did you save me from the guards?”

Once a passing trio of servants moved out of earshot, she said flatly, “If they’d found you with me, I would’ve been whipped.”

Tol’s buoyant mood collapsed. She’d done it merely to save herself. He suddenly remembered the ugly scene he’d witnessed between the angry prince and Valdid. The hapless chamberlain was Valaran’s father. If such beatings were common in the Imperial Palace, he couldn’t fault her for wishing to avoid one. Her next words restored his good humor.

“Besides, you’re the first provincial to make it this far into the palace. You’ve got nerve.” She favored him with another dimpled smile, adding, “Or you’re stupid. I can’t tell yet. Anyway, I like to talk to people who have experienced the world outside the city. I want to hear everything about the world – and you.”

He stopped in his tracks. “You want to see me again?”

“Certainly. How else could we talk?”

They resumed walking, and Valaran said sternly, “You can’t come here, though. Are you lodging in the Riders’ Hall?” With nothing else definite, Tol nodded. “Good. We can meet in the wizards’ garden – at the fountain of the centaurs. I go there to read sometimes. The mages don’t mind.”

“I don’t know what my duties may be,” he said doubtfully. “If I am free, I’ll come.”

“I’m usually there four marks before sunset,” Valaran said, explaining that time in the Inner City was marked by the procession of the highest tower’s shadow across a set of lines carved into the inner wall.

They had reached the sweltering kitchens, and Tol’s adventure was over. He wanted to say something gallant, as he imagined a seasoned warrior would do, but Valaran didn’t linger for his goodbye. She plucked the scroll from his hand and darted away. Opening the fat cylinder of parchment, she was soon engrossed once more, reading as she walked.

Kiya and Miya were still seated at the table. Red-faced from wine and heat, they hailed their wandering companion. He sat down heavily between them. Miya pushed a plate of seared chicken in front of him, and filled a clay cup with dark red wine.

“Have some grub,” she said, sounding more rustic than usual. “It’s good! They treat you right here!”

Tol thought about his close call. Whether she’d been saving only herself or him, Valaran had a quick wit and courage enough to face down an irate captain of the guard. He looked forward to seeing her again.

He clinked his cup to Kiya’s, then Miya’s. “That they do,” he said.

Chapter 13

THE CENTAUR FOUNTAIN

Tol passed the early part of the night sleeping in the doorway of the Riders’ Hall. It was late when Relfas found him, shaking him roughly awake and demanding to know what he was doing there.

“No one would let me in,” Tol said sleepily. Relfas grasped his hand and hauled him to his feet. “Where are your bruising tribal women?”

Tol yawned. “The palace kitchens. I told them to stay there.” Within, the Riders’ Hall was much like the barracks at Juramona, only grander. Where the provincial hall used wood, the Daltigoth building used finely cut stone. Tol followed Relfas up a narrow stair to the topmost of four floors. The youngest and least senior of the empire’s elite warriors bedded down here, while older and more favored men occupied larger quarters on the lower floors. Settling himself on a bunk in a back corner, Tol fell asleep again in an instant.

Day began early. The young nobles turned out and ate a hearty breakfast at the long table in the center of the hall. They were served by a gaggle of scarlet-clad boys. As in its Juramona counterpart, women were not permitted even as servers in the Riders’ Hall. The married lords had to sleep apart from their wives, who were comfortably housed in the vast Imperial Palace.

Once fed, Tol’s comrades fell to preparing their finery for the upcoming conclave. Sharp smells of polish, saddle soap and oil filled the hall. Shield-bearers from the city’s hordes assisted the warriors. The ceremony surrounding the laying of the cornerstone for the Tower of Sorcery was to take place in four days, when the moons Luin and Solin would meet in the constellation of Draco Paladin, the great dragon-god.

It didn’t take Tol long to prepare, for he had little in the way of possessions, and his sword and dagger were still in Valaran’s hands. He had only to polish his leather boots, belts, and braces, and to scrub the tarnish from his armor. A pair of Daltigoth shilder offered to do the work, but Tol politely declined. He said he preferred to take care of his own equipment, the better to know its condition. The two youths departed, smirking at the funny ways of provincials.

His chores completed, Tol was at loose ends by midday. He slipped outside, determined to have a look around the Inner City.

The great plaza was being cleaned in preparation for the ceremony. An army of drudges moved across the mosaics, wielding brooms, while a smaller band of lackeys scooped up the piles of dust they left in their wake and hauled them away. A company of the Inner City Guard paraded across the entrance to the palace, relieving the men who’d stood watch since midnight. No courtiers or high officials were stirring yet in the square.

Inevitably, Tol made his way to the garden surrounding the wizards’ college. It was too early to meet Valaran – the sun-clock on the inside wall showed it was six marks till sunset – but he was decidedly curious about the sorcerers.

The garden at the wizards’ college was surrounded by a low stone wall, decorative rather than defensive. There were neither gates nor guards, just a simple flagstone path leading into a deserted garden. Tol felt uneasy when he entered its shaded calm, but Valaran had said the mages didn’t object to visits. Besides, if they were concerned about trespassers, surety there would be guards.

Newly leafed trees closed overhead, blotting out the sky. Fallen flower petals had drifted across the path, their perfumed thickness deadening his footfalls. A clear, musical tinkling wafted on the breeze, conjuring the memory of the wind chime he’d seen in Prince Amaltar’s tent at Caergoth.

He passed three stone pillars, each half again as tall as the one before it. For a moment he thought he saw inscriptions on them, but when he ran his fingers over the cold granite, the surface was smooth.

Voices whispered behind him. Tol snatched his hand back and whirled, but saw no one. The breeze died, and the chiming sound ceased. The canopy of leaves was still, blocking out the sunlight. Shaking his head at his nervous imaginings, he continued his slow progress through the beautiful grove.

Another path intersected his at a right angle. He looked left and right, wondering which way to go. For an instant he thought he glimpsed pale gray robes disappearing behind trees in both directions.

Disconcerted, Tol decided he’d gone far enough. He turned to retrace his steps, but discovered to his shock the path behind him had disappeared! Where moments before he had trodden on gray flagstones, there was now a thickly growing cluster of oak and elm trees.

His hand dropped to his hip, seeking the comforting handle of his saber. Of course it wasn’t there; Valaran still had it.

Tol turned around – and received yet another shock. The intersecting path was gone as though it had never been.

“Magic,” he muttered, glancing nervously over one shoulder, then the other. He went on, having no path to lead him back.

He soon came upon a four-sided clearing filled with blooming red roses. The flower, he knew, was sacred to Manthus, god of wisdom. The path led directly to the sea of blooms and thorny stems, so he was forced to wade knee-deep through crimson flowers. Thorns made little impression on his stout leather trews, but the aroma of roses filled the air in overwhelming strength. Coughing, he held a kerchief over his nose and pushed on. The flagstone path resumed on the other side of the clearing.

Ahead, he could see the colonnades of the wizards’ college. Off to his left was the rough wooden scaffolding he’d glimpsed on his arrival at the Inner City, Just now it was deserted.

Using the scaffold to keep his bearing, Tol left the path and was able to navigate through the closely growing trees without too much trouble. He emerged in a sunny, diamond-shaped courtyard directly in front of the wizards’ college. A number of robed clerics and sorcerers were sitting on stone benches around the courtyard. When Tol came into view, they stood up and gaped at him in alarm. The closest ones hurried away, as if he were some ravening fiend come to attack them.

A woman in white robes approached. Hollow-cheeked, she was very advanced in years, her hair completely white. She stood very straight, though, and did not lean on the tall staff in her hand.

“Who are you? How did you get here?” she asked sternly.

“Forgive me, lady,” Tol said, bowing his head. “I mean no harm. My name is Tol of Juramona.”

When he raised his head again, other robed figures stood behind the woman. A rotund, red-faced man asked, “How did he get so far?”

“I don’t know, Oropash,” the woman replied. “Helbin, was the Wall of Sleep properly invoked?”

“The wards were properly placed. I saw to it myself,” answered a more youthful man at her right hand. His sand-colored hair was tightly curled, as was his thin mustache. “No one could possibly have gotten through!”

The old woman looked from Helbin to Tol and back again, white eyebrows rising significantly. Young Helbin flushed.

To Tol she said, “Come here, young man. Don’t be afraid. I am Yoralyn; come to me.”

Tol’s feet crunched on the bright quartz gravel. He wasn’t afraid, but many of Yoralyn’s colleagues obviously were. He halted several paces from the startled mages and spread his hands.

“I’m not armed,” he reassured them. “I’m visiting Daltigoth with my liege lord, Enkian Tumult, marshal of the Eastern Hundred. We’re here at the emperor’s command, for the laying of the cornerstone of the great tower.”

Yoralyn consulted a smooth sphere of amethyst in her hand. “He speaks the truth,” she said. “His aura is as innocent as a child’s.”

“Then how did he penetrate the Wall of Sleep?” demanded the rotund mage, Oropash.

The younger sorcerer, Helbin, advanced and stared Tol in the eye. He was tall and vigorous-looking, more like a warrior than a priest. Over his robe he wore a loosely draped mantle of faded red silk. Each of his fingers bore a ring. He extended one hand, palm out, and waved it in front of Tol.

“I perceive no sensation of power,” he muttered. “I sense no counterspell or amulet, but there must be a reason! An ordinary person could not pass through the barrier without succumbing to its influence!”

Their agitation, and the speculative gleam in Yoralyn’s pale blue eyes, unnerved Tol. “I’m sorry,” he said, backing up a step. “I’m not sure what happened. But I’ll go at once —”

“No, stay,” said Yoralyn. “Come this way.”

Helbin and Oropash stood aside, allowing Tol plenty of room to pass. The two sorcerers, fearful but curious, followed Tol as he trailed the old woman to a nearby fountain. A silver stream spewed from the mouth of a dragon statue in the center of the pool. The statue was three paces tall and carved from a single block of emerald.

As he passed, Tol realized the fluid flowing from the statue’s mouth wasn’t water, but quicksilver. A droplet splashed out of the pool onto the low marble wall surrounding the fountain’s basin, and then, like a living thing, the silver globule rolled up the stone slab (against the slope, Tol noted with astonishment) and dropped back into the pool.

More sorcerers joined the procession. They emerged from other side paths or simply appeared out of the air on the grassy lawn. Scores had congregated by the time Yoralyn halted at the foot of the ramshackle scaffolding, Inside the scaffolding, a single course of masonry had been laid, enormous cyclopean stones two paces high and as wide as a tall man could reach.

Yoralyn regarded Tol silently with a disconcertingly piercing stare. He stammered, “I’m truly sorry if my coming has caused a problem.”

“It has, Tol of Juramona. We defend the Vale of Sorcery with a special conjuration, intended to keep out all those not of our orders. Yet you wandered in without apparent difficulty. Moreover, none of us seems to have felt the disruption of our solitude. We find that gravely disturbing. Who are you?”

Tol gave her a brief account of his coming to Daltigoth.

“So, you’re the one who slew Morthur Dermount?” Helbin said at the end of the tale.

Tol acknowledged this, saying, “He gave me no choice but kill or be killed.”

“No blame attaches to you,” Yoralyn assured him. “Morthur was a wild mage, an unregulated practitioner of the black arts. He was trained by rogue elements of the Red and Black Robes. It’s a pity we couldn’t have discovered the names of his mentors, but …” She shrugged, then said, “You possess his ring, do you not?”

Reluctant to part with so powerful an object, Tol simply nodded.

“We would like it returned to us. It is not lawful for an untutored person like yourself to use it.”

“Must I give it up? Lord Enkian awarded it to me as a spoil of victory. It does not work when I wield it.” He described his inability to use Morthur’s ring at the Dalti bridge and told of Miya’s success.

A sustained murmur went through the crowd. Helbin and Oropash held a hushed conversation with Yoralyn. At length she silenced the group with upraised hands.

“Master Tol, we have no quarrel with you. You seem a good and honorable man. Something is amiss, however. Your immunity to Morthur’s soporific spell, and to our protective enchantment, is unheard of and most troubling.”

“You must give us Morthur’s ring,” Helbin said, and it was more an order than a request. “There may be something in it that helped you defeat our wards.”

Tol didn’t want to comply. The large sapphire ring was his prize from a hard-fought struggle. “I care nothing for the ring’s power,” he argued, “but I would like to keep it. Lord Morthur – or Spannuth Grane as I knew him – did much harm to me and my people, and his ring is the only trophy I have.”

Helbin seemed disposed to overrule him, but Oropash said reasonably, “Let us study the ring during your visit here, Master Tol. Once we’ve delved into its secrets, you may have it back.”

Tol looked to Yoralyn, who nodded in confirmation. Satisfied, he loosed the lacings of his belt pouch to produce the ring.

A fresh wave of agitation rippled through the throng of mages.

“You have it with you?” Yoralyn exclaimed.

Tol paused, two fingers buried in the pouch. “I do. What’s wrong with that?”

Turning to her fellow wizards, Yoralyn declared, “I did not sense the ring’s power on the boy. Did anyone here?”

From the fresh consternation on every face, it was obvious no one had. Helbin asked for the ring, extending a hand. Tol dropped it on his open palm. The mage closed long fingers around it. His eyes shut momentarily, then sprang open.

“The ring is consecrated to Nuitari. It is potent still!” Helbin exclaimed.

“You must give it back to him immediately,” Oropash said quietly.

Helbin did so, and Tol, his eyes wide, returned the ring to his pouch.

Eyes firmly closed, Oropash said, “I cannot see the ring when the boy possesses it!”

“Nor can I!”

“It vanishes as soon as it touches his hands!”

Every sorcerer in the glade began talking at once. The disorder of their thoughts caused strange displays – a cloud of coal-black butterflies appeared over one mage’s head; another’s lost all color and took on the appearance of a snow sculpture; flames played about the feet of a female mage.

“Calm yourselves!” Yoralyn cried.

The manifestations instantly dissipated. The sorcerers quieted, looking chagrined at having lost control.

Yoralyn came to Tol, tightly clutching her staff with both hands. Up close, he noticed the staff wasn’t wood, but some kind of animal limb, covered in greenish-black hide.

“The ring, please.”

He again took it out and gave it to her. She handed it to Helbin and seized Tol’s large hand in her dry, gnarled fingers. Her grip was powerful, and Tol didn’t struggle against it.

“Where are you?” she whispered. “I cannot find you. You are here in my hands, but invisible to my inner eye!” She released him abruptly. “I would know more of this,” she said, more kindly. “Will you return and speak with me again?”

“If you wish, lady. I will be in Daltigoth and at your service, until the foundation ceremony is done.”

Yoralyn addressed the assembled wizards. “Go back to your studies. I will see to the stranger. The source of his immunity to magic will be found, I promise you.”

“I will assist,” Oropash offered, with a gracious bow.

“As will I,” put in Helbin. He regarded Tol with open hostility.

The other mages slowly dispersed. When only Yoralyn, Helbin, and Oropash remained, Tol asked the woman where he could find the fountain of the centaurs.

“Centaurs? Oh, you mean the Font of the Blue Phoenix,” she said. “It faces the end of the west wing, yonder. Why do you seek it? Are you a devotee of the god?”

Tol colored a little. “I was told to meet a friend there.”

Yoralyn’s wrinkled face showed amusement for the first time. “Oh, you seek Valaran.”

“You know her?”

“No one else from outside comes to the Font of the Blue Phoenix.” She folded her arms. “But it is a sacred site, not a trysting place for young lovers.”

“We just met,” Tol protested. “She wants me to tell her about life in the provinces!”

“And what do you want from her, Master Tol?”

Her pale blue, almost white, eyes bored into his own, forcing him to give serious consideration to her question. Valaran was a strange girl, educated and observant, hot like his hearty companions Kiya and Miya. Although they had met only once, she had made a strong impression. Her openness and cleverness in saving him from discovery intrigued him. But what did they really have in common? Why should he seek her out?

“I want to know her better,” he decided aloud.

“I suppose you do,” Yoralyn said cryptically. “Very well. It’s not as though we can keep you out. In the future, please enter the garden Valaran’s way: Keep to the path along the wall of the Inner City; it will lead you without fail to the Font of the Blue Phoenix. For a few hours each day we leave an open passage in the Wall of Sleep there, just for her.”

Tol thanked her. Before leaving, he said, “I lodge in the Riders’ Hall. Summon me, and when duty permits I will come.” He bowed awkwardly and hurried off to the fountain.

Helbin clenched his hand around Morthur’s signet. “I will purge the ring,” he said.

Yoralyn nodded, and he departed. She turned to Oropash.

“Have the boy watched,” she ordered. “I would know what Master Tol does, and with whom. Use your best spy.”

Oropash’s round face showed alarm. “Is he dangerous?”

“I cannot tell,” Yoralyn said. “If his immunity to magic is a wild talent, then he’s an aberration, nothing more. But if he’s an agent of a rogue mage, even an unwitting one, he may be the most dangerous person in Daltigoth. In either case, we must know the truth. See to it at once.”

“It shall be done.”

*

The Font of the Blue Phoenix proved to be a beautiful shrine to the god of nature. A veritable mountain of jade rose up from a shallow pool forty paces wide. A golden disk hovered over the gemstone island, fixed in place by no visible means. All around the circumference of the basin, droplets of water fell from open air, an endless rain from a cloudless sky.

Surrounding the central isle of jade were life-sized figures of animals – horses, dogs, rabbits, deer, ancient elk, wild oxen, a crouching panther, wolves, eagles, crows, vultures, and doves. All were rendered in a startlingly lifelike fashion. Had they not been in various colors of marble, Tol might have taken them for living creatures.

Also clustered around the jade pinnacle were representations of the world’s sentient inhabitants. Although elves, men, ogres, dwarves, gnomes, and kender were all present, a trio of rearing centaurs stood higher than the rest, providing the inspiration for Valaran’s name for the fountain.

Tol circled the pool and saw other, more legendary beings: bakali, the lizard-like minions of the Dragonqueen; bull-headed minotaurs; and other strange creatures for which he had no names.

It was still too early to expect to see Valaran. Tol sat to wait for her on the sculpted marble rim of the fountain and pondered his meeting with the mages. Did they think him immune to magic? Grane’s spell had put him to sleep quickly enough in his family’s hut years ago. Of course, the fellow’s conjurations had failed in the Great Green and on the road to Daltigoth. Although he pondered these contradictions long and hard, he couldn’t find any answers. Growing bored finally, he reclined. The patter of falling water, the stillness of the clearing lulled him, and he dozed, one arm laid across his eyes.

He dreamed, and his dreams were strange indeed. In one of them he was ranging over the hills of his homeland, hunting with a bow in his hand. Far ahead, Kiya and Miya called to him to hurry. Suddenly, a plump brown rabbit broke cover and dashed in front of him. He loosed an arrow that found its mark. Running forward in triumph, he found a marble statue of a rabbit, pierced by his arrow. Blood trickled from the wound, staining the white stone.

A cold wind gusted over him. With dreamtime swiftness, the landscape changed from green hills to an unfamiliar bleak winter clime. He was alone. Kiya and Miya were nowhere to be seen. Mountains filled the horizon.

Suddenly, Tol knew a menace was behind him. He spun about, sword instantly in his hand. All he could see was a figure silhouetted against the sky, far away. It was a man – a man who meant to kill him.

Something cold touched his face. Tol flinched and struck out. He rolled off the fountain ledge and awoke when he hit the grass. In a flash he was up, ready to fight.

Valaran regarded him quizzically. In one hand she held his sheathed dagger. Slung over her shoulder was his saber and sword belt. The weight of it dragged down her pale yellow gown, exposing a smooth and slender shoulder.

“That’s a fine greeting,” she said. “I bring your stupid heavy knife and sword, and you throw a punch at me.”

Breathing hard, Tol lowered his fists. “You shouldn’t sneak up on me.”

She dropped his dagger and shrugged off his saber, letting it fall heavily to the grass. In her other hand she carried a canvas satchel. Tol bent over the pool, scooping cool water to his feverish face. Valaran seated herself on the edge of the fountain and watched him.

“I’ve already learned one thing about country people,” she said. “They don’t have any manners. Do you know how hard it was to sneak out of the palace carrying that big sword? And I wasn’t even certain you’d be here.”

He took her hand and bowed low, as he’d seen noblemen do. “Thank you, my lady,” he said fervently. “How can I repay you?”

She jerked her hand free, but he saw a touch of color come to her cheeks. “Now you’re being silly.”

Valaran opened her satchel. It was full of books. She read aloud the wooden tags affixed to the ends of the scrolls. “A History of Sancrist Isle, Customs and Practices of Balifor, Genealogy of the House of Pakin.” She looked up at him – her green eyes were striking – and added, “But I’m glad you came today.”

Tol smiled. “Really?”

She looked down at the scrolls. “Really. I’ve read all these before” — his smile froze into a frown — “and I hate being idle when I can learn something. Please tell me absolutely everything about yourself.”

Tol was charmed anew. Despite the plain appearance she cultivated, and her sharp tongue, there was something very winning about Valaran. She didn’t seem quite so young today. Her shape beneath the fine yellow linen was proof of that.

Tol did as she bade. He told her of his early life, his family, of farming, and, as modestly as possible, how he’d saved Lord Odovar from Pakin rebels. She listened, silent and attentive, until he described the capture of Vakka Zan.

“I’m a Pakin, you know,” she told him calmly, then smiled at his astonishment. “Much removed, of course. My great-great-grandfather, Ersteddin Valdid, married the youngest sister of Pakin Zan. My great-aunt, Darali, was set to marry the Pakin emperor Ergothas III, but he died before the arrangements were complete.”

“Is being a Pakin held against you here?”

“Not really. My father has always been loyal to Prince Amaltar. He was the prince’s tutor for many years, and now he’s his chamberlain.”

It was Tol’s turn to listen. Valaran spun a fantastic story of dynastic marriages, palace politics, suicide, murder, and madness. Tol found it appalling, but Val recounted it with great verve, even pride. She spoke of the assassination of Emperor Pakin II, providing much more detailed insight than Tol had previously heard.

“A courtier, Lord Bathastan, and three subverted servants slew Pakin II in front of the entire court. They stabbed him with daggers.”

“What happened to the assassins?”

“Tortured. Killed.” She said it as calmly as Tol might have said, “Hungry. Ate dinner.”

Conversation lagged. Valaran leaned down to close the satchel at her feet. Her long hair fell forward, sunlight giving the brown mass a red sheen. Sitting up, she regarded him thoughtfully.

“What do you want —?” They both began in unison. Laughing, Valaran gestured for Tol to speak first.

“What would you most like to do?” he asked.

“See the city,” she replied immediately.

That puzzled him. “But you live here.”

“I’m never allowed outside the palace grounds. Oh, when I was two my mother took me to a healer in the Old City, but I don’t remember it.”

Tol was astonished. “You’ve left the Inner City only once? How old are you?”

She feigned offense. “Rude question! Or it would be if I were one of the empty-headed lackwits in the Consorts’ Circle. They’d faint at such impertinence. I’m seventeen years and two months old. What about you?”

“Country folk don’t reckon time as closely as city people do, but I think I’m over eighteen now – maybe nineteen.”

An idea came to him of a sudden, and he jumped to his feet. “Valaran, let me take you outside! I’ve been wanting to see some of the city myself.”

She regarded him skeptically. “You don’t know your way about. We’ll be like two blind kender with our hands in each other’s pockets.”

“My men, the Juramona foot guards, are quartered by the canal somewhere. I’ll tell Lord Enkian I’m going down there to visit them.”

Valaran stood slowly, green eyes shining. “Aren’t you afraid? I’m forbidden to go out without my father’s permission. We’ll be punished if we’re caught.”

“A warrior does not fear reprisals, only failure,” he said gravely. This made her chuckle, the rich sound bringing a grin to his face.

They concocted a plan. Although prohibited from leaving the Inner City, Valaran had a fair amount of freedom otherwise. Her father would not miss her if she went out after supper. Tol would meet her at sunset, by the palace kitchens. He was sure Kiya and Miya would help him smuggle her out.

Valaran shook his hand like a comrade, then hurried back to the palace to prepare for her illicit foray. Tol waited a bit, then left the Font of the Blue Phoenix, nightmares and magical immunity forgotten.

*

The Dom-shu sisters were not disposed to be helpful.

When Tol arrived at the kitchens after making excuses to Lord Enkian – who, frankly, cared not a whit if he left – he found Miya and Kiya chafing to get out in the city themselves. The idea that one sister should stay behind so Valaran could masquerade as her was flatly rejected.

“Why should we do this for a stranger?” grumbled Miya.

“You’d be doing it for me,” Tol said, annoyed. “I ask little of you. Can’t one of you oblige me in this?”

They wrangled awhile, then the sisters agreed to gamble for the right to go with Tol and Valaran. He imagined they would match for it, or do evens-odd, but instead Kiya found four big butcher knives and leaned a chopping block against the wall as a target.

“Nearest each corner wins,” said Kiya. Miya agreed with a grunt.

Holding the iron point between her thumb and forefinger, Kiya hurled one knife after another at the block. Her throws were formidable; each knife came within a finger’s width of its intended corner. Miya frowned and worked the big blades free. Standing beside her sister, she gripped the knives by their oily wooden handles rather than the blades. Her first three throws were no better than Kiya’s, but the last imbedded in the very peak of the chopping block’s upper right corner. Miya whooped in triumph.

“Don’t fret, sister,” she said. “While you’re here, get the palace cooks to teach you how to make real food instead of dragon-bait!”

Kiya responded with a pungent metaphor, so Tol stepped between them. “My thanks, Kiya,” he said, giving her a brotherly hug. “I owe you a favor.”

The Dom-shu slipped on the sandals Tol had insisted they wear in the capital, then stole outside. In moments Valaran arrived. She wore a dark blue hooded cloak that covered her from head to toe.

Immediately, Kiya noted a snag in their plans, saying, “She’s tiny; she’ll never pass for me.”

Valaran was more than a head shorter than the lofty tribal women.

“I have it!” Miya said, smacking a fist into her palm. “Husband, get on the other side of her!”

Tol winced at being labeled the mate of the Dom-shu, but he stood on Val’s right while Miya flanked her left. At Miya’s command, they grasped Valaran’s elbows and hoisted her up.

“Light as a bird,” declared Miya.

Valaran vowed they were crushing her arms, but Tol said, “Be easy. We just have to get past the guards.”

“But I have no feet!”

It was true. The hem of Valaran’s cloak now floated above the ground, and no legs or feet were visible below it.

“The dark will hide that,” Tol said, and the three of them bid farewell to Kiya.

They headed down the lane to the south gate. As it was used only by victualers and tradesfolk, the guards there were surprised when the trio appeared before them. The guards’ poleaxes clashed together, barring the way.

“Who goes there?” snapped the sergeant of the guard.

“Tol of Juramona and his wives.”

The soldier held up a shielded candle. Yellow light fell on their three faces. Valaran did not arouse suspicion by trying to avert her face.

“I know you, sir,” said the guard. “You command the footmen of Lord Enkian, do you not?”

“That’s right,” said Tol. Valaran didn’t weigh much, hut the burden was starting to tell. His arm quivered with the strain and he fought to keep his voice normal. “I’m heading down to the canal district to visit my men. I have Lord Enkian’s permission.”

“Ah, you’re a Rider of the Horde, sir, you don’t need to prove anything to us!” They withdrew their arms, and let Tol and the women pass. “But tell us some time how you bested Lord Morthur, will you, sir?”

“Surely,” Tol said, flattered. “I shall.”

They moved away from the gate, careful not to seem too eager. Out of sight of the friendly guards, they set Valaran on her feet.

“You’re becoming known,” said Miya. She looked back in the direction of the gate. “I should have asked them for money.”

Tol opened his mouth to protest such dishonorable behavior, but Valaran pulled at his hand. “Let’s go! I want to see everything!”

The road descended a steep hill, curving slightly to the right. Valaran threw back her cloak to free her arms. She started to lower her hood, but Tol stopped her.

“No sense announcing who you are,” he warned. He cautioned Miya to refer to their companion only as Val.

Valaran had studied a map of the city and she announced this avenue was called Bran’s Way. It was lined on both sides by two-story warehouses – brick at ground level, timber above. Here were kept all the stores for the Inner City, as well as tribute and trade from every corner of the empire. Torches burned on iron stanchions outside the door of each warehouse, and well-armed watchmen stood guard, each with a halberd on one shoulder and a brass alarm bell in his hand.

Not until they reached the first crossing street, called Saddler’s Row, did they encounter traffic. Carts and wagons, single riders on horseback, and a modest crowd of pedestrians moved in either direction. Far down Saddler’s Row the lighted doorways of taverns and theaters beckoned. Miya and Valaran were ready to go that way, but Tol insisted they at least try to find Narren and the Juramona soldiers.

The closer they came to the canal, the brighter the lamplight and the thicker the crowds. Valaran was enchanted. She stopped to listen to a slanging match between a pushcart vender and a woman who apparently didn’t have the price of a grilled sausage. Words were getting quite heated as Tol dragged her away.

“Wait!” she pleaded. “She just called him the three-fathered son of a pox-riddled goatherd. I want to hear his response.”

“Keep moving! We’ll end up in the middle of a knife-fight,” Tol said.

Farther along, they came across two gnomes, pink-pated fellows with silky white beards, who had set up a table at the edge of the street. They were demonstrating an apparatus of their own design. Four flattened glass globes turned on spindles, while a rack and pinion allowed them to move backward or forward, up or down.

“With the new Solar-Optical Domestic Stove Lighter, you’ll never have to buy fire again!” proclaimed the green-clad gnome. They were so alike only their clothes set them apart.

“My estimable colleague is correct,” said the other gnome, who wore brown clothing spotted with gray patches. “The Solar-Optical Domestic Stove Lighter is clean, dependable, reliable, safe —”

“Sounds like the perfect husband,” said Miya.

The small crowd chuckled appreciatively. Ignoring the interruption, the gnome in green resumed his spiel. “Throw away your flint and steel! Forsake dangerous and smelly tinder boxes! The Solar-Optical Domestic Stove Lighter makes all those old-fashioned items obsolete!”

“Excuse me,” said Valaran, stepping up to the table. “Do I understand from the name this device uses sunlight to ignite fires?”

Both little men first looked surprised, then immensely pleased. “Just so, lady, just so!” said the brown-shirted gnome. “It’s so nice to meet an educated person so far from home.”

“Thank you. However, I see one grave problem with your invention.”

Twin looks of approval changed to displeasure, and Valaran added, “How does it work at night?”

If she’d slapped the gnomes, she could not have stunned them more. The gnome in green faced his colleague and punched him on his cherry-red nose.

“Imbecile! How will it work at night?”

“Who are you calling imbecile?” retorted Brown. “I have a diploma from the Institute of Higher Gnomish Engineering —”

“I wipe my nose on your diploma!” Green shouted. “I dribble gravy on it too! How can a stove-lighter work without the sun?” A new thought seized him, and he shook with emotion. “Or when it rains?”

Brown attacked Green, and the two gnomes rolled on the ground, locked in a furious embrace. When they fetched up against the table, its folding legs collapsed, sending their invention crashing to the pavement. Instantly, scavengers converged on the broken device, ransacking the gnomes’ goods while the two fought on.

Tol and his party moved past. Miya, looking back at the melee, said, “They’re crazy. Why use that big thing when flint and iron fit in the palm of your hand?”

By the canal, boats and barges were tied up for the night. The streets were crowded, and waterfront taverns were doing a roaring business.

Valaran’s head swiveled left and right as she tried to take it all in. Catching Tol’s eye, she smiled, dimple dancing at the corner of her mouth.

As they strolled along the plank quayside, Miya said quietly, “We’re being followed. Since the gnomes’ table. Stocky fellow, dressed in black. I can’t make out his face.”

Tol chanced a glance. He saw no one of that description, but trusted Miya’s woodland instincts. They were acute, even in the city.

Sword and dagger reassuringly in place, Tol kept his expression pleasant for the girl’s sake. “Let’s find Narren and the men,” he said. He took Valaran’s hand, and was pleased when she didn’t pull away.

They visited four inns before they found the Juramona company. The fourth spot was called The Bargeman’s Rest, and it was a sprawling place, combining dock, boathouse, wineshop, and hostel.

Standing on his toes to see over the crowd, Tol spotted Narren and five of his men leaning on hogsheads, drinking from the short tin cups favored by Daltigoth’s tapsters. Narren hailed him. Tol elbowed his way through the press, drawing Valaran after him. Miya hung back a few steps, watching their backs.

There was much cheering and back-slapping as Tol was reunited with his comrades. Narren spoke for all when he said, “Who’s the kid, Tol?”

Valaran flushed scarlet. “Mind your tongue, rascal!”

Tol cut her off by squeezing her hand tightly. “This is a friend – Val.”

“Want a drink, friend Val?” said Narren, offering her a cup.

She would have taken it, but Tol got it first and drained it down. Out the side of his mouth he said to her, “Better keep your wits about you here!”

Miya sidled up and spoke in Tol’s ear. “He followed us inside. Over there, by the pile of rope.”

This time Tol saw him. Dressed in black as Miya had said, the stranger seemed to blend into the dark corner.

Cutpurse? Thief? Crimper? Drunken idlers on the canal often found themselves kidnapped and put aboard outgoing barges, forced to work off the price of their passage. This fellow looked too well-heeled for such lowly work. Tol made a swift decision. Straightening his sword belt, he told Miya to keep Val out of the way.

“Narren, Gustal, with me,” he said. The three of them wedged their way through the noisy crowd, straight for Tol’s black-garbed shadow.

The fellow didn’t react to their obvious approach, even when they effectively boxed him in against the wall. Instead, the stranger pushed the hood of his cape back slightly from his face, revealing he was masked. A fitted black cloth covered his entire head, leaving only dark eyes visible.

“Gentlemen,” he said, voice muffled as it came through a thin slit cut in the hood.

“You’ve been following my friends and me,” Tol said. “Why?”

“You’re mistaken. I often come here.”

“Who are you?” demanded Narren. “Why do you hide behind that mask?”

The fellow shrugged. “I’m no one. My face is my own concern.”

Tol dithered. Miya had seen the stranger follow them here, but perhaps he was telling the truth. Perhaps his presence was nothing more than a coincidence.

The stranger put two fingers in a pocket on the front of his tunic. Tol and his friends tensed, but he brought out only a silver coin.

“Have a pitcher on me,” he said. “No hard feelings?”

Before Tol could accept or decline, Gustal cut him off. Somewhat the worse for drink, Gustal said belligerently, “I say we yank that hood off, get the truth out of him!”

Gustal made a clumsy grab for the mask. In a flash, the stranger’s hand went beneath his cloak and came out holding a long, thin dagger. Swift as a striking snake, he drove the blade upward into Gustal’s belly and then withdrew it, all in one smooth, practiced motion.

Astonishment bloomed on Gustal’s ruddy face. He sagged to his knees and fell heavily against Narren, sending them both sprawling. By the time Tol looked around for him the stranger had slipped away.

“He’s dead!” Narren cried, pulling himself from beneath Gustal’s weight.

Tol already knew by Gustal’s staring eyes it was true. The suddenness, the pointlessness of the death shocked and sickened him, but he had to put aside his feelings. Even as Narren spoke, a woman nearby saw blood flowing and she screamed. The inn erupted.

“Juramona!” Tol yelled, trying to rally his men to his side.

Close to a hundred bargemen, stevedores, serving women, and assorted jetsam of the canal district filled the inn. They didn’t take kindly to being manhandled out of the way as Tol’s soldiers fought to come to their commander’s aid. What started with shoving and oaths quickly developed into a brawl. Stools and wine jugs flew.

Tol leaped onto a table, scanning the melee. He saw Miya pull Valaran to the far wall. By tribal custom, the Dom-shu woman would defend Tol’s guest even at the cost of her own life.

Narren shouted, “There he goes!”

Tol followed his pointing hand and saw the hooded stranger running down the quay. He jumped down from the table and started to give chase. Narren tried to follow, but was tripped from behind and swallowed by the fracas.

The man had a head start, but Tol was soon treading on his heels. The masked killer spun around. Torchlight flashed on his deadly blade. Tol parried quickly, and the murderous weapon was knocked away to splash into the canal. The hooded man vaulted nimbly over a boat upturned on the shore, and produced another dagger.

“Go back, Master Tol,” the stranger said, scarcely panting from his exertions. “Look to the chamberlain’s daughter, or she’ll burn!”

Tol risked a glance at The Bargeman’s Rest and was horrified to see fire spreading over its roof.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “How do you know me?”

The stranger shook his head. “Nothing happens in Daltigoth that I don’t know about. I’ve no orders to kill you, but I will do what I must, if you try to interfere with me.”

Tol hesitated, torn between his desire to avenge Gustal’s death and the need to make sure Valaran was safe.

“If you love the girl, go to her!”

With those words, the hooded stranger melted into the darkness. Wasting no time on fruitless regrets, Tol shoved his sword into its scabbard and raced back to the burning inn.

The fire watch had arrived on the scene. They formed a bucket brigade from the canal to the blazing inn. Tol sorted through the crowd until he found first Miya and Val, then Narren and his men. Soot-stained and bruised, the Juramona footmen had managed to clear the room after an overturned lamp set the rope stores afire.

Impulsively, Tol took Valaran in his arms and kissed her. Surprised, Valaran stiffened for a moment, then responded in kind.

Miya shook her head. “Kiya will be so mad! A gnome fight, wine, a tavern brawl, a fire, and our husband kisses the skinny girl – she missed everything!”

Chapter 14

THE TOWER

A hush fell over the multitude.

The great mosaic plaza of Daltigoth’s Inner City was completely filled, from wall to wall and palace door to garden grounds. Every contingent was in its place. The marshals of the empire and their retainers stood with their backs to the Riders’ Hall, facing the center of the square. All were dressed in their finest martial attire. Helmets gleamed in the bright sunshine; spearpoints and scale-mail glittered. Standards of every province hung from their poles – limply, as no wind stirred.

Across from the warlords of Ergoth were the residents of the Imperial Palace – the emperor’s wives, children, and relatives – as well as courtiers and their families. All wore their best raiment: smooth silk, weighty brocade, soft, stifling velvet. Every color known to nature, and a few the gods had never imagined before today, was in that crowd. Red predominated, as befitting a ceremony presided over by the reigning dynast of the Ackal line.

Behind the imperial household crowded those who served them, from the highest valet to the humblest dustman. They were but a smudge of drab gray and brown in comparison to the bold rainbow presented by their betters, but every servant sported a scrap of crimson: from swatches tied on their arms, to scarves or headbands, to the discarded piece of frayed red ribbon binding a scullery maid’s hair. Even the imperial cooks wore red cockades pinned to their starched aprons.

Also assembled, at right angles to the warriors and imperial household, was the college of wizards. The Red Robes were divided, flanking the slightly smaller number of White Robes in their midst. All presented a solemn face for the occasion. A few wore gold or silver ornaments, but the leaders of the orders were dressed plainest of all.

Every eye was fixed on the doors of the palace. Ranging down the steps in full panoply were the Imperial Guards, three ranks deep. Every man wore a new scarlet cape and feather plume on his helmet. Even the shafts of their pole arms were painted red. At the bottom of the broad steps the mounted guard was arrayed in a double line, facing each other five paces apart. Sabers bared and laid against their shoulders, the Horse Guard’s iron cuirasses had been polished until they shone like mirrors. Elite of the elite, the greatest warriors of the empire, every man was a noble, equal in rank to the provincial marshals.

On plinths to either side of the palace steps were musicians. Both groups were composed of drummers, cornetists, pipers, and sistrumists. The drummers stood behind a half circle of waist-high goatskin drums, the same sort played a thousand years earlier by the tribes who had first settled Ergoth. In front of the drummers were the cornetists, equipped with both brass instruments and gilded rams’ horns. The pipers played the more recently invented brass flute, brought to Ergoth from the gnome island of Sancrist. Lastly, sistrum players – men naked to the waist and wearing the horned heads of buck deer – rested the staffs of their brazen rattles on their feet, awaiting the order to play.

Every eye was on the palace door – every eye except Tol’s. From his place at the rear of the Juramona delegation, his attention was focused on the gaudy crowd opposite. He searched the courtiers for Valaran. Not given to extravagant dress, she was impossible to spot.

He hadn’t seen Val since returning her to the palace two days ago, following their misadventure in the city. He’d managed to slip away to the fountain of the centaurs each day at the appointed time, but she did not appear. He wondered if his bold kiss had frightened or offended her. Neither of the Dom-shu sisters had any sympathy for his fretting. Kiya, peeved at having missed their wild night in the city, told him simply to “be a man.” Miya’s equally unhelpful advice was, “If she’s meek enough to be scared away by a kiss, she’s not worth your trouble.”

At some hidden signal, drums and brass horns sounded. The crowd stirred, and Tol turned his attention to the palace. The tall, gilded portals swung inward. The drums began a steady cadence, augmented by the jangle of sistrums. Out the palace door marched a standard bearer, holding a golden sun disk, symbol of the emperor. Four honor guards followed, in cloth-of-gold mantles and gilded helmets. They carried enormous two-handed swords, unsheathed.

A new, less impressive figure emerged before the honor guard reached the steps. Bare-headed and in clad in wine-colored robes was the emperor’s eldest son and heir-apparent, Crown Prince Amaltar. Aside from the golden torque around his neck and the jewel-studded circlet on his brow, he was one of the most modestly dressed nobles in the square. He descended the steps with dignity, keeping an interval of five steps behind the honor guard.

Next came eight women archers in white robes, carrying unstrung bows. These were the prince’s wives, chosen for him from among the highest families in the empire. They also functioned as Amaltar’s ceremonial bodyguard.

Behind the archer-wives came a host of small children, offspring of the various imperial princes. They too were dressed in white, and carried baskets of pink and white dogwood petals, which they scattered on the steps and mosaic pavement. Their floral tribute exhausted, they slipped through the ranks of the Horse Guards and joined the rest of the imperial household.

When Amaltar, the standard bearer, and the honor guard reached the end of the lane made by the Horse Guards, they stopped. The chiefs of the Red and White Robes bowed their heads to the prince, and Amaltar moved to the side, looking to the open doors of the palace. He was ringed by his wives.

The drumming ceased. A fresh hush fell over the Inner City. The cornetists put down their new-fangled brass instruments and took up their rams’ horns. The silence was shattered by a deep, bleating note from the sixteen cornets. It was an ancient call, as old as humanity, and echoed within the high stone walls as no other sound made that morning. Tol felt a lump grow in his throat.

Warriors next to him murmured, “The emperor … the emperor …”

Pipers began playing a slow march, and the rest of the musicians joined in. Innocent of honor guards or consorts, Emperor Pakin III strode out the palace door.

A spontaneous shout went up from ten thousand throats: “Long live the emperor!”

Tol found himself shouting with the rest. He was so moved by the great ceremony, he couldn’t help himself.

The emperor was a big man, much like Egrin in size and apparent age. Unlike his clean-shaven son, Pakin III wore a full warrior’s beard, iron gray and neatly trimmed. A white silk mantle, edged in crimson and with golden tassels, hung from his shoulders. His tunic and kilt were red velvet, so dark it looked almost black. At his throat he wore a chain of heavy golden medallions. From his brow the crown of Ergoth flashed, two gilded horns amid a ring of stylized solar rays. His rider’s soft boots and leggings were made of the finest doeskin. In the crook of his left arm was the imperial scepter, an ivory baton inlaid with one hundred flawless rubies. The orbs on the ends were single rubies, each the size of a ripe apple.

Pakin III did not acknowledge the shouts. Having paused at the top of the stairs, he squared his shoulders and began to descend. Hurrahs gave way to general cheering. Warriors held high spears or swords, ladies waved handkerchiefs, and children threw fistfuls of red rose petals in the emperor’s path.

Only the wizards remained composed, stolidly waiting their time.

The procession wasn’t finished. In the emperor’s wake came the empress, slow-moving and beautiful, and Pakin III’s other sons. The only one of the four Tol recognized was red-haired Prince Nazramin, draped in black and gold. Behind them walked ambassadors from foreign lands and vassal states – burly dwarves of Thorin, gnomes from Sancrist, richly draped merchant-princes from Tarsis, and even kender delegations from Balifor and Hylo. Tol was surprised to espy six Silvanesti, cool and aloof, following the ragtag kender. There were no centaurs or ogres. Centaurs were too fragmented and nomadic to maintain diplomatic relations, and the ogres were eternal enemies of all humankind.

The emperor reached the center of the plaza, the center of the Inner City. Prince Amaltar and his retinue went down on their knees, and the standard bearer lowered the banner of the empire to Pakin III’s feet.

Now the priests and mages bowed in unison to their host and temporal master. Pakin HI held out his scepter, and the musicians finished their playing with a flourish.

From far across the crowded square, Tol heard the emperor’s voice ring out: “Send forth the high mages of the White and Red Robes!”

Four sorcerers stepped forward, two from each order. One of the White Robes Tol recognized as Yoralyn. Once emperor and wizards met, the crowd edged forward to better view the proceedings. Tol, however, could see nothing but the heads and shoulders around him.

“What’s happening?” he asked.

“The emperor and the high mages are exchanging greetings,” explained Lord Enkian, standing in front of Tol. Though he could see little better, he had been informed how the ceremony would unfold. “Small gifts will be exchanged, then the wizards will bring forth the cornerstone.”

Sure enough, after some polite byplay, the assembled sorcerers parted, and a gang of forty-four muscled laborers crept into view, dragging a sledge bearing an enormous block of stone. The cube was four steps wide on every side, and it was all the workmen could do to ease the monstrous stone forward. Chanting in unison to synchronize their effort, the sledge gang slowly advanced. Pakin III waited, imperturbable, as the cornerstone approached at barely a crawl.

The sun was well over the wall by now, and in the still air Tol was sweltering. Packed shoulder to shoulder, the high and mighty of the empire likewise waited – and sweated.

At last the great stone thudded to a halt before Pakin in. He said words Tol couldn’t hear, and touched the stone with his scepter. Tol sighed inwardly. If they had to stand here until the work gang shifted the stone all the way to the tower site, they’d still be waiting when night fell!

Fortunately, that wasn’t the plan. Having sanctioned the construction of the new Tower of Sorcery, the emperor withdrew to the palace steps. Prince Amaltar followed. The empress and the foreign representatives fell back among the Horse Guards. Pakin HI halted on the steps and once again raised his imperial baton to the wizards.

The high mages were joined by their assistants, and the rest of the Red and White Robes filled in behind them as close as possible. All the mages linked hands. A low, steady murmur filled the plaza, punctuated by the beat of a solitary drum. The chant grew in volume and intensity. Out of nowhere, a cold blast shivered through the Inner City, causing a grateful moan to arise from the sweat-drenched onlookers. Fallen blossoms, now brown around the edges, rose in a whirlwind from the sorcerers’ park.

The stone block rose into the air, hobbling above the sledge like a cork in a basin of water.

Tol’s mouth fell open in shock.

The chanting increased in volume, until it was echoing off the city walls. All the mages now raised their joined hands high, rapidly shouting their incantation. Tol tried to isolate the words, but they were meaningless to him, perhaps another language entirely.

Compelled by the will of twelve hundred sorcerers, the block soared into the air. Courtiers and hardened warriors alike gave vent to their surprise as the stone cube lofted skyward, light as a feather. When it was level with the top of the Inner City’s wall, it paused, hovering.

The elder mages shouted a single sharp syllable. They repeated it slowly, over and over. The cornerstone began tumbling in place. In counterpoint to the elders, the balance of the college of wizards chanted a different spell, just four words which they repeated endlessly. The rotating block drifted in a straight line toward the tower site. It skimmed just over the treetops. When it reached the proper place, the chanting stopped. The white stone block stabilized thirty paces off the ground. Slowly, very slowly, the elders lowered their hands. Following their movement, the cornerstone sank below the treetops. Though it was lost from the sight of those in the plaza, the wizards maintained the gentle descent of their arms. When at last their hands were at their sides again, the block was in place. Four of the eldest sages collapsed, completely drained by the effort.

That was not the end. Yoralyn and the remaining elders came together in a much smaller circle, facing inward. They each thrust their right hand into the middle of the circle until their fingers touched. The drifting cloud of flower petals ceased whirling and began to coalesce at the tower site. A second ring of mages closed in on Yoralyn’s, and then a third. The pastel column of petals formed a cylinder rising from the trees to well above the Inner City wall.

Thunder rolled out of the cloudless sky. A second chin blast swept through the plaza. The assembly gasped as the column of flower petals seemed to solidify into a tower a hundred paces tall, with minarets halfway up its length and a tall, conical roof.

“What theater,” Lord Enkian snorted. “A tower made of cherry blossoms? They’ll have to work in stone if they expect that thing to stand!”

His cynical words jolted Tol, but could not lessen the impact of the enthralling spectacle. Although the grand ceremony was at an end, the magically crafted phantom tower remained, shining white against the clear Hue vault of sky.

Unhurriedly, the emperor re-entered the palace, followed by the crown prince, the empress, princes of the blood, guards, and standard bearer. The foreign ambassadors remained in the square, and as the Horse and Foot guards withdrew, the mass of onlookers flowed together. Tol sensed Lord Enkian moving away to leave and managed to tear his gaze from the cherry-blossom tower.

“My lord, will you be needing me?” he asked the marshal.

“Need you? No, not till tonight for the grand banquet. We are to sit at the crown prince’s table. See to it you are there, on time and without arms! Clear?”

Tol saluted, jostling people in the thick crowd. “I shall be there, my lord.”

He slipped away, anxious to continue his search for Valaran. He saw any number of ladies, lovely and unlovely, dark-haired and blonde, but none was his newfound love. As he was buffeted back and forth by the surging crowd, he despaired. Where was Valaran?

A strong hand grasped his elbow and held on. He tried to see who’d grabbed him, but the unseen stranger twisted his arm so he couldn’t move.

“Don’t struggle,” said a low voice close to his ear. “This is your friend from the quayside.”

The hooded killer from the tavern! “What do you want?”

“Come to the Font of the Blue Phoenix today. You’ll be met.”

“Met by whom?” Tol tried to break the killer’s hold, but failed. “When?” he asked, exasperated.

“You know who, and you know when.”

The iron grip vanished. Tol spun, but the fellow was quick – and lost in the throng of people.

The fellow must have meant Valaran and her customary visit to the fountain four marks before sunset. Yet how could the murderer know of Tol’s rendezvous with Valaran, unless she’d been forced to tell him? Fear and fury filled Tol.

He would keep the date. If Valaran were harmed in any way, the hooded stranger and any who aided him would pay severely This Tol vowed as he remembered his man Gustal, victim of his last encounter with the smooth-voiced killer.

*

All Daltigoth took on a festival air that afternoon. The streets were full of people celebrating the beginning of the new Tower of Sorcery. They gathered in huge crowds outside the Inner City, gazing up at the vast surrogate tower. Most cared not a whit about the magical orders or their progress, but gladly seized upon the ceremonial day as an excuse for revelry. People danced in every street, and wine flowed.

Tol consulted with Narren about his coming meeting. Narren agreed the masked killer was hardly the sort of go-between a gently raised girl like Valaran would use, so the meeting was likely a trap. Narren also agreed Tol had no choice but to go. In the end, his only practical advice was that Tol should wear a mail shirt under his jerkin, to fend off back-stabs and thrown knives.

When the sun dipped into the foothills west of the city, Tol clasped hands with Narren and bade him farewell.

“May the gods go with you,” Narren said. Grinning, he added, “Better yet, may the Dom-shu sisters go with you. They’re the equal of any masked strangers!”

Tol took his leave without comment. He had no intention of involving Miya and Kiya – and risking their lives, too.

The vast palace square was nearly empty when he arrived. The guards at the gate knew him by sight now, and waved him through. In the plaza was a line of head-high iron tripods; each would hold a burning torch after nightfall. The double line of tripods ran from the palace steps to the edge of the wizards’ garden.

Tol entered the west end of the garden, hurrying to reach the fountain on time. To his surprise, he spotted couples strolling along the shadowed paths inside the sorcerers’ sanctuary – courtiers with ladies on their arms. Apparently Yoralyn and her colleagues had opened the grounds to the emperor’s guests for this occasion, suspending their sleep spell.

Tol circled the large fountain quickly. The water in the basin was dotted with windblown flower petals. He rounded the end of the fountain and saw three people ahead, by the brim of the stone-lined pool. Yoralyn, Oropash, and Helbin seemed to be waiting for him; they watched his approach. Tol slowed to a walk.

“Welcome,” the elderly sorceress said. “I regret having to lure you here under false pretenses, but we needed to speak with you, and the matter is sensitive.”

“You sent for me? I thought this involved Valaran – where is she?” Tol said sharply.

“With her family, I assume. Lord Valdid must be consumed with preparations for the banquet tonight.”

Some of Tol’s tension eased. He’d mistaken the hooded messenger’s words. The message had come from the wizards, not Valaran.

“Where is the hooded spy who brought your message?” he asked. “Do you know he murdered one of my men?”

The three mages exchanged looks of concern.

“He’s merely a courier. I am sorry if he caused trouble,” Yoralyn said with apparent sincerity. “He’s useful, but volatile and dangerous when cornered, I admit. Perhaps your man unnecessarily provoked him? In any event, we asked you here for a good reason – so we could return Morthur’s ring to you.”

Helbin stepped forward to offer Tol the sapphire ring, saying, “It’s harmless now. Its power has been dispelled.”

Tol put the ring in his belt pouch. Angry at the casual dismissal of Gustal’s death, he gave the mages a quick nod and moved to leave.

“Wait.”

Yoralyn, suddenly bereft of her all-knowing air, said, “Master Tol, we must admit we cannot determine why you are immune to magical influence. It’s most perplexing to us. Will you stay a while – that we might ask you some questions?”

“Be brief,” he said curtly.

“Have you always been immune to magic?” asked Oropash.

Tol tersely related his encounter with Morthur at the family farm. “Since that first time, I’ve not felt any magic,” he finished.

“Have you undergone any ritual or treatment, or drunk a potion?” Oropash said, sounding desperate.

“No.”

“Were you ever given an amulet or artifact?” Yoralyn asked. “Of any sort, no matter how small?”

“No.” As soon as the word was out of his mouth, Tol remembered the Irda relic. “Well, maybe,” he amended. “I found this, years ago, in some ruins overlooking the Caer River.”

He dug into his belt pouch and produced the small circlet of braided metal and black glass. All three sorcerers looked thunderstruck.

“Merciful Mishas!” Oropash exclaimed, his pink face growing redder. “Is that —?”

“It is,” said Helbin, nodding gravely.

Tol said, “I was told it was a relic of the Irda, but no one in Juramona knew just what it was.” He held it out to them. They shrank from the artifact as from a deadly snake.

“It’s called a millstone,” Yoralyn said, pale blue eyes fastened on the small circlet. Her voice fell to little more than a whisper. “I’ve seen drawings of them in very ancient palimpsests. They were made by the Irda to protect their temples and palaces from malefic forces, like dragons and angry gods. Nullstones absorb magical power. They consume it, as a starving man devours food.”

Shrugging, Tol put the millstone away. “So I guess that explains my immunity.”

“Young man, what you possess is very dangerous! I advise you to get rid of it!” Oropash said.

Tol folded his arms. “Seems a very useful thing to me.”

“Listen to me, Master Tol!” said Yoralyn. “Long, long ago, in the time the bards call the Age of Dreams, the mighty Irda flourished in a power and glory that not even the empire of Ergoth can match. Created by the Dragonqueen herself, they feared neither mortal being nor god. To protect themselves against the powers of Light and Neutrality, they made these millstones – some as large as the Imperial Palace! Thousands of small ones, like yours, were used in every building the Irda erected. Most have been lost or destroyed in the terrible wars since the Irda fell. I am ninety and five years old, and this is the first I’ve ever seen.”

Yoralyn paused to draw a deep breath, staring into Tol’s eyes. “Do you understand?” she asked. “Nullstones are extremely rare now and, because of what they can do, much sought after by those few who know their power. The emperor himself does not possess such an artifact! There are forces abroad in the world who would level an entire city to obtain an Irda millstone. If it becomes known you have one, you’ll be hunted and hounded to your death, along with everyone you care about!”

Her words hung in the air, sharp as daggers. Tol was amazed to think he’d been carrying such a thing for two years, unrecognized, in his pouch. It certainly explained his odd immunity to magic, as well as his inability to make Morthur’s. Ring work for him. But should he get rid of it now, when he’d only just learned of its power?

“Can it be destroyed?” he finally asked.

“Smashing or melting it should do it. Nullstone metal is not as hard as ordinary iron, and the band’s power resides not in the metal itself, but in the wholeness of shape and the spells laid on it in construction,” Helbin said.

There was silence again as Tol pondered this information.

“Yes, destroy it,” Yoralyn said, reading the uncertainty in his face. “It will be the death of you if you don’t.”

He bowed to them. “I will take care of it. Will you pledge to keep this a secret among us?”

She put out her bony hand, and Oropash and Helbin clasped it. “We swear not to speak of this to anyone else,” Yoralyn intoned. The two men echoed her oath.

Tol saw the torches in the plaza had been lit, as twilight had fallen. With hasty politeness, he took his leave. “My thanks for all your advice and wisdom. I must go. The crown prince expects me to dine at his table tonight.”

When Tol had departed, Oropash rubbed his sweating palms together. “Will he do it?”

Yoralyn said, “No, I do not think so.”

“He’ll suffer then,” Helbin said darkly.

“Yes, he will.” Yoralyn glanced at the towers of the Imperial Palace, jutting above the darkening trees. “But if that young man manages to keep his artifact a secret, he will transcend his suffering, and one day he may sit upon the throne of Ergoth.”

“Tol has no such ambitions,” scoffed a voice from the deep shadows. A black-garbed figure moved out from the trees. He wore a close-fitting hood.

“Why are you lurking there?” Yoralyn demanded angrily.

“You asked me to come, lady,” the hooded man replied.

“What do you know of Master Tol or his ambitions?” asked Oropash contemptuously.

The masked man put a hand to the back of his neck and untied the string there. With a flourish, he whipped off his hood, revealing ebon skin and closely trimmed curly hair. “Tol and I were boys together in Juramona. We were friends once. I know him as well as anyone.”

Yoralyn’s hand gripped her staff tightly. “Crake, is it true – did you kill in our service?” she said, voice grating harshly.

“A necessary act, lady.”

“Necessary!” Oropash’s round face reflected his obvious disgust.

Crake looked from the horrified face of one mage to another, and he shrugged. “I did it to preserve the secret of our relationship.”

“I made a mistake to hire you,” Yoralyn said. “You are released from our service. Never come here again!”

She departed with haste. Oropash followed her, but Helbin lingered.

“You say you were once a friend of Tol’s, yet you’re willing to fight him, kill him, perhaps. Why so, Crake?”

“That’s my business. I didn’t become what I am by giving away advantages,” Crake said.

“What are you? A soulless spy? A mercenary?”

“We all must live as the gods decide.”

Helbin gave up trying to understand. Shaking his head, he followed his compatriots.

The sky had darkened to dusk. Crake watched the stars emerge for a moment, then brought his attention earthward again, looking the way Tol had taken only moments before.

No, his old friend was not ambitious. But Crake himself certainly was.

*

Tol strode along the pebbled path, his thoughts racing in many directions. The fear that something might have happened to Valaran had ordered his thoughts at last. He would declare his love to her, tonight. He would find her father and ask permission to wed her. As for the Irda nullstone, he would not destroy it. No, it would be his secret forever. Only a few people back in Juramona even knew he had it: Egrin and Felryn hadn’t recognized it, and no one else had seen it, not even Narren.

A shadow slid out of the shrubbery ahead. It ghosted to the middle of the path, blocking his way.

Neither moon was up yet, but by faint starlight Tol could see that the person wore a cloth hood, completely covering his head. Immediately, Tol drew his saber.

“Very good,” stated the hooded man. “You never were one for useless banter.”

“This time you won’t get away so easily. I owe a debt to the man you killed.”

“Old, forgotten history. We have new business, you and I. The artifact, please.”

He held out his hand. Tol swung his blade at it, but cut only air.

“Betraying your masters now?” asked Tol, inching closer.

“I live by what I know,” the fellow replied. His hand dropped, then rose again gripping a long thin dagger, like the one he’d used on Gustal. “I’d rather not have to use this. Give it over.”

“Never!” Tol cried, lunging.

The man twisted out of reach of Tol’s blade, then flipped his dagger at Tol’s face. Tol batted it away with his sword hilt. By the time he recovered his stance, however, the black-garbed killer had melted into the darkness.

Tol cut a swath through the air in a complete circle, striking nothing.

“Would you really skewer me, Tol?”

He stiffened.

The killer emerged from the shadows to one side of Tol. He tossed the hood at Tol’s feet, lifting his face to the feeble starlight.

“Crake?” It came out as a gasp. “By Corij, I thought I recognized your voice – is it really you?”

“Been a long time, Tol,” he said with heavy irony.

Tol’s head reeled. “So you’ve become an assassin?”

Crake’s dark eyes narrowed. “Not an assassin – a man of work. Your soldier friend shouldn’t have laid hands on me.”

Tol shouted, “Gustal was drunk! You could have brushed him aside! You killed him for nothing, Crake!”

“We’re not boys anymore, Tol, and Daltigoth isn’t Juramona.” Crake shot back with equal heat. For a moment Crake’s eyes grew distant, as memories flickered there. He presented the point of another dagger.

“Last chance,” he said. “Give over the millstone.”

Tol couldn’t believe he was facing Crake with a sword in his hand. Crake and Narren were his oldest friends, starting from the very day he arrived in Juramona. When Crake fled town under a cloud for having killed a man at the tavern, Tol never doubted it had been done in self-defense. Now, two years later, the man facing him seemed an utter stranger. A deadly, intent stranger.

“I won’t hand it over,” Tol said tersely. “Not while I live.”

In answer, Crake flung a dagger. Caught unaware, Tol couldn’t even get his sword up in time to deflect the knife. It thudded hard against his breastbone, but no blood appeared. The dagger fell to the gravel with a metallic clang. His mail shirt had saved him.

Tol brought his saber down in a long, wide cut. Crake fell back with a grunt, a diagonal slash on his chest. Blood welled from a shallow wound.

Tol had no time to celebrate. Crake commenced a whirling, two-handed attack, a long dagger in each fist. Tol parried shakily, then gave ground to avoid the flashing blades.

By now he was off the garden path, on the dewy grass. Crake stopped his windmill attack and came on, daggers held low.

They traded cuts and parries, Crake’s lightning moves against Tol’s strength and longer blade. Still, the young soldier was forced to retreat.

But Tol had a second blade, too. Breaking contact just long enough to step back a few paces, he drew Amaltar’s gift dagger with his left hand.

“You’re good,” said Crake, voice steady. He wasn’t even winded. “I thought you’d have given it up by now.”

“Foot soldiers must stand and fight. Can’t outrun horses, you know.”

Crake’s hands came up and he threw both daggers at the same time. Tol knocked down the one whizzing at his face, but couldn’t prevent the other from burying itself in his left thigh. Crake drew another dagger, advanced a step, then stopped, dumbfounded.

Tol showed no signs of going down. In fact, while holding his saber at full extension, he grasped the handle of the dagger and yanked it from his leg.

Crake folded his arms, tapping the point of his last dagger against his chin. “I see this task calls for more iron,” he said. “Another time.”

“No,” Tol said through gritted teeth. “One of us will not leave this garden alive!”

Crake shrugged, turned, and ran. Tol pursued, leg wound or no. Blood sluiced down his injured leg, staining the grass. By sheer force of will, he kept up with the fleeing man. Crake knew of the millstone. He couldn’t be allowed to escape with that knowledge.

Unnerved by Tol’s implacable pursuit, Crake erred. He blundered into the torchlit plaza. Several hundred guests of the emperor had gathered there before the banquet. They looked on in astonishment as the black-clad Crake, bleeding from a long cut on his chest, entered the circle of firelight.

Guards came running. Crake tried to double back into the shadowy garden, and there was Tol. More consternation broke out when Tol appeared, sword and dagger in hand. Not knowing who was who, guards swarmed out of the barrack by the main gate. They swiftly ringed both men. Hundreds of swords were drawn.

“Keep off!” Crake yelled. “Out of my way!”

He drove straight at Tol, his thin dagger piercing Tol’s forearm. Tol hardly felt it go in, but his hand immediately went slack. His saber clattered to the mosaic.

Tol threw himself backward, pulling his arm off Crake’s blade. Again, his childhood friend was amazed at Tol’s stamina. Switching to an overhand grip, he darted in, aiming for Tol’s throat.

Imperial guards were closing in. One shouted, “It’s Tol of Juramona!” and the rest voiced shock that the crown prince’s favorite was dueling at the very steps of the Imperial Palace.

Tol struck with Prince Amaltar’s dagger. The broad blade caught Crake’s thin one, and Tol used his superior strength to throw Crake back.

“Hey, Juramona! Have this!”

A sword came winging through the air. Tol snatched it with his right hand, forcing his weak fingers to close on the handle. His attack was awkward because of the injury to his left arm, and Crake skillfully turned the plunging blade aside with his dagger. However, the sword had distracted his attention. With a mighty thrust, Tol buried his own dagger in his opponent’s belly all the way to the burnished brass hilt. Crake gasped as their bodies thudded together.

Eye to eye, they stared at each other for a silent, frozen moment.

“Well done,” Crake gasped, and fell backward, Tol’s blade still in him.

Tol’s leg and his strength failed. He collapsed beside his former friend.

Chapter 15

LONGER NAME, SHORTER LIFE

He awoke in daylight, in a bright sunny room with a ceiling so lofty he could scarcely believe it. He was lying in a big bed between cool linen sheets, naked but for a breechcloth. He felt no pain, but was terribly weak.

The room was enormous. Sunshine poured in through a phalanx of windows four stories high. Other beds lined the walls, but all were empty. Someone close by made a noise, a little cough just loud enough to be heard. Tol slowly turned his head and beheld Valaran, seated in a tall wooden chair alongside his bed. She had an open scroll spread across her lap.

“You’re awake! Good! If you’d slept much longer, I would’ve run out of things to read.” She got up and held a beaker of cool water to his lips. He drank gratefully.

“I can’t believe it,” he said hoarsely. “What is this place?”

“The Hall of Healing, in the palace. How do you feel? Better?”

He allowed he did, and she awarded him one of her smiles. It vanished when she said, “You certainly know how to embarrass a girl!”

His confusion was plain, so she explained. “Last night you were carried into the palace, bleeding profusely. All you could say was ‘Valaran, Valaran,’ over and over. Draymon, commander of the Imperial Guard, sent for me. Father demanded a full explanation!”

He apologized, but she shrugged impishly. “It made for a lively evening. After I told mother and father how I knew you, they heard about the murderer you killed. The story is all over the Inner City.”

Tol said sharply, “Crake’s dead?”

“Yes. The guards were agog over your fatal thrust.”

Tol closed his eyes. He had killed Crake, one of his first friends, the free-spirited flute player whose skill with a bow had saved Tol’s life in the Great Green. The pain that flared in his heart was nearly overwhelming. Although he and Narren were friends, Tol had always been closer to Crake. Shilder were given few days away from training, but during his early days in Juramona, Tol had spent much of his free time with Crake’s family. They had lived in Juramona for four generations. How could he bring them such black news – that their son was not only dead, but had died an assassin, and by Tol’s own hand.

“I’ll let you sleep,” Valaran said, her voice penetrating his misery. She was rolling up a scroll on Silvanesti geography.

“No!” The word came out more harshly than he intended, but above all, he wanted her to stay. She ceased making preparations to leave.

The import of her earlier words suddenly sank in, and he realized an entire day had passed. “I missed the banquet! Prince Amaltar and Lord Enkian will be furious!”

“Well, it was quite an affair,” Val said, “thanks to you. Everyone was talking about you, Tol, even the emperor. The featherheads in the Consorts’ Circle were livid!”

He blinked several times, having trouble keeping up with her rapid changes of subject. “Why?”

“Because a dashing warrior from Juramona swooned on the palace steps, calling my name.”

Although her tone was mocking, she was blushing. Tol gazed at her face, his own misery eased by the light he saw in her eyes.

“I missed you after our excursion into the city,” he finally said. “You didn’t come to the fountain. I thought you were angry with me.”

“Why should I be angry?”

“Because I kissed you.”

“Oh.” She toed the silk slippers from her feet, letting the dainty footwear drop to the floor. She drew her bare feet up beneath herself, a very childlike posture. “I didn’t object, did I?”

He agreed she hadn’t.

“I couldn’t get out of the palace for two days. Father had everyone practicing day and night for the banquet.”

Careful of his injured left thigh, Tol turned on his right side, the better to see her. “Practice for what?”

“Our introduction to the crown prince. My two unmarried sisters and I were formally presented to him at the banquet.”

“But surely you’ve met him before? Seen him around the palace and such?”

Valaran looped fine hair behind one ear. “Of course, but my father has been trying to arrange marriages for us for some time. The crown prince, being crown prince, gets first choice of all eligible ladies.”

“Which one of your sisters did he pick?”

“Me,” she said, smiling. “All the nobles and ladies were talking about your fight, and how you called out for me. I suppose that influenced him. He’s never taken much notice of me before.”

Tol felt as though his wound had been re-opened with a red hot iron. “It can’t be,” he whispered.

“It’s true. I am to marry Crown Prince Amaltar at the next fortuitous conjunction of Solin and the constellation of Mishas.”

Tol sat up abruptly, almost losing his sheet. Pain lanced through his leg. “You can’t! I love you, Val!”

Her breezy manner evaporated. She hugged the geography scroll to herself and looked away. “I can, and I will,” she said. “It’s my duty, to my family and the empire. The crown prince has publicly chosen me. I can’t decline. To do so would ruin my entire family.”

“Don’t you love me?”

Her green eyes returned to his face. “Yes, I suppose I do.”

“Then we’ll leave Daltigoth – leave Ergoth altogether!”

She stood quickly. “No! Aren’t you listening? Can’t your dim provincial mind understand? If I humiliated the crown prince, my father would lose his head, and the rest of my family – mother, brothers and sisters, my nieces and nephews – all would be sold into servitude! Everything we own – land, servants, goods – would be forfeit to the crown. Everything!”

His eyes stung with tears. Closing them, he said, “Isn’t true love worth it?”

For an instant anger flared across her face, but compassion won out. “I’m sorry, Tol. I’m not some country lass who can leave the family farm for your sake.”

Tol wondered how he’d ever thought her too young for him. Just now, she seemed immeasurably older and worldly-wise.

She started to leave, but he caught her wrist and held on. “So you’ll marry the prince. Will you then be empress one day?”

“Oh, no. When Amaltar succeeds to the crown, one of his wives will be designated empress, but I’m not from the first rank of nobility. That’s why my father was so pleased I was chosen. The union will greatly improve our family’s standing at court.”

Tol released her. He could not take it in, could not understand the logic of it. Not only was the girl he loved being taken away, but she was wedding a man with many wives already.

Her cool hand rested on his forehead. “Don’t despair,” she said calmly. “We might still see each other. Amaltar does not love me, nor I him.”

He shivered, whether from anticipation, or fear, he wasn’t certain. “How can we be lovers if you’re married to the heir to the throne of Ergoth?”

Misunderstanding, she hastened to reassure him. “It shouldn’t be too difficult. Ardent Amaltar is not. He’s a cold cipher of a man, who’d rather hatch a scheme than woo a lady. Once we’re married, I doubt I will see him much more than I do now. Oh, I’ll be expected to have his children, but not for a while. We can be together if we’re discreet.”

He didn’t know whether to weep or laugh. Born and raised in the Imperial Palace, Val had lived her entire life surrounded by intrigue, marriages of state, and affairs of convenience. He wondered if she truly loved him, or loved only what he represented – the adventure of being with an outsider, someone rough, notorious, and perhaps dangerous.

Seeing him frown, Valaran put out a hand and touched his cheek. As she looked down at him, green eyes bright and a half-smile on her face, his doubts fled.

If Valaran would have him, he would be there. No other course was possible. She was a wound from which he would never recover.

*

Tol was up and walking in a few days. At first the only patient in the Hall of Healing, he had company from his second day on. A guard injured in a fall, a cook with burned hands, and the ten-year-old dyspeptic son of a courtier soon occupied other beds. They were kept well away from Tol, and they all received visitors. He did not. He was surprised Kiya and Miya did not come to see him, and stricken when Valaran did not return. Not till he was able to walk again did he discover why he’d been left so alone.

He hobbled past the long line of beds to the double doors and managed to swing one open. Barring the way were four of the Inner City Guard, bearing halberds. Politely, Tol was ordered back from the door. When he asked why he couldn’t go out, the corporal said only, “Orders.”

“Am I under arrest?” Tol asked, leaning his weight against the edge of the door and feeling extremely grubby next to the sleek, alert guards.

“Arrested persons go to cells, not the Hall of Healing,” replied the corporal.

Tol decided that meant he wasn’t under arrest. He asked if anyone had come to see him while he slept.

“No one can be admitted to see you.”

Tol was perplexed. “Why not?”

“Orders.”

Exhausted, he gave up. Returning to his bed, and ignoring the petulant complaints of the injured cook, Tol spent a feverish day trying to unravel his confusing situation. Evidently he was in trouble, but for what offense? The killing of Crake, though it weighed heavily on his heart, clearly had been an act of self-defense.

Inevitably his mind returned to Valaran. Betrothed to the crown prince, she was no longer just a girl in the palace, hiding in alcoves or stealing off to gardens to read. Wounded and weak, he’d given his feelings away. Prince Amaltar and Lord Valdid must know all, which would explain why he was being kept isolated.

These mental exertions left him in a sweat, spoiling his rest. Two days after his conversation with the guards, he was hollow-eyed with anxiety. The arrival of Lord Draymon, captain of the Inner City Guard, seemed to confirm his fears his life would soon be over. They must have decided to execute him for presuming to court a high-born lady.

“Arise, Master Tol,” said Draymon. “His Imperial Highness requires your presence.” Tol studied the captain’s face for clues to his fate, but saw only professional indifference.

Two palace valets had come with Draymon, and they laid out a complete set of clothes for Tol – not his usual soldier’s togs, but a handsome ensemble of crisp linen and gray leather, trimmed in imperial red.

“What’s going on?” he asked, keeping his voice even despite his fears.

“Crown Prince Amaltar requires your presence. Be quick. His Highness does not like to be kept waiting.”

Tol pulled off his sick-room shift and dressed. He was unfamiliar with some of the fancier items, but the valets smoothly fitted, buckled, and buttoned him into the outfit. Save for his lank hair, he looked quite the gentleman when they were done. Bypassing the new pouch they’d provided, he tied his old, rain-spotted one, containing the Irda millstone and Morthur Dermount’s sapphire ring, around his waist.

Lord Draymon led the way. Tol’s thigh still gave him a twinge, but he was on the mend, thanks to the skillful ministrations of the clerics of Mishas. They had applied healing poultices to his wound, drawing the soreness out and speeding the healing. Even so, he had trouble keeping up with the long-limbed captain’s stride.

The four soldiers by the door fell in step behind them. The ominous tramp of their booted feet made Tol all the more certain he was going to meet a dire fate. He questioned Draymon again.

“You know what I know,” said the captain. “I am to bring you to the Hall of Audiences.”

The public side of the Imperial Palace was quite spectacular. Everything was constructed on an enormous scale. Ceilings were ten paces high; walls were faced with tapestries or polished marble paneling; and intricate mosaics covered the floors. Lord Draymon conducted Tol through a series of corridors and antechambers before halting before a monumental double door that extended from floor to ceiling.

“Prepare yourself,” he said quietly. Tol’s heart contracted to a hard knot, but he squared his shoulders and thrust his chin out. Come what may, he would not dishonor himself, his mentor Egrin, or the good name of Juramona.

The massive doors swung inward. Draymon and the guards struck their heels together and strode inside in perfect step:

The audience hall was a very long room with a high, arched ceiling. All along Tol’s right were lofty windows, open to the summer air. Light streamed in through the towering arches, softening the harsh bas-relief sculptures of emperors, warriors, and generals, wrought far larger than life size on the facing wall. Like Amaltar’s tent outside Caergoth, the hall was alive with courtiers, favor-seekers, warlords, and foreigners. Loud laughter rang out from the back of the hall, where a group of richly dressed young men were tormenting a hapless servant, pushing him from side to side as he desperately tried not to spill the tray full of goblets he carried. With them, seated on a tall chair by the wall, was Prince Nazramin. In a posture eloquent of arrogance and disdain, he sat with one long leg thrust out, ignoring the inconvenience it posed to all who passed by. At his feet lay a huge mastiff, its coat closely clipped to reveal heavily muscled limbs. Scars on the dog’s chest and front legs showed that he was a fierce battler. Nazramin gave Draymon and Tol a brief sidelong glance, then kicked his dog’s rump. A loud growl erupted from the beast, and its brown eyes followed the two men with a chilling fixity.

A portly little man, not very old but bald as an egg, sidled up to Draymon, bowing.

“Who shall I say has arrived?” he asked in a light, lisping voice.

“Tol of Juramona,” the captain barked as though speaking to raw troops. “We are expected by His Highness!”

The round little man wasn’t at all impressed. “You will wait. I will announce you,” he said, bowing. He scurried away.

Tol asked who the fellow was, and the captain said, “Graybardo, fifth – or maybe sixth – chamberlain to the prince. Vain little weasel …”

Graybardo came hurrying back, quite red in the face. “This way, this way!” he said. “Hurry, please! The prince doesn’t like to be kept waiting!”

The armed guards remained at the door. Draymon unhitched his sword belt and handed it to his corporal, then he and Tol followed on the anxious Graybardo’s heels. They made an imposing pair, cleaving through the crowd like a couple of wolfhounds through a flock of brightly plumed birds.

Prince Amaltar was concluding a conversation as they arrived. Facing him was a delegation of three richly dressed Tarsans, two men flanking a woman. She was tall and raven-haired, wearing a tunic and trews of sky-blue silk. Her face and figure were at odds with the masculine cut of her clothing. Staring at her seductive profile, Tol had the feeling he’d seen her before.

“Gracious prince, those are the wishes of the Syndics,” she was saying, her voice smooth and rich as honey. “May I convey to them your answer?”

“Lady Hanira, decisions this weighty must be considered at length. My imperial father needs to be told of your proposals, and the Council of Companions must be consulted,” Amaltar replied coolly.

The ambassador from Tarsis bowed like a courtly swain. “I shall remain in Daltigoth four days,” she said. “I pray the gods counsel you to an answer before I must depart for home.”

She turned with a flourish and glided away. Onlookers gasped at the woman’s impertinence, turning her back on the crown prince. Her male comrades departed in the proper fashion, backing away, eyes lowered.

As Hanira swept by, Tol remembered her now from the tent at Caergoth – how she had stared so boldly at him. In passing, she did so again, and Tol thought he saw a flicker of recognition in her honey-colored eyes.

With the Tarsan delegation gone, Amaltar beckoned Draymon and Tol forward. He took a silver goblet from a tray borne by a waiting lackey.

“Draymon. Good, I’m glad you’re here. Welcome, Master Tol.” Amaltar suddenly seemed all kindness, but Tol was not relieved by his reception. Too often he’d seen Odovar or Enkian sentence prisoners to death with a smile and a gentle word. Those who exercised power often learned to put a soft face on their harshest rulings.

“That woman!” Amaltar exclaimed, once he’d drunk from the goblet “She has more” — he checked himself — “more nerve than all the men in the Council of Companions.” He set the empty goblet on the tray. The servant promptly whisked it away. “Do you know, she had the impudence to present an ultimatum! To me, crown prince of the Ergoth Empire! We sent a note to the Syndics of Tarsis, complaining about the high taxes they charge on goods they import from the empire. And what do you think their reply was? They’re doubling the tariff again!”

“Will there be war?” asked Draymon carefully.

“We shall see. Many crave war with Tarsis, if only to cleanse their influence from Hylo and the north.” Shifting his attention, the prince said, “You seem to he healing well, Master Tol. Doing better than the other fellow, eh?” Amaltar leaned forward and adopted a confidential tone. “You know,” he added. “My informants tell me this Crake had killed twenty-four opponents single-handed, including ten city guards. Tell me – how were you able to best him, Master Tol?”

Tol found such numbers impossible to credit, but he kept a calm face. “I was lucky, Your Highness. I lost my sword, but someone threw me another.”

The prince shot a glance at Draymon, noting the captain had colored like a handmaiden.

Amaltar smiled. “You’re just the sort of man I need. Skillful and lucky – an unbeatable combination.” He cast about, and not seeing who he wanted, shouted, “Valdid? Where’s Lord Valdid?”

Valaran’s father shouldered through the crowd behind Tol. “Here, Your Highness! I have the casque. I had to hunt all through the imperial stores to find it.”

Under one arm Valdid carried an old wooden box, the corners of which were reinforced with tarnished bronze medallions. He presented the dusty box to Prince Amaltar, who set it on his lap and raised the lid.

“Come forward, Tol of Juramona.”

Tol glanced at Draymon for elucidation. The captain of the guard was staring straight ahead and said nothing. Tol took a step closer to the prince, and was commanded to kneel. He sank to one knee.

Amaltar handed the box to Valdid and rose to his feet. When the crown prince stood, all conversation in the hall died. Tol felt several hundred pairs of curious eyes fixed on the back of his head.

“For outstanding service to the throne of Ergoth, by exposing Silvanesti plots in the Great Green and the capturing the chief of the Dom-shu tribe; for the defeat and death in single combat of the traitor Morthur Dermount, and for ending the career of the arch-criminal known as Crake, I, Amaltar Vorjurn Ackal Ergot, first-born son of His Imperial Majesty Pakin III, do hereby bequeath upon Tol of Juramona the Order of the Silver Saber!”

From the box, Amaltar lifted a heavy silver chain from which hung a thick silver disk. He draped this around Tol’s bowed head.

“I meant to give this to you at the great banquet,” the prince whispered, “but you were having too much fun in the courtyard to attend, eh?” Too stunned to reply, Tol gazed at the heavy silver medallion resting on the breast of his borrowed finery.

Amaltar stood back, and Lord Valdid indicated to Tol he should stand and face the throng. He did, and they broke out in applause.

Lord Draymon stepped forward and offered his hand. They clasped arms like old comrades.

“I thought I was going to be punished!” Tol said over the cheering.

“Just wait,” Draymon said wryly. “You have been!”

Amaltar sat down and called for a commission in the city Horse Guards. A blank parchment was found. Tol’s name was about to be filled in when Valdid stopped the scribe.

“Your Highness,” he said. “Master Tol is of common birth.”

“So? Every bull has the horns his father leaves him.”

“Of course, mighty prince, but the law enacted by Ackal II Dermount states no person of common birth may enter the Horse Guards.”

“Such laws do not apply to me!” Prince Amaltar declared. Valdid maintained his long face.

“They do, gracious Highness. Only the emperor is above the law.”

Murmured commentary among the onlookers increased, much to the crown prince’s annoyance. He stood. “Ridiculous!” he said. “Am I not my father’s co-ruler? Still, if they want the emperor’s hand on this act, they shall have it! Come, Master Tol!”

Above the crown prince’s throne, hanging from gilded ropes, were a series of curtains and tapestries which walled off the rear half of the massive hall from view. Dragging Tol along, and with a frantic Valdid in close pursuit, Amaltar charged through the hanging curtains, swatting them aside.

“Wait, Your Highness! Please, wait!” Valdid called in vain.

Amaltar perused the nest of cords and poles over head, then commanded, “This way!”

Baffled but obedient, Tol stuck close behind him. He found himself in a maze of rising platforms, each no more than a pace deep and separated from its neighbor by a shifting, soft fabric wall. As they climbed layer after layer, the curtains became progressively lighter, more sheer, until finally they were as filmy as clouds.

Tol looked at the ceiling. Below, it had been a good twenty paces away. Now that they had climbed up innumerable platforms inside the maze of hanging curtains, the roof was only half as distant The layers of curtains deadened the noise from the hall below, lending the high platform an eerie, isolated feeling.

Amaltar parted the last gauze curtain to reveal a large and ornate table, long and narrow, with at least fifty high-backed chairs along each of its two long sides. The air was warm and muggy, tinged with the acrid smell of incense.

“Father?” said the crown prince. “Father, it is I.”

Seated in the tallest chair at the end of the table, his back to Amaltar and Tol, was Emperor Pakin III. Tol went to his knees.

“Father?” said Amaltar, gently nudging the figure nodding in the chair. Pakin III stirred.

Tol stole a look. He could hardly credit that the gray-faced old man he saw was the vigorous ruler who’d received the adulation of the crowd in the palace courtyard just days before. His beard was whiter than Tol remembered, his face dry and colorless. He was still a large man, but in the courtyard had seemed powerful and strong. Up close he looked bowed by years and the weight of command.

“What is it?” Pakin said. Amaltar said a few words in the emperor’s ear. Pakin III nodded.

“Come here, boy.”

Tol came round the side of the great table and knelt again.

“Amaltar tells me he wants to give you the Order of the Silver Saber.” Tol held up the heavy medal for the emperor to see. “It is a rare honor. No one has been awarded it since the reign of Ergothas III.”

“I’m really not worthy —” Tol tried to say. Pakin III cut him off.

“Tosh, boy. I’ve heard about you. Thanks to you, I was able to send the insufferable ambassador from Silvanost home with a flea in his ear. That alone was worth the Silver Saber.” A laugh rumbled deep within the emperor’s chest. “Better still, you settled Morthur for us. You’ve already done more for this throne than most of the noble warriors in Daltigoth.

“Amaltar needs a man like you. He’s a thinker, but he’s no warrior. Be his champion. Defend him from the wolves who circle the throne every day, seeking to snatch him from his seat. Will you do that?”

“I will do whatever Your Majesty commands,” Tol said fervently.

“Don’t give yourself too readily, boy. They are plenty of people in this land who will gladly take from you until nothing’s left but skin and bones!”

Pakin III settled back in his chair and folded his hands across his belly. He sighed, a gusty sound of great tiredness.

“To placate Valdid and the snobs in court, I’ll create you a lord of the realm. What is your full name?” the emperor asked.

“Just Tol, Your Majesty.”

“A sound name, but not enough for the velvet-robed nitwits around here.” The emperor closed his red-rimmed eyes briefly. “My ancestor, Ackal Ergot, was a savage who drank blood from the skulls of his enemies. Did you know that?”

Tol shook his head. The emperor laughed, saying, “Now they call him Ackal the Great. He was great, a great savage. It took a ferocious warrior to carve out an empire, and it takes new generations of cunning and bloodthirsty warriors to keep it going. If we don’t defend the empire, someone else will tear it from our hands, a worse savage than I or my son.”

“Father,” Amaltar said, trying to keep the emperor’s mind on his task.

“Yes, yes.” Pakin III extended a hand scarred by many a battle. “There was a warrior, one of Ackal Ergot’s boon companions. Your name starts out like his, so I’ll give you the rest of it.”

Clearing his throat, he said, “Arise, Tolandruth, Lord of the Realm, commander of the Horse Guards, champion of the House of Ackal.”

Tol stood, slowed by his aching leg, and by the full burden of a new name and weighty titles.

“Father,” Amaltar said, “didn’t Ackal the Great cut off Tolandruth’s head?”

“He cut off all his friends’ heads, eventually,” murmured Pakin III. In moments he was asleep again, snoring softly.

Amaltar and Tol departed. They found Valdid lurking outside the innermost ring of curtains. The crown prince relayed the news of Tol’s elevation.

“His Majesty’s will be done,” replied the chamberlain, bowing his head. “But it may not go well for Master Tol – that is, for Lord Tolandruth. The nobles of the empire are proud, Highness. They may not accept a newly made peer born of peasant stock.” Valdid nodded to Tol. “No offense, my lord.”

Tol blinked at the title, but said automatically, “No offense taken.”

The fact was, his head was swimming from his sudden change of fortune. He’d wakened this morning believing it might be his last day of life, and instead he’d been raised to nobility by the hand of the emperor himself, awarded an honor shared by the greatest warriors in the empire’s history, and named to command a prestigious body of fighters. He could scarcely take it all in.

Crown Prince Amaltar presented him to the crowd in the audience hall as Lord Tolandruth, commander of the city Horse Guards. The assembled courtiers and favor-seekers cheered, as was their wont, but Tol wasn’t fooled by their enthusiasm.

There were a few who didn’t bother applauding. Most of the silent ones clustered around Prince Nazramin, Amaltar’s younger brother, loafing at the far end of the hall. Since seeing Prince Nazramin abuse Valdid in the back halls of the palace, Tol had heard many stories of the prince’s monstrous pride and cruelty. The stony silence of Nazramin and his cronies seemed louder than the cheers of the crowd. Valdid’s prediction of Tol’s poor reception was already coming true.

*

Lord Enkian was thunderstruck. Gone was the eighteen-year-old foot soldier he knew, and in his place stood the new commander of the city’s mounted garrison, wearing the ancient Order of the Silver Saber, and Enkian’s own equal, Lord Tolandruth.

“I am bewitched,” Enkian said. “How can this be?”

“If it’s witchcraft, my lord, then the emperor cast the spell,” Tol replied. He was giddy with the ability to bandy words with his once forbidding liege.

The rest of Enkian’s entourage from Juramona stood by, likewise dumbfounded. Relfas asked, “So, you’ll not be coming back with us?”

Tol shook his head, grinning foolishly.

“Fantastic,” said Enkian. “Egrin will not believe it.”

Mention of Tol’s old mentor deflated his elation. What about Egrin? Would he never see him again? He thought fast.

“I have two requests for you, my lord,” he said to Enkian. “I’d like to send a letter to Egrin – will you see he gets it?” The marshal nodded, and Tol added, “I also want to keep some of the Juramona footmen here with me – as many as ten, if that’s all right.”

Enkian shrugged. “Keep them all, if you want,” he said, and Tol ignored the slight against his men.

The Juramona delegation was due to depart in two days. Tol would not begin his duties as commander of the Horse Guards-until the following day. In the short interim, he rounded up the foot soldiers from the canal quarter and told them his news. To his surprise, they already knew.

“The whole city rings with your name,” Narren said. “They say you were ennobled by the emperor’s own hand. Is it true?” Tol admitted it was.

He told them of his plan to keep ten men in Daltigoth as his personal retainers. To a man, they all volunteered. Tol chose Narren, then picked nine more based on special skills or talents they had. Tarthan, Allacath, Wellax, and Frez he chose as the four best spearmen in Juramona; Darpo and Lestan were the bravest and steadiest of the footmen; Fellen, son of a builder, was a skillful field engineer. Valvorn and Sanksa, formerly of the Karad-shu tribe, were gifted scouts and trackers. Only Frez and Tarthan were older than thirty, and all the men were fine warriors.

To the rest of the soldiers he was obliged to bid farewell. “Wherever service to the emperor takes me, I shall always be Tol of Juramona, a foot soldier of the Household Guard.”

The cheers raised for this declaration echoed from the blackened rafters of The Bargeman’s Rest.

After sending Narren off with money to find lodgings for his new retinue, Tol returned to the Inner City. He crossed the open courtyard, pausing before the Riders’ Hall. On a whim, he turned away from the hall and entered the wizards’ garden. It was growing dark among the elms and yew as he made his way to the Font of the Blue Phoenix.

She was there, curled up on the pool ledge. Tol moved silently up behind her, thinking a little scare would do Valaran good.

“Grown men shouldn’t tiptoe. You look silly,” she said, raising her head.

“I thought you were asleep.”

“No. Reading.” The light was so poor she had had her nose pressed to the parchment. “The Confessions of Milgas Kadwar. What nonsense! No one can reach Luin by ladder!” she scoffed.

He didn’t know what she was talking about, and didn’t care. He took her in his arms, lifting her bodily from the low marble wall. Valaran did not resist, nor did she return his ardor.

“You always have one thing on your mind,” she said.

“You inspire me,” he replied. He entwined his fingers in her thick brown hair and tried to kiss her, but she dodged him.

“We must be careful, Tol,” she chided, pulling back. “I’m to wed the crown prince in seven days.”

The words were cold water thrown in his face. “You don’t have to remind me!”

“You must be a man about this.” Valaran tucked her legs underneath and smoothed her robe.

He looked away at the fireflies glittering around them. “If I were a man, I wouldn’t let anyone take you away from me, not even a prince!”

“You’re a noble now, Lord Tolandruth, so start thinking like one. Poor people marry for love; nobles marry for advantage. Don’t confuse the two.”

Even as she said the harshly practical words, she laid her head on his shoulder, and his sullenness vanished. He stroked her smooth cheek.

“I will take a house in the city,” he whispered. “My men will be quartered there. Will you come and see me now and then?”

“What of your wives, the forest women?”

“You know,” he said earnestly, “they’re not really my wives. I’ve never touched them. They’re hostages to the good behavior of the Dom-shu tribe.” Realizing his words made Kiya and Miya sound unimportant, he added, “They’re like sisters to me, big, tough sisters. They take care of me in their own rough way, and they’ll take care of you, too.”

Hand in hand, they walked back toward the square, surrounded by dancing fireflies.

“Will you write a letter for me if I tell you what to say?” Tol asked.

The dimple appeared at the corner of her mouth. “Dismissing a girl back home?”

He told her about his old friend Egrin, warden of Juramona. “He’ll want to know what happened here, and I don’t trust Enkian to give him the straight tale. Egrin is the man who trained me in the art of war – and how to be honorable.”

“Why not send for him?” she said. “Make him one of your retainers. Many lords with less rank than you have twenty or thirty followers. You can afford eleven.”

“He would not come. He’s loyal to his place in Juramona.”

Val sighed. “Men’s loyalties make me tired. I’ll ask Amaltar to make it an order. Will that move your warden?”

“Yes!” he exclaimed, and slipped his arm around her waist. “You’d really ask the prince to assign Egrin to me?”

She stared up at him. “I’d do anything for you.”

In the deep shadow of the west wing of the palace, they kissed and reluctantly parted. Tol waited at the door of the Riders’ Hall, watching as Valaran’s slight figure was slowly engulfed by the darkness of the lane alongside the palace.

He went inside with a smile on his face. He did not notice that two floors above, an unlighted window in the Riders’ Hall silently closed.

Chapter 16

THE BARGAIN

Happiness is sometimes best measured at a distance. Close up, small flaws show more clearly. The three years Tol spent in Daltigoth were like that. During this time, he knew many fears and frustrations. Only later did he realize they were some of the happiest years of his life. In one hand he held the reins of a powerful formation of seasoned fighters; in the other, the slim, warm hand of the girl he loved. The two halves of Tol’s life balanced well, helping him avoid the temptations of power, and giving him the satisfaction of knowing that he was loved – even if his lover was married.

Tol took a large house in the bustling canal district. Two stories high, built of brick and stucco around an open courtyard, it housed his retainers, Kiya and Miya, and a scruffy band of locally hired cooks, washerwomen, valets, and grooms. The highlight of life in Juramona Hall – as the inhabitants dubbed it – was when Egrin arrived to take up residence there. Summoned by Prince Amaltar’s order, Egrin reclaimed his role as Tol’s second father. Officially in charge of training new members of the Horse Guards, the former warden easily commanded the respect of the young guardsmen.

Tol had a somewhat more difficult time with the guardsmen, at least at first. His youth and widely known peasant origins were held against him by the well-born riders. They saw him as a palace favorite thrust upon them for political reasons. Nobles in the guard opposed him in every way short of open defiance. They pretended his provincial accent was unintelligible. Orders and dispositions were conveniently forgotten, drills and exercises ignored or performed in such a half-hearted manner their value was lost.

At first he was tolerant. He respected the experience of his subordinates. A warrior of Ergoth began riding a horse not long after he learned to walk. Some of the men under Tol’s command had fifteen or twenty years in the saddle, compared to his scant seven. They felt Tol had nothing to teach them. Fighting was the birthright of an Ergoth warrior, a trait born in their blood, not a trade to be learned like throwing pots, or weaving cloth.

When a few guardsmen “forgot” to stand and salute when Tol entered their hall, however, his tolerance came to an abrupt end. Fourteen of the offenders were demoted in rank and sentenced by Tol to ride around the city’s outer wall, night and day, until they dropped. Failure to obey would have meant immediate execution. A further thirty of the most recalcitrant warriors were taken to the practice field outside Daltigoth for a lesson in unity and soldierly obedience.

It was a mild autumn day, dry and clear. Tol’s ten-man retinue, drawn from the ranks of the old Juramona foot guard, marched into the open field. They carried poles the length and weight of their regulation spears but lacking lethal iron heads. Tol asked his truculent horsemen how many of them it would take to rout the foot soldiers, to break their formation. No one replied until he ordered them to do so.

“Five,” said one sullen warrior, a distant cousin of the House of Ackal.

“Then take four with you and show me.”

“Your men will be killed.”

“My men know how to defend themselves. Do your worst. I want to see if your fighting skills are equal to your arrogance.”

The imperial cousin chose four of his friends, and they galloped away to gain room to charge. At Tol’s nod, Narren marched his men across the dusty field. Yelling like fiends, the horsemen drew sabers and spurred their mounts at the foot soldiers. At twenty paces, Narren’s band of ten made a quick turn to the left and formed a circle, presenting a hedge of blunt poles to the onrushing riders.

Seeing their targets thus arrayed, the riders tried to veer off, but Narren wouldn’t let them. The footmen on the safe side of the formation swung their poles over the shoulders of their comrades, and the foot soldiers charged the horsemen! Taken aback, confused, the riders let them close, and all five were knocked from their saddles.

“Now you understand what trained, determined men on foot can do,” Tol said, moving among the unhorsed men. “We taught ourselves these tactics at Juramona, an outpost on the eastern plain. Imagine what Tarsan mercenaries can do, or the host of the Speaker of the Stars!”

The noble, twice Tol’s age, looked up at his young commander for a moment, then saluted smartly. “Will you show us how to beat trained footmen, my lord?” he asked.

That was the beginning of Tol’s acceptance. Using his own ideas, and the sound lessons he’d learned as Egrin’s shilder, Tol set about creating a new kind of horde. The Horse Guards came first to respect him, then admire him, and finally felt something akin to worship. He transformed them from a dandified street patrol into a true fighting force, a warrior band of brothers.

Not everyone accepted Tol’s leadership. More than twenty well-born warriors left the Horse Guards, openly condemning Tol as a dangerous radical and a military impostor. The disaffected warriors found a champion in Prince Nazramin, who despised the new lord. He rallied the defectors to his personal standard, adding them to his already large private retinue. Riding forth from the prince’s villa in the Old City, the band became known as “Nazramin’s Wolves,” a feared new feature of city life. They beat up courtiers and officials who affronted them, started brawls in taverns, and harassed clerics and sorcerers loyal to Prince Amaltar. More than a few times Tol had to lead a contingent of Horse Guards to arrest a wolf accused of mayhem. The guards usually got their man, but few of Nazramin’s followers were ever punished. The pattern was grimly similar in each case. When the accused malefactor was brought before an imperial magistrate, no one showed up to press the complaint against him. Without the offended party, the magistrate had to release the ruffian.

Such a state of affairs never would have been allowed under a strong emperor, but each passing season made Pakin III’s failing health more apparent. The day-to-day rule of the empire fell heavily on the crown prince, but many in the empire preferred the harsh, warlike Nazramin to his cold, scheming brother. To warlords accustomed to settling matters with a sword, Nazramin was seen as strong, and Amaltar as effete.

Not long after Tol assumed command of the City Horse Guards, Valaran, fourth daughter and youngest child of Lord Valdid and Lady Pernina, became Princess Consort Valaran. The elaborate marriage ceremony marked the longest time she had spent with Amaltar to that point, she told Tol. Once wed, she dined with the prince every third day, played draughts by the fireside on rainy evenings, and occasionally read aloud to him. Such, she told Tol, was the life of a princess consort.

Tol knew he should let that be enough, but he couldn’t. “Has he … known you?”

“The marriage is not legitimate until that happens.” She would have left it there, but he asked her again and she said bluntly, “Amaltar is my husband, Tol.”

That had been early in their relationship, and they had moved beyond such jealousies, beyond the need to pry into each other’s secrets. When the weather was warm and fair, they went together to the Font of the Blue Phoenix, to be alone, to share love. It was the perfect place for them to meet. Outsiders could not breech the spell surrounding the garden, and the sorcerers within kept far away from the Irda nullstone Tol still carried. For three years, their idyll continued, but like all perfect things, it could not last. Forces of ambition and disorder, never defeated, marshaled anew.

*

In the autumn of the tenth year of the reign of Pakin III, war finally broke out between the empire and the city-state of Tarsis. Long-smoldering disputes over tariffs and trading rights in Hylo finally ignited into open conflict when the Tarsan fleet stopped patrolling the southern waters and pirates began to run rampant along the Ergothian coast. Kharland buccaneers, usually restrained by the powerful Tarsan navy, raided the far west coast of Ergoth, seizing captives, burning crops, and plundering villages. Lacking a large fleet, the Ergothians demanded the navy return and suppress the pirates. Tarsis refused.

The western sea raids were a diversion. The merchant-princes of Tarsis hoped to shift Ergoth’s attention westward while they landed a sizable mercenary army in Hylo. The city-state had long entertained designs on the kender kingdom, nominally independent but in fact dominated by Ergoth. A few discreet agents had attempted to foment discord and resentment among the kender, but the chaotic kender proved resistant to Tarsan influence. More direct action was required, so with Ergoth’s attention focused on its ravaged western coast, Tarsis put troops ashore in Hylo Bay. Ignoring the principle towns – which they could capture at their leisure – the Tarsan army marched south to meet the expected Ergothian counterattack.

Twenty-six imperial hordes rode north under Lord Urakan, commander of all imperial armies, to drive the Tarsans from Hylo. Urakan was opposed by two forces. The first was the army of Tarsan mercenaries under an elf general named Tylocost; the other, a collection of plains tribes and other hired barbarians led by the nomad chieftain Krato. Lord Urakan easily drove the plainsmen back over the Thel Mountains, but the left wing of his army was sharply defeated by Tylocost in the river country of eastern Hylo. Lord Urakan struck back by sending nine hordes up the east side of the Thel Mountains, trying to cut off Tylocost from his seaborne supplies. Fighting continued for two years, neither nation gaining the upper hand.

In the spring of Pakin III’s twelfth regnal year, Prince Nazramin and his wolves, reinforced by four additional hordes, joined Lord Urakan’s host. They won a bloody victory over Krato’s plainsmen, utterly destroying a band of nomads in the pay of Tarsis. In the spirit of Ergothian conquerors of old, Nazramin massacred the enemy and sold their families into captivity. The red-haired prince’s reputation rose high as a consequence of his victory. He returned to Daltigoth in triumph, though his only lasting accomplishment was to fill the other plains tribes with hate, driving them into the arms of Tarsis.

Tol saw no fighting in the first part of the war. Still haunted by the death of his uncle Pakin II, Prince Amaltar was more and more consumed by fear of assassination. He would not allow his champion to leave the capital, and Tol chafed at his enforced inactivity. Returning one night after chasing bandits who’d been harassing travelers on the Ackal Path, he poured out his frustrations to Egrin.

“Patience,” the elder warrior counseled. “We are doing honorable service here. How many brigands did we kill this day?”

“But I want to try my men in real battle, against the Tarsans,” Tol said peevishly. “Tylocost is counted the best general in the world. I want to put him to the test!”

“You’ll get your chance. Neither Prince Nazramin nor Lord Urakan is a match for the elf. When the empire needs you, you will be called.”

For a time it seemed his mentor was wrong, and Tol would get no chance to fight. And then, while camped in the forest outside the kender port town of Far-to-go, Lord Urakan’s army was stricken by the Red Wrack, a dreadful plague. Soldiers perfectly hale at sunrise developed a hacking cough and irregular red spots on their skin by midmorning, were crimson from hair to heels by afternoon, and spitting blood by next dawn. Death followed for most in only a day. Sufferers afflicted by the worse forms of the plague would bleed from their ears and eyes before dying, which was why easterners like Tol knew the disease as “the bloodtears.”

Hoping to leave behind whatever miasma was causing the disease, and save the remainder of his army, Lord Urakan abandoned his coastal camp and retreated twenty leagues into Ergothian territory, the Northern Hundred.

The Tarsans fared little better. Taking advantage of Urakan’s withdrawal, Tylocost’s host crossed the bay to attack Hylo city, but were repulsed with heavy loss. Kender reports (never very reliable) told of death on a massive scale, bodies piled high on the beach and in the surf, the waters of Hylo Bay stained red with the blood of ten thousand mercenaries. Problem was, no one, not even the local kender, could say who had inflicted this signal defeat on Tylocost. It wasn’t Urakan’s doing, nor Prince Nazramin’s – he was by this time once again comfortably ensconced in Daltigoth. A third force, as yet unknown, must have joined the fray.

Tol and Egrin were present at a council of war, held in the audience hall of the Imperial Palace, when a delegation of kender arrived in Daltigoth with their account of the Tarsan disaster. Warlords filled the hall to hear the kenders’ tale, and Tol knew the ailing Pakin III listened from his aerie, concealed by the curtains above and behind Amaltar’s throne.

“How large was Tylocost’s army?” asked the prince, perusing the enormous map laid at his feet. Drawn on a single oxhide, the map lapped at the foot of the imperial throne on one side, ran down the dais steps, and ended at the waiting kender on the other.

“Twenty thousand men,” said one kender, wearing a sort of turban made of shiny cloth. It was too large for his head and had obviously been “borrowed” from someone with a bigger skull.

“Thirty thousand, you mean,” corrected the second kender. He was dressed like a plainsman, in buckskin and feathers.

“Where did they land?” the prince demanded.

The turbaned kender crawled onto the map and pointed to a long, wide beach east of Hylo city.

Egrin had been staring at the turbaned kender and now said, “I know you. You came to Juramona a few years back, seeking the help of Lord Odovar against the monster XimXim.”

The kender pushed his drooping turban up, and declared, “Never been there.”

“He’s not that Forry Windseed,” said his buckskin-clad companion. “And I’m not Rufus Wrinklecap.”

Egrin’s eyes narrowed. He was certain he knew better, but only asked, “Could it have been XimXim who attacked Tylocost?”

By navigating a typical fog of kender exaggerations, embroidery, and outright lies, they gradually pieced together the strange tale. When Tylocost had half his army ashore, a thick gray fog blew down the bay, covering the Tarsan ships. Before long, a terrible chorus of shrieks and screams arose from the cloud. The fog turned crimson from all the blood spilled, and disciplined mercenaries threw down their arms and fled. Many boats capsized as panicked soldiers tried to row to safety. Hundreds who had escaped the carnage on the beach ended up drowning.

“Coulda been XimXim, I guess. We found no tracks on the sand – just lots of dead soldiers,” Windseed said, genuinely puzzled. “Never knew ol’ Xim to take on so many at once, though.”

“Something must be done.”

Heavy silence followed this declaration from Crown Prince Amaltar, until Lord Tremond cleared his throat. Once renowned as the handsomest man in the empire, he had become red-nosed and bloated from the soft life of the capital.

“Perhaps Lord Urakan —,” he began.

“Lord Urakan has five thousand men sick, and he’s lost twice that many horses to the plague. I will not ask him to do more.”

“Regobart has mustered eighteen hordes, Your Highness, ready to ride north,” offered Valdid cautiously.

“Lord Regobart’s army is needed to safeguard the eastern border,” the prince replied. “His absence there could bring on an uprising by the forest tribes, or trouble with the Silvanesti.”

More silence. A loud, sneering laugh came from the far end of the hall. The assembled lords slowly turned toward the sound, and Prince Nazramin sauntered out of the dimly lit recesses of the hall. Draped in a black pantherskin mantle, his armor clinked with each footfall. Having recently returned from the war in the north, his normally long hair was still cropped, his curled mustache clipped, to fit his closed helmet. The contrast between his flaming hair and black attire was striking. He gripped a large pewter flagon in one hand.

“Such brave men!” he said in a loud voice. “Heroes one and all! Won’t anyone here visit the little kender and see what’s amiss?”

Tol opened his mouth to speak, but Egrin restrained him. When Tol shot him an inquiring look, the warden shook his head briefly and mouthed one word: Beware!

“Will you go, brother?” asked Amaltar.

“If my liege sends me, I will go.” There was no respect in the words, only sarcasm. “I have piled up two thousand heads for the empire, and filled the workhouses with five thousand slaves. Still, if the emperor my father needs me again, I shall go.”

He lifted the heavy cup to his lips and drank, his hand trembling ever so slightly.

“Of course,” he went on, “I’ll need a new army. There are plenty of salon soldiers and polished peasants in Daltigoth to fill out the ranks of a new horde, aren’t there?”

Gasps echoed in the audience hall, and several warlords muttered angrily at the slander spoken against them. Many eyes glanced Tol’s way. He broke Egrin’s hold on his arm and stepped forward.

“Don’t,” Egrin warned in an undertone. “He’s baiting you.”

“And I’m taking the bait” Tol faced the crown prince and saluted, bringing his heels together with a loud clank. In a voice meant to carry, he said, “Your Highness, I volunteer to go.”

Amaltar shook his head. “No, Lord Tolandruth. I cannot spare you. Your place is here.”

“Guarding the imperial bedchamber,” Nazramin sneered. “My brother cannot sleep otherwise.”

“Be silent!” the crown prince snapped. “Comport yourself like a prince, not a drunken oaf, or I’ll have you removed!”

Nazramin’s brown eyes glittered. “As you will.”

“Your Highness,” Tol said, “the Horse Guards can remain in Daltigoth. With the kender as guides, I can reconnoiter Hylo with foot soldiers.”

Even Tol’s allies among the warlords chuckled at that.

Tol folded his arms and declared, “Give me three hundred men and I will comb Hylo from end to end. If the monster XimXim is there, I will discover him and destroy him. If he’s not there, I will find out what attacked Tylocost and determine if it is a threat to the empire.” He smiled briefly. “Who knows, I may find an ally in Hylo, and not a monster.”

From laughter, the hall now filled with contentious words. Amaltar called for quiet, and Valdid rapped the mosaic floor with his staff until the warlords reined in their tongues.

The crown prince sat back on his throne, rubbing a finger across his clean-shaven chin. “What do you say, Mistress Yoralyn?” he asked.

Seated far to the side, the head of the White Robes in Daltigoth could not address a council of war unless spoken to by the prince or emperor. Having been given leave, though, she now said firmly, “Put your trust in Lord Tolandruth, Your Highness. He will succeed.” Nazramin snorted into his pewter mug.

“We’ll go with Lord Tolandruth,” offered the turbaned kender, who was not Forry Windseed.

The wrangling threatened to resume, but a tall, gaunt figure emerged from the curtains behind the throne, silencing all arguments.

Although no longer the vigorous warrior of earlier decades, Emperor Pakin III still commanded the deep respect of his subjects. Everyone knelt, even Nazramin. Pakin III looked them over calmly.

“My, how you all talk. Too much talk will be the death of us,” he said. “The council is over. Amaltar, send Lord Tolandruth. Give him what he wants and let him go to Hylo.”

Amaltar stood, clapping his heels together in salute to his liege. “It shall be done! Lord Tolandruth will be given his pick of three hundred soldiers, and all the supplies he needs. The kender will show him the way. He will take orders directly from the throne. Let it be so recorded.”

The emperor shuffled back up the dais toward the curtains. The legion of scribes seated below the prince’s dais made the proper notations. Egrin shook his head at his former shilder. Prince Nazramin looked triumphant.

*

Once he was alone with Tol in the courtyard of the Inner City, Egrin gave vent to his misgivings. “Prince Nazramin maneuvered you into this,” he said. “He wants you out of Daltigoth. He’ll do anything to ensure your mission fails.”

“Then I’d better not fail.”

As the vexed Egrin headed off to return to Juramona House, Tol remained behind. He wanted to make an offering to Mishas in the garden temple, he said, to ask the goddess to watch over him on his journey.

Over his shoulder, Egrin said, “Give her my good wishes also.” And Tol was left to wonder at the import of his words.

When he reached the grove surrounding the College of Sorcery, Tol paused. The last light of the setting sun illuminated the Tower of Sorcery. The structure had reached a height of twenty paces, a massive octagon of stone encased by a rising web of scaffolding, overtopping the trees. Above the line of dense stone, the phantom tower remained, shimmering and translucent. The magical double of the tower, formed of cherry blossoms from the natural life-forces present in the college and garden, glowed shell-pink in the sunset. At night it shone white and solid, like a brilliant lamp.

Progress on the tower had been slow, for work proceeded in daylight only. At night the sorcerers activated their wall of sleep to keep intruders out. They had enlarged their spell to encompass the entire garden, even the Font of the Blue Phoenix. Of course, the barrier had no effect on Tol, protected as he was by the Irda millstone. He’d threaded a strong copper chain through a small gap between the smoky glass and the braided circlet, allowing him to wear the millstone on his left wrist.

Valaran had felt the metal on Tol’s wrist and knew he had a talisman there, but she asked about it only once. He told her knowing the secret could end her life, and so she did not ask again.

When the sun was fully set and he was certain he was unobserved, Tol called her name softly. She stepped out from a niche in the wall. Wrapped in a dark gray cloak, she seemed a part of the warm twilight. He held out his arm, and she rested her hand lightly on his wrist. Together they walked unfazed through the invisible barrier of sleep.

The fever of their early days together, stoked by their mutual fear of discovery, had mellowed with time. They now passed some nights in conversation, even in scholarship, as Valaran enlarged on the rudimentary reading and writing skills Tol had acquired in Juramona.

This evening, Tol wasn’t thinking of books. He hadn’t seen Valaran for three nights. As soon as they were safe, deep in the enchanted garden by the fountain, he pulled her into his arms.

“Poor lad,” she said, teasing. “You’ve missed me, have you?”

“I always miss you. And I’ll miss you more still. The emperor has ordered me to go to Hylo and find out who defeated a Tarsan army there.”

Valaran kissed him ardently. “I can ask Amaltar to keep you here —”

“No! You don’t understand – I asked to go.”

“You want to fight?”

Tol sat on the low wall that encircled the fountain pool. He pulled Valaran down beside him.

“I’m tired of chasing footpads through back alleys and brawling with Nazramin’s thugs!” he said. “A warrior must fight, else he’s just an over-dressed fool in an iron hat.”

Valaran trailed her hand in the cool water, causing the reflected stars to shatter and shimmer. She looked up from the moonlit basin and regarded him seriously. “You must obey the emperor’s will, as I must. But it will be terrible, being apart from you.”

She leaned toward him and pressed her fist against his chin, saying sternly, “If you get yourself maimed, I’ll never forgive you. Killed, however, is acceptable. I’ll grieve most ardently, then find another lover. But I can’t bear the sight of cripples.”

Feigning shock, Tol twined his fingers in her long, soft hair and gently drew her head back. “You are a heartless woman,” he said.

“I am.”

“You admit it?”

“Certainly. I gave my heart to a peasant boy long ago. He keeps it still.”

They read no books that night.

*

Valaran lifted the hem of her skirt to keep it out of the dust as she hurried across the plaza to the palace. She entered through the stifling hot kitchens, quiet now that no meal was expected until breakfast. In a small room beyond the kitchens, she found Kiya and Miya. They sat at a table, heads resting on their arms, asleep. Her arrival woke Kiya, the lighter sleeper.

“Ah, it’s you, Princess,” Kiya muttered. “Is your visit done?”

“Done. Thank you again for helping Tol and me.”

The oft-repeated words were like a ritual among them. The Dom-shu sisters were part of Valaran’s deception. Anyone in the crown prince’s suite who went looking for the princess would be told she was with Kiya and Miya, collecting information about their forest tribe for a book she planned to write.

Kiya re-tied the thong that held back her long blond hair. “Don’t mention it. What’s a wife for, but to help her husband meet his lover?”

Kicking her sister’s ankle, Kiya said sharply, “Miya! The market’s open! Go buy us some venison!”

“No more’n three silver pieces apiece,” murmured the sleeper.

Val laughed softly, but Kiya rolled her eyes. “She’s always been like this. Our mother used to pinch her nose shut just to wake her.”

“Why don’t you do that now?”

“Same reason Mama stopped doing it: Miya punches hard!”

Kiya hauled Miya to her feet, and hoisted her over one shoulder. Valaran led her through the empty kitchens.

Outside in the fresh air, the princess said, “Tol is going away, to Hylo.”

“We heard. News moves like the wind in this pile of stone.”

“Will you be going with him?”

Kiya yawned. “I think so. Do us good to get out of the city for awhile.”

“I envy you. You get to go with him. I must stay here.”

The towering Dom-shu woman patted Valaran on the shoulder, and the princess said, “Take care of him. Bring him back to me.”

“He doesn’t need much care. But we’ll watch his back, Miya and me.”

With the inert Miya over her shoulder, Kiya strode off. Some distance away, she stopped and dumped her sister unceremoniously on the ground. Miya awoke, flailing her fists. After an exchange of familial insults, the women walked away together. Valaran could hear them sniping at each other long after the night had wrapped them in darkness.

She re-entered the palace. She needed no candle to light her way through the echoing, darkened corridors. So familiar was every inch of the sprawling palace, she could have run to her room blindfolded and never touched a wall or piece of furniture.

In the crown prince’s suite, she ascended the stairs. As she turned off the landing, headed for her own rooms, someone stepped out of an alcove and seized her by the arm. A cry of alarm formed in her throat, but a large gloved hand covered her mouth, stifling it.

“Quiet, lady, if you please. You’re in no danger. It’s your brother, Nazramin.”

Heart hammering, Valaran nodded her head to show she understood. His hand came away from her mouth.

She jerked her arm free, and said icily, “Brother by marriage. What is the meaning of this rude imposition?”

“Nothing of import, lady I wanted to inquire after your health. Cavorting outdoors at night can be hazardous. All sorts of nasty vapors lie in wait for the unwary.”

Valaran had mastered her surprise at his sudden appearance. “Speak plainly, sir, or do not hinder me further!”

“Fine. Hear me, Princess Betrayer: You deceive my brother with a peasant upstart!”

Alarmed anew, she drew back a step. Nazramin advanced the same distance. He was taller than his half-brother Amaltar, and more strongly built.

“Mind what you say,” she snapped, eyes narrowing. “I am not some serving wench you can bully into submission!”

Nazramin came closer. “You and that farm boy are lovers, and have been for years.”

“Spare me your dirty insinuations. I know the penalty for infidelity.” Under Ergothian law such petty treason was punishable by burial alive. Haughtily, Valaran added, “Would I risk disgrace and death for any man? Now stand aside and let me pass!” He advanced on her until she was pressed against him. She stared up at her tormenter not with fear but stubbornness and contempt. Nazramin rested his hand on the wall, just over her shoulder, and smiled.

“Princess, I have informants everywhere. I’ve known about you and the peasant from the first. Days, places, how long you were together – would you like to see the catalog of specific infidelities I’ve compiled?”

Valaran regarded him without any change of expression, yet inside she was quaking, her heart hammering against her ribs. She didn’t doubt for a moment Nazramin had her and Tol dead to rights. He could have denounced them already, but he hadn’t, which meant he wanted something other than their destruction.

After only a moment’s pause, she spoke, and was proud that her voice still sounded cool and steady.

“What do you want?” she asked. “Gold? You’re richer than my entire family. Power? You’re second in line to the throne, with all the privileges and none of the responsibilities my husband has to bear. What more does a serpent like you crave?”

He smiled, a flash of teeth behind his red mustache. His breath smelled of stale beer. “I’m not here to avenge my dear brother’s honor,” he admitted. “I’m more interested in having an informant in his innermost circle.”

Now she was confused. “Amaltar tells me nothing —”

“Not your husband’s circle, lady, your swain’s.”

Fury rose up in Val’s breast and she cried, “I’ll not betray Tol!”

“Mishas bless you, lady, of course you won’t!” he said, chuckling. “And if I wanted to hurt him, I would simply reveal what I know to the prince. So please do continue your dalliance with Lord Tol. All I want from you is a record of his plans and movements – plus any letters he writes to you. Share that with me, and I won’t ruin you both.”

“Lord Tol” was a deliberate insult, but Valaran hadn’t heard it. She was busy turning over in her mind how to escape Nazramin’s suffocating coils. In spite of her outward show of bravery, she knew her fate was in the prince’s grasping hands. He would certainly be believed, especially if he had specific information about her activities. For what she’d done, there was no clemency. Amaltar could not spare her even if her wanted to. She’d he entombed alive in the palace wall, and Tol would lose his head. But if all Nazramin wanted was information about the Hylo campaign —?

He read her thoughts in the frown of concentration on her face. His look of triumph infuriated her all the more.

“There may not be any letters! He’ll be much too busy to bother writing me,” she snapped.

“Not write to his beloved? What country swain would fail in such a pleasant duty?”

Nazramin put his hand to her throat. Valaran immediately knocked it away and ducked under his outstretched arm. The prince’s low voice carried to her as she hurried up the wide stairway.

“You cannot refuse me, Princess Betrayer. My eyes and ears are everywhere. I’ll know when every letter arrives. Try to hide them from me, and I’ll tell a pretty tale to my brother and father.”

Valaran lifted her skirt high and ran the rest of the way to her rooms. Nazramin’s deep chuckle followed on her heels, terrifying, inescapable.

Chapter 17

HELPFUL STRANGER

Without fuss or fanfare, Tol’s expedition departed Daltigoth at dawn. They passed through the Old City and out the main north gate, known as the Dermount Portal, for Emperor Ackal II Dermount was entombed there directly under the gate. As an old man, he’d prepared for one last campaign against his lifelong enemies, the Wak-shu tribe. Moments after declaring he would return victorious or be buried where he fell, he dropped dead from his horse as he rode out the north gate of his own capital. His loyal retainers honored his word and buried the doughty old warrior exactly where he died.

For the first time, Tol led his three hundred men from horseback, riding Cloud, a fine dappled-gray stallion and the son of his old mount Smoke. Egrin had brought the horse with him from Juramona.

The bulk of the men given to Tol were city guardsmen, hired commoners like the foot guards he’d once led in Juramona. They were tough and competent fighters, but few had seen any campaigning outside the city. Some had never been out of Daltigoth in their lives. To guide and instruct them in foot soldier tactics, Tol appointed each man of his personal retinue, as well as Egrin, to command a company of thirty men. Each commander was also mounted.

Unlike a typical Ergothian army, Tol’s demi-horde boasted no cumbersome baggage train. Each man carried ten days’ supplies, his arms, and a bedroll. If more was needed, they would have to forage. Once his band left the imperial road, Tol wanted the soldiers to be able to move fast, unencumbered by slow-moving wagons or gaggles of camp followers.

Kiya and Miya walked with the soldiers. Horses weren’t used in their dense forest homeland, and both women disliked the animals. They trusted their own two feet to get them where they needed to go.

Flanked by Egrin and Narren, Tol surveyed his men as they marched past. Alongside him as well were the two kender mounted on their own ponies. Forry was still clad in fringed buckskin, but Rufus had exchanged his oversized turban for a pointed cap with a sweeping plume as long as Tol’s arm. Both cap and feather were a startling shade of yellow-green.

Tol found his eyes drawn away from his passing troops to the walls of the Inner City, tinted rose by the rising sun. It was ridiculous to think he might spot Valaran on the palace battlements from this distance, but he cherished the hope.

Leaving Daltigoth behind, the demi-horde marched due north, along the unfinished Kanira Path. This broad paved road, begun by the Empress Kanira over one hundred years ago, was supposed to connect Daltigoth with Hylo by way of a new city, Kaniragoth. Neither road nor city was ever completed, however. Sixteen years after deposing her husband, Emperor Mordirin, Kanira was in turn overthrown and imprisoned by Ergothas II, a fine ruler much revered in the provinces. Kanira’s extravagant building schemes were quietly forgotten, and the erstwhile empress finished out her life imprisoned on a rocky pinnacle overlooking Sancrist Bay.

The distance from Daltigoth to Hylo was ninety-three leagues. At a foot soldiers’ pace, it would be an eighteen-day journey, and even without the paved road, this early part of their trip would have been an easy one. The land north of Daltigoth was all flat floodplain, watered by several tributaries of the Dalti. On both sides of the elevated Kanira Path enormous fields of green wheat and barley stretched to the horizon. Walnut and burltop trees lined the road as well. Planted by Kanira’s builders, they were lofty, mature giants now.

Raised in hill country, Tol found the utterly flat, ordered vista and open bowl of sky a revelation. All day he gazed ahead as clouds built from small, white streaks on the afternoon’s eastern horizon into vast towers of vapor by evening. The open terrain allowed them to view some spectacular sunsets, but offered little respite from the torrential downpours.

Leaving the river bottoms behind, they entered the wooded foothills of the mountain range that encircled Daltigoth on the south, west, and north. A dozen leagues from the capital, the paved road ended, and the Kanira Path shrank from four wagons wide to a scant two. Trees and thick undergrowth encroached on the edges of the old road. Decades of freezing and thawing had crisscrossed it with ruts and exposed tree roots. This was still the chief land route to Hylo, but these days most heavy trade goods went by sea. Only peddlers, pilgrims, and plunderers used the old track. For their part, the Dom-shu sisters were happy to be done with stone under their feet. They joyfully discarded their city sandals and resumed going barefoot.

In five days, they reached the mountains proper. Camping below the ridge that evening, Tol continued the letter to Valaran he’d begun his first night away from Daltigoth. As a result of her tutelage, writing was less difficult for him than it once had been, but he still found it a tedious chore. However, he was determined to include a letter to Val with the regular dispatches. That he would send off before they crossed the mountains in the morning. When dawn arrived, he would give the courier two silver crowns to deliver the sealed and folded parchment to Draymon, captain of the Inner City Guard. And Draymon in turn would pass it to a trusted servant, who would leave it in a certain alcove in the palace from which Valaran would retrieve it. The precautions seemed clumsy to Tol, but the safety of his lover was worth any amount of trouble.

Once they crested the ridge, the great western plain of the Western Hundred lay before Tol and his men. Removed from the direct influence of Daltigoth, it was a patchwork of rugged frontier towns, vineyards, and vast herds of cattle. The natural abundance of the land made it easy for them to buy victuals along the way.

On the evening of the sixth day, they reached Ropunt, the forest of central Ergoth. Nowhere near as forbidding as the Great Green, Ropunt was riddled with logging trails and dotted with woodcutters’ camps.

Even so, Tol halted his men at the edge of the wood. Though there was plenty of daylight left, the forest was silent. No axes thudded into tree trunks, no shouts rang out warning of falling trees. When the Dom-shu sisters scouted ahead and saw no one at work, Tol ordered his soldiers to take up a defensive position in a field of scattered boulders. They were a long way from the coast, but Kharland pirates were known to make land raids now and then.

Preparing to ride forth with Narren, Egrin, and the two kender, Tol left Darpo in command. A steady, imperturbable warrior, Darpo had served for a time on a merchant ship. The scar that bisected his left eyebrow and ran down to his left ear was the result of that service; a line had snapped, whipping across the deck and lashing his face.

Tol’s small party proceeded down a crude logging road, listening hard and watching for signs of trouble. Their kender guides had not passed this way before; they explained that they had come through a little further north.

A quarter-league along the logging trail they found a clearing. At its center sat a blockhouse, a stout, two-story log structure surrounded by a shoulder-high stockade of sharpened timbers. The upper story overhung the lower and was pierced with narrow window slits. No door was visible in the lower level. A thin ribbon of smoke oozed from the center of the roof.

Around the blockhouse, cut logs were piled, ready for shipment south. Axes and adzes lay about, many with blades pointing dangerously skyward. Egrin examined several blades. Bare metal rusted in a day, sometimes even quicker if it rained. These tools were still shiny; they hadn’t been idle long.

Tol rode straight to the stockade gate. When he was twenty paces away, someone inside the blockhouse lofted an arrow at him from a window slit in the upper story. The missile stuck, quivering, in the dirt ahead of his horse.

“Who goes there?” called a muffled voice.

“We’re from Daltigoth, on imperial business.”

“Daltigoth? Then what are them kender doing with you?”

“They’re our guides.”

After a short delay, a trapdoor opened in the upper story. Five women and four children emerged.

“Our men went to cut oak two days ago and never come back,” explained a rawboned redhead who gave her name as Shancy. She held a stout bow with an arrow nocked. “All the game in the woods has been scared off, so we’ve had no meat for eight days. There’s plague about, too, so we can’t be too careful.”

“What sort of plague?”

“The Red Wrack.”

This was the same sickness that had eroded Lord Urakan’s army, and its dreaded name caused the kender to shift uneasily on their mounts. Although usually fearless when it came to confronting danger, kender had a dread of disease.

“Anyone sick here?” Tol asked. The women and children shook their heads.

Shancy said their men had gone northwest, to log a shallow valley. The Oaken Bowl, as it was known, was filled with some of the oldest oak trees in the forest.

Tol had Egrin get the names of the missing men and sent Narren back to fetch the rest of the demi-horde. Before long, they came marching down the trail.

“We’ll camp here tonight,” Tol announced. He set sentries to walk a line fifty paces from the blockhouse, and another line to patrol twenty-five paces in from them.

A garden of woolen bedrolls blossomed around the squat blockhouse. Campfires were built, and the men ate their rations under a dazzling aerial river of stars. For soldiers accustomed to walls, roofs, and the lights of the capital, the open blackness of the clearing was unsettling. Wolves howled in the distance. Owls, foxes, crickets, and other creatures of the night made their own noises. The Juramona men moved among the restless city soldiers, calming them with jokes.

Narren returned to the fire where Tol and Egrin were seated with Kiya, Miya, and the former Karad-shu in Tol’s retinue, Valvorn and Sanksa.

“The kender are gone,” he announced, and held up two kender-sized bedrolls. “They stuffed these with leaves and straw.” He wondered aloud why the kender would run away. Did they know something the Ergothians didn’t?

“Rotten little peckerwoods!” said Miya. “I always said you can’t trust short people.” Tol had to smile. Almost everyone present was shorter than the Dom-shu women.

“What do we do without our guides?” Narren asked.

“Push on,” Tol replied. To Kiya and Miya: “Will you scout ahead with Valvorn and Sanksa? We need to know what’s in front of us as we go along.”

“These woods smell bad,” said Miya, “but I’ll go if Sister does.”

“I’d rather scout ahead than walk behind these filthy horses. I had to wash my feet four times today,” Kiya said.

Sentinels were posted, and the camp settled into a watchful rest. Tol sat with his back against an elm stump, bare saber on his lap.

*

His eyes snapped open. Tol listened, wondering what had interrupted his doze.

A pre-dawn mist filled the clearing. All seemed normal, save a fetid smell, like decaying leather, which hung in the air.

Sword in hand, he stood up. “Narren! Egrin! On your feet!”

The men did not respond. Tol shook them, and they rolled limply under his hand. Both men still breathed, but would not wake.

Cursing silently, Tol ran along the circle of sleeping soldiers, trying to rouse them. He had no luck. Realizing it must be magic, he cast about for Miya and Kiya, but the women were gone, as were Sanksa and Valvorn. He wondered if they’d departed on their scouting mission before this unnatural lethargy had claimed the rest of his command.

Horses, tied to a picket line, snorted and pawed the ground. Tol was relieved. At least they were awake, unlike the animals stricken by the power of Morthur’s ring. He freed Cloud and mounted.

On the north side of the clearing, dark shapes were moving through the fog. There were eight or ten of them, strung out in a line. Whoever they were, they were armed. The clatter of metal and squeak of tanned leather was unmistakable.

On horseback, Tol could see over the low mist. He slid his shield onto his left arm and seated his helmet on his head. The clearing was a mess of tree stumps, limbs, and sawdust, all waiting to snag an unwary foot or hoof, so he rode with care.

Twenty paces beyond his insensible troops, Tol raised his saber and called out, “Halt! In the name of Pakin III, emperor of Ergoth!”

The prowling figures did halt – then dived down into the thick mist. The sound of twigs snapping revealed the figures were drawing closer, creeping toward him.

He sheathed his sword and drew one of the two spears from the quiver on his saddle. Cloud chivvied and pranced. Trained from birth as a war-horse, he was not usually skittish. Now he flared his nostrils, unhappy with the strange noises and odors assailing him. Tol tried to steady him, but the animal churned in small circles, stirring the thick mist.

All at once a figure leaped up out of the fog. In one hand wielding a broad, curved sword, he was completely covered in strange gray-green armor made of small, jointed plates. Hissing, he chopped at Tol.

Cloud sidestepped, and Tol thrust hard with his long spear. It struck his armored antagonist in the chest, and the iron tip went in. To his shock, Tol realized the green scales weren’t painted armor, but the creature’s own skin!

Yowling in pain, the nightmarish apparition jumped back and swiped at the spear. Answering its cry, more scaly foes erupted from the fog.

Tol rapped his heels against Cloud’s sides, and the charger lunged forward. Bending low, Tol drove the bloodied spear into the injured creature’s gut. Dark fluid welled from the fresh wound.

Grasping the spear with webbed claws, the creature tried to unseat Tol by yanking on the weapon. Tol let go in time. The impaled creature fell heavily to the ground and was swallowed by the fog. Tol whipped a second spear out and turned to face his other scaly opponents.

They were armed with a mix of weapons – falchions, battle-axes, and even a morning-star flail. Tol held them off with his longer-reaching spear, jabbing at their faces and chests. One of the creatures dodged a little too slowly, and the iron head of Tol’s spear raked over its shoulder. The monster let out a tremendous hiss while simultaneously spreading a wide, leathery frill that had been furled around its neck. The frill of skin filled with blood, turning bright scarlet.

The sight was too much for Cloud. The terrified horse began to rear and buck.

Tol dropped his spear and clutched at the reins, but to no avail. With a clang, he landed on his back in the mist. Cloud cantered away, eyes rolling wildly.

Shaken by the fall, Tol could hear his enemies padding toward him through the fog. He rolled onto one knee and started to draw his saber, then thought better of it. They couldn’t see him under the veil of vapor, but the scrape of iron would give him away. Quietly he took out his war dagger, kept in a suede sheath under his left arm. Two spans of cold iron would have to do.

Sweeping the mist in front of him with his flail, the nearest creature grunted and squawked to his comrades. Tol heard the studded flail swish over his head. He sprang forward, driving his dagger between the creature’s ribs. He aim must have been true, because his hand and arm were promptly drenched with blood. Gravely wounded though it was, the creature cracked Tol on the jaw with the handle of his flail. Tol reeled to the ground and spit out two of his back teeth. His strength spent, the creature collapsed with no more than a grunt.

Up close, the monsters were even more fearsome. Two paces tall, they were built like well-muscled humans, but their faces and scales spoiled any human resemblance. Dish-like eyes with vertical pupils, slit nostrils and thin gashes of mouths, and small ear holes made the creatures resemble oversized lizards rather than men.

Another lizard-man came pounding out of the mist, sword upraised. Tol flung the dead creature’s flail at him, then stood, reaching for the pommel of his saber. He got it out just in time to parry his foe’s powerful overhand attack. Tol’s hand stung from the force of the blow. When he forced the lizard-man back with a riposte, he saw his iron blade was deeply nicked.

The sun was up now, brightening the sky, but the encircling trees kept the clearing in shadow. The remaining creatures closed in. Tol traded cuts with two of them, then three. Parrying a chop, he thrust home, his saber biting hard flesh. Hissing, the monster spun away, clutching its armpit. Tol followed, impaling his wounded opponent through the back. It had enough life left to backslash at Tol, the heavy falchion scoring a line of hot blood from Tol’s ear to his chin.

Tol gasped, feeling like a blazing brand had been pressed to his face. He drew back, wiping blood from his jaw. Shock quickly gave way to deep fury. They would pay for this!

He faced seven lizard-men now. The surviving foes surrounded him.

Parrying overhand, he twisted to his left and slashed sideways at one, burying his battered blade in the creature’s ribs. Fighting with his dagger in his left hand, Tol fended off another pair of axe-wielding monsters. The shield on his arm slowed him, so he slung it off.

“Juramona!” he cried, in case there was anyone who could rally to his side. “Juramona!”

No one came to his aid. His only hope was to end the battle sooner rather than later, before the lizards wore him down.

The fourth lizard-man succumbed to a feint with the saber, followed by a close-in thrust of the dagger into its belly. Tol made sure of his kill, finishing his dagger thrust with a hard twist. Spine severed, the lizard-man went down and did not twitch.

A tremendous blow caught Tol on the side of the head. The iron helmet saved his skull, but he went sprawling in the mist, stunned. Fortunately, the sun had finally topped the tree line. As it shone down on the fog in the clearing, it reflected enough light to make the mist seem opaque. Flat on his belly below the surface, Tol was momentarily invisible.

He finally shook off the blow and hauled himself up to a crouch. He could see the legs of his enemies as they prowled the fog for him. With a bow he could have picked them off easily, but he had no bow. Instead, he located the spear he had dropped.

The ground around him was littered with stumps and tree limbs. With the butt end of the spear braced against a stump, he raised the point to waist height and supported it with a forked hardwood branch.

Rising suddenly out of the fog, he shouted, “Scaleface! Here I am!”

They came at him helter-skelter. Tol leaped sideways onto a stump. The blade of an axe snagged his tunic, and he whacked the passing lizard-man on the back of his blunt head. A second attacker spitted himself neatly on the spear, running full tilt into the iron tip hidden by the fog. He howled and fell, thrashing out his life as the mist at last began to thin.

Panting and aching from his accumulated hurts, Tol was still outnumbered five to one, though one of the lizards was staggering from Tol’s blow to his head. Spying a gleam of metal at his feet, Tol took up a lizard-man’s axe. He used it to block the sword of one of his charging foes, then brought his saber down in full swing on his opponent’s bare shoulder. Split from neck nearly to breastbone, the lizard-man fell back screeching, tripping his oncoming comrades. Tol backed away, whirling the axe in wide circles to clear fighting room.

Shaken by the skill of the lone warrior, the remaining lizard-men turned tail. Grateful to see the last of them, Tol let them go.

The mist was almost clear when he staggered to his camp. All around the blockhouse his men were stirring, blinking in the sunshine, coughing from their long sleep on the damp ground. Tol found Egrin standing on shaky legs, clinging to the iron tripod over the cold campfire.

“My lord!” Egrin said. “How do you come to be hurt?”

Tol related the story of his morning battle as Narren and the rest pulled themselves together. Egrin professed shame at having slept through his commander’s struggle.

“It’s no fault of yours,” Tol answered. “You all were laid low by a spell of some kind, a magical mist that made you sleep like the dead.”

Darpo and Narren cleaned their commander’s wounds, applying pungent salve to the long cut on his face. When they were done, Tol led them to where the fallen lizard-men lay. Egrin’s strained face paled further.

“Bakali!” he said. “Draco Paladin preserve us! There haven’t been bakali in the empire since Pakin Zan conquered their last stronghold in the Western Hundred a century ago!”

Tol stood over one of the slain creatures. He’d heard tales of the bakali. It was said that during the Great Dragon War, fought a century before Ackal Ergot founded the empire, a swarm of bakali had appeared in the east, doing the bidding of an alliance of evil dragons. They invaded the Silvanesti realm, inflicting many casualties. The elves used magic to defeat them, but the spells went out of control. In the resulting chaos, thousands died in earthquakes and lightning storms that lasted days at a stretch. Later, isolated colonies of bakali were discovered in the west, where they’d fled to escape the power that had overcome their dragon masters. The early emperors crusaded long and hard against the bakali, finally wiping them out, as Egrin said, during the reign of the vigorous usurper, Pakin Zan.

Narren asked Tol why he hadn’t been affected by the unnatural sleep. Unwilling to reveal the existence of his Irda artifact, Tol shrugged off the question, saying that since he’d slept sitting up, the soporific vapors must not have reached him.

As he told the others of the disappearance of Kiya, Miya, and the Karad-shu men, Tol realized Egrin was still coughing, as were fully half his men. The magical sleep had dissipated with the fog, but the coughing persisted. Oddly, the older warrior’s face was no longer pale, and small red blotches had begun to appear all over his skin. Narren and the others were showing the same strange coloration on face and hands.

Shancy emerged from the blockhouse to fetch a pail of water. When she saw the stricken Ergothians, she gasped, covering her mouth with the hem of her apron.

“The Red Wrack!” she cried, retreating.

Tol felt the pit of his stomach fall away. His men had the plague! Since they’d not encountered any contagion directly, he realized it must be spread by the fog. Neither he nor Egrin could believe the bakali clever enough in sorcery to manufacture the mist themselves, which meant a wizard must be involved.

Five bakali lay lifeless in the clearing, the final wisps of fog clinging to their bodies. The city guardsmen looked over the slain lizard-men and regarded their commander with new respect. Tol brushed aside their admiration.

Shancy and the other woodcutter women were terrified by the sight of the dead lizard-men. They wondered if their men had met the same fate the bakali had obviously intended for Tol’s troop. Tol promised them he would look out for their missing loggers as his troop made its way north.

The soldiers’ coughing was growing worse, and many complained of severe headaches. Although they were obviously suffering, Tol ordered them to prepare to move on. They had to find the missing scouts.

*

They headed deeper into the wood. Although they called periodically to their missing comrades, their cries attracted no answers. Stealth was out of the question anyway, what with half the men or more coughing ceaselessly. The tiny red splotches were growing, covering the men’s faces with a crimson stain. The Red Wrack was upon them, and Tol didn’t know what to do. Lord Urakan’s army was served by an entire train of healers, yet they were said to have barely held out against the disease.

He contrived to touch both Narren and Egrin with the Irda nullstone, thinking its power might transfer, but their symptoms did not abate.

Tarthan and the thirty men under his command had been farther from the clearing than the rest and seemed less affected by the plague mist. Tol sent them ahead as a vanguard. Before midday Tarthan sent back word they’d found a recent trail.

When the main body caught up with Tarthan, Tol found the warrior standing in a dry creekbed that wound through the woods. A grim expression on his dark face, Tarthan pointed to several bare footprints, surrounded by three-toed bakali prints.

Tol knew those long, narrow footprints. One of the Dom-shu sisters had been abducted by the lizard-men.

Taking the lead himself, he drove his men relentlessly onward. The tracks continued, following the old stream bed.

Near dusk, they found Sanksa and Kiya hiding in a tree. With happy shouts, the two swung down, and for the first time in their “marriage,” Kiya threw her arms around Tol and embraced him with real ardor.

“I knew you would come!” she said. “Hurry! They have Miya!”

As they moved out, Kiya explained that she, her sister, and the two men had risen well before dawn and gone out to reconnoiter as planned. When the mist first formed, they climbed trees to see over the fog. Then the bakali appeared. Communicating by hand signals, the scouts decided Valvorn and Miya would warn Tol, while Kiya and Sanksa stayed aloft to keep an eye on the lizard-men. Once Miya and Valvorn were in the fog, they lost consciousness, however, and the bakali fell on them. Valvorn was slain immediately and Miya taken captive. Sanksa and Kiya had been following the lizard-men all day. Tol had caught up with them as they rested briefly in the treetops.

“Miya is in their camp, two hills away,” explained Sanksa. The plainsman’s copper-colored face was grim. “I counted twenty-eight lizard-men.”

Tol drew his saber. “Let’s rush them!”

“Wait,” Egrin said, struggling to draw breath. “Why not work around the camp and take them one by one?”

“There’s no time. Besides, the way everyone’s coughing, the bakali will surely hear us coming.”

Tol sent Tarthan’s healthy men straight on, while four companies under Narren, Wellax, Allacath, and Lestan followed as closely as they could. Egrin’s band would swing wide on the right, while Frez’s men took the left. The remainder, under steady Darpo, would wait in reserve, moving up where and when the situation warranted.

Tol followed Tarthan’s men through the widely spaced trees. Light was failing fast, and he didn’t want the bakali to elude them in the coming darkness.

From the top of the hill, they plunged down the slope, slipping and falling in the loose leaves. Deaf oldsters could have heard them coming, and as they advanced up the facing slope arrows flickered through the trees. A few men were hit, and the first wave of Ergothians faltered.

Rallying his men, Tol hacked through a wall of briars and kept going. Arrows thudded into trees and turf around him. Gasping and coughing, but still slogging forward, Narren’s company topped the hill and started down behind Tarthan’s. Tol heard crashing in the underbrush, punctuated by hacking and wheezing, and knew Egrin’s men were on their way as well. He saw the dark silhouettes of several bakali as they stepped out from behind trees to loose their missiles. More of his men toppled, arrows in their chests.

“Long live the emperor!” shouted Tarthan, raising his sword high.

The soldiers answered in ragged fashion and charged uphill the last twenty paces. Confidently, the small group of bakali waited, thinking the line of sharpened stakes around their camp would halt the humans, who could then be punished by a rain of arrows. Tol reached the stakes first, and wormed between them without much trouble. The lizard-men had bungled. They had spaced their stakes to stop enemies as bulky as themselves, not such slender humans.

The bakali were poorly equipped with plundered weapons. Although they fought tenaciously, by the time Egrin’s men closed in from the opposite side, the lizard-men were all dead. Tol searched the camp for Miya, finding her under a flimsy lean-to of willow leaves and moss. She was staked out on the ground, hands and feet bound with thick rawhide straps. Tol was shocked to see her at first because she’d been stripped of her clothing and her skin was covered with bloody red streaks.

“Husband!” she shouted. “Glad to see you. Get me loose, will you?”

Egrin and Narren arrived at the lean-to, and Miya managed a surprising yelp of modesty. Startled, the two men withdrew.

Tol sawed at her bonds with his dagger. “What happened? Did they hurt you?”

“Nay, I’m not harmed.” She stared in the direction where Narren and Egrin had come and gone, making sure they did not return.

“What are all these marks?” He rubbed a finger down her arm. The red streaks smeared at his touch.

She explained the bakali had been in the process of marking her for butchering when Tol and his men arrived.

“These lizards eat humans!” she said. “Lucky for me, they like certain cuts better than others. They took too long, arguing over who would get what part of me.”

The image she conjured up was horrible, but Tol found himself grinning with her.

“What part did they consider the choicest?” he asked, thinking thigh or calf, but Miya pinched the ball of her left thumb.

“Two of the lizards were going to fight to the death over who got this part of my hands,” she said with a shrug.

Miya recovered her discarded clothing, using a scrap of hide to scrub away the bakali’s butcher marks.

Tol said, “I’m glad you’re well. Kiya would never forgive me if anything happened to you.”

“Huh! She stayed safe in a tree. Next time, she gets to run from lizards.”

Shouts from the bakali camp sent Tol dashing out of the lean-to. Tarthan was waving to him.

“We found another prisoner, my lord,” Tarthan called.

Tol followed him into a crude bark hut, expecting to find one of the woodcutters. It was dark inside, but he could see a man sitting in the dirt, legs crossed.

“Someone bring me a light,” Tol said.

“No need,” said the stranger. “I have one.”

A glowing yellow ball formed, hovering over the stranger’s outstretched hand. By its light, Tol saw that the man was somewhere past thirty years of age, with thinning brown hair and a high forehead. He wore a belted gray robe, striped on the sleeve and hem in blue satin. The linen was much-mended, yet the garment was still far too fine for the forest. His fleshy face was drawn and haggard, the countenance of one accustomed to easy living, but who hadn’t experienced much lately.

He uncrossed his legs, standing awkwardly. “I am Mandes,” he said, pronouncing his name as though it were recognizable and important. “At your service, sir. And to whom do I owe my deliverance?”

“I am Tolandruth of Juramona.”

“Ergothian, aren’t you?” Tol nodded. Mandes gave a slight bow, saying, “Thank you for rescuing me, my lord. I thought my days were truly numbered!”

In response to Tol’s original call for light, Allacath arrived, bearing a blazing brand. Kiya and Narren were close on his heels. Mandes drew his outstretched fingers together, and the globe of light he had created flared and died.

“How long have you been a prisoner of the lizard-men?” Tol asked.

“Many days. I’ve not eaten in so long. Can you spare a crust or two?” Narren gave Mandes what rations he had on him. The former captive devoured the stale bread and smoked beef strips.

They left the tiny hut, Mandes wincing with every step. He had large, soft feet, and was obviously unused to being barefoot. He looked around the camp, counting the dead bakali.

“Five are missing,” he said.

Tol waved a hand. “Don’t worry. They’re all dead. I killed the others this morning.”

Mandes’s thin brows arched. “You? Alone?”

“Yes. My warriors were paralyzed by a sorcerous mist.”

“And you weren’t affected?”

Tol let the question fade, as the answer was obvious. He was watching the reunion of the Dom-shu sisters. Kiya and Miya did little more than grunt and nod at each other, but he could tell they were delighted to be together again.

The bakali camp yielded little else of value – a handful of coins, a woman’s silver torque, and a hodgepodge of weapons, most in poor condition. Tol set a party of his healthiest soldiers to work building a pyre for the lizard-men’s bodies. There was enough disease abroad in the land without adding rotting corpses to the mix. Six men in Tol’s band had died in the fight, and they would be buried more traditionally, as befitted Ergothian warriors.

Tol sat on a log while this activity whirled around him. He had a quiet word with Narren and Egrin and they herded Mandes over to him.

“Tell us your tale, wizard,” Tol said, poking a small fire on the ground in front of him. “Who are you, and how did you get here?”

Mandes drew a deep breath, throwing out his chest and striking a pose. “I am from Tarsis, as my manner of speech no doubt told you,” he began. “I was once a respected exponent of the theurgical arts in the city of my birth. That changed, however, as the guilds took over, forcing independent practitioners like myself to conform or face summary punishment.”

“Guilds? You mean the White and Red Robes?” said Tol.

“Yes! May they stew forever in the belly of Chaos! I, Mandes the skillful, Mandes the learned, was hounded to join the Order of the Red Robes. I refused.”

“So they ran you out of town?”

Mandes’s proud posture deflated, the firelight playing over his dejected expression. “Aias, yes. I fled one step ahead of their ghostly enforcers, vile wraiths raised to steal my wits as punishment for defying their orders!” He stamped his foot, grimacing when his heel struck a sharp stone. “The guilds would reduce the noble art of magic to a trade, with apprentices, journeymen, and masters who decide who can practice and where. Mandes the proud, Mandes the free, will not submit to such coercion!”

“Hmm.” Tol flexed his fingers, nicked and scarred from the day’s battles. “What happened after you left Tarsis?”

“My self-imposed exile was precipitous,” Mandes said, face flushing. “I departed without food or proper clothing. I wandered the countryside for many, many days, coming at last to the shores of the sea. There I chanced upon a Kharland trader stranded on a bar. In exchange for my help freeing their vessel, they conveyed me to their destination.”

“Ergoth?”

The sorcerer shook his head. “The Gulf of Hylo. Specifically, a kender town on the eastern shore called Free Point. There I remained for half a year, selling my services to those magically deprived folk. It was a miserable place, I must say. No culture, no real stimulation for a man of intellect like myself.” He grimaced. “That, and the kender stole back almost every fee I collected. I resolved to leave, but the bakali descended on the port before I could do so.”

Mandes described how a fleet of six ships, disguised as merchant vessels, landed bakali warriors on the Free Point waterfront. Before the day was out, the town was theirs. All non-kender were rounded up. Some were killed immediately and eaten by the lizard-men. Others were made to work as slaves. Mandes would have suffered one or the other fate had he not demonstrated his magical talents to the bakali commander.

“What happened to the kender of the town?” asked Tol.

“Oh, a few were caught and killed,” said Manes. “But most got away. Kender have a way of making themselves scarce.”

“Why didn’t you use your spells to escape?” Egrin said.

“I was preparing a conjuration that would have transformed the entire scaly mob into pillars of sawdust, but one of them hit me on the head before I could finish the third incantation —”

“Why did you create the stupefying mist for them?” Tol asked, rising to his feet.

Mandes blinked once, slowly. “If I had not, they would’ve killed me.”

“And the plague that goes with it?”

“The illness is not my doing. I know nothing about it!” the wizard proclaimed, throwing out his chest.

“Can you cure the sickness?”

“I shall do my best for your gallant men,” Mandes said. “After all, you saved me from those awful lizards, and for that I am deeply grateful.”

Tol did not readily trust the mage. He might be nothing more than an innocent prisoner, or he might have been in league with the bakali. Regardless, if he could cure the plague, Tol would use him, trustworthy or not. He appointed four men to watch over Mandes while he prepared a cure for the Red Wrack. Once his men were well, Tol would take the wizard to Lord Urakan, so he could work his cure on the imperial army. After that, Mandes’s fate would lie in Urakan’s hands.

Using an old brass cauldron salvaged from the bakali camp, Mandes made a decoction of roots, bark, and herbs, gathered skillfully despite the dark night. Two sips of the hot potion, and the sick men could immediately breathe freely. In short order their red splotches faded, and their coughs ceased.

The wizard’s swift success only made Tol more suspicious. How would Mandes know exactly how to cure the illness unless he’d created it in the first place? It was enough to make Tol extremely wary of the wayward sorcerer.

Tol had doses of the cure sent back to the blockhouse for the woodcutters and their families. The same two riders were charged with carrying to Daltigoth Tol’s report on the bakali and the plague, as well as another missive to Valaran.

When they were ready to move, Tol had Mandes placed on a horse and led the animal himself, so he could keep an eye on the strange fellow. Lord Urakan was camped above the headwaters of the West Caer River, twenty-two leagues away. Tol tried not think of how many Ergothian soldiers might die of the Red Wrack in the five days it would take for them to reach the camp.

Chapter 18

ALLY OR MONSTER

The sprawling imperial army camp looked more like a shanty town than a military encampment. The pall of smoke which hung over the site was visible five leagues away. Twenty thousand men, plus at least as many traders, sutlers, and camp followers, had carved out a blight on the once-pristine grassland. Intermittent bouts of heavy rain had drenched the great army of Ergoth, which was now sinking ignobly into a lake of mud. The camp was too large to protect with the usual stockade, so the hodge-podge of tents and shacks were surrounded by a deep, muddy trench. An appalling odor permeated the scene – the combined stench of disease, death, and the manure of horses, cattle, and chickens.

Afraid to expose his men to Urakan’s tainted hordes, Tol left them outside the vast, ill-favored camp and rode in with only Egrin, Narren, and Mandes. Kegs of the sorcerer’s curative potion were slung on the backs of four sturdy horses.

On the journey from Ropunt, Mandes had proved an entertaining, garrulous fellow. There was no doubt he was clever, and when he wasn’t being blindingly arrogant, he was fascinating company. He knew all the gossip of Tarsis (at least up to the time he fled), and he entertained Tol and his comrades with colorful accounts of life in the wealthy port city.

The sentries they encountered were listless and gray-faced. More than the Red Wrack was plaguing Urakan’s army, the men reported. Ague and flux were rampant. The sentries themselves were so weak they could barely stand.

Outside Lord Urakan’s tent, Tol and Egrin dismounted, leaving Narren to watch Mandes and the kegs. They entered and found Urakan at his table, alone, with his head in his hands.

“My lord?”

Urakan looked up. The arrogant, iron-limbed general Tol had known in Daltigoth was gone. In his place sat a tired, dispirited man, his beard starting to go white.

“Lord Tolandruth! And Egrin, Raemel’s son, isn’t it?” he said hoarsely. He stood, propped up by his hands on the table. “By the gods, I never thought to see you here!”

They clasped arms all around. “I had word from Prince Amaltar you were on your way north, but he didn’t say you were coming to see me,” Urakan added, somewhat plaintively.

“This wasn’t part of my original mission,” Tol replied. He described their encounter with the bakali and the subsequent capture of Mandes. Tol expected the old warrior to demand the sorcerer’s head for aiding the lizard-men, but the instant Urakan heard the word “cure,” that’s all he cared to know.

“I’m burying fifty men a day,” he said, eyes dark with pain. “Is there enough potion for the entire army?”

“If there isn’t, Mandes will make more,” Tol vowed.

Lord Urakan received the first dose, then the kegs were sent to the great tent serving as the temple of healing, with instructions to the priests and priestesses of Mishas as to how to administer the potion. Word of the cure quickly spread, and hundreds of warriors and camp followers dragged themselves painfully to the healers’ tent. Once the distribution was well underway, Tol had Mandes brought before Lord Urakan.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” asked Urakan gravely.

Not the least intimidated, the wizard launched into his tale. When he reached his enslavement by the bakali, the general interrupted him.

“Did you make this plague people call the Red Wrack?” Urakan demanded.

“No, my lord. It has always existed. I did give the bakali chief, Mithzok, certain magical perfumes and unguents, compounded into large balls of resin. When burned, the resulting fumes created a soporific veil of fog, which only sunlight could disperse.”

“The plague, wizard. How did it get into the mist?” Tol interjected sharply.

Mandes lifted his hands in a gesture of ignorance. “Forgive me, lords, but is it proven the Red Wrack was a component of the mist? It did strike Lord Tolandruth’s men right after the fog arose, but the sickness has long lurked in this land.” The sorcerer folded his hands across his belly and furrowed his high brow. “It could be a conjuration made by the bakali, my lords. They have knowledge of poisons and sickness spells. Mayhap one of their shamans joined a coughing spell to my fog-making incense.”

They cross-examined the wizard for a long time, trying to trick him into admitting he had created the plague for the bakali. But Mandes deftly avoided every trap laid for him and steadfastly maintained his innocence.

“Very well,” Lord Urakan said finally. “I accept your story. Under duress, you helped the lizards. You are forgiven that weakness. Today you’ve done a greater service to us by curing the Red Wrack. So you are free to go.”

“My lord!” Tol protested.

“What would you have me do, Tolandruth?” Urakan asked, a hint of the old arrogance coloring his voice. “I have a war to pursue. Thirty days we’ve lingered in this stinking morass, while Tylocost and the Tarsan army have overrun eastern Hylo. When my men are fit to fight again, I intend to retake the province. I don’t want to worry about this wizard.”

“What of Tylocost’s defeat? Whoever destroyed half his army may still be at large in the western part of the country,” Egrin observed.

“Could it have been the bakali?”

“Possibly, but I doubt it, my lord. Tylocost’s defeat took place well before the bakali are known to have arrived,” said Tol.

“Solving that enigma is your task. Mine’s defeating Tylocost.” Urakan’s strength was returning, and he plainly burned to come to grips with the elusive elf general.

Mandes cleared his throat. “May I speak, gracious lords?” At Urakan’s nod he said, “If there is some unknown force at work in Hylo, Lord Tolandruth may need help dealing with it – sorcerous help. I am willing to offer my services.”

Tol folded his arms and said, “That might be wise.”

Even Mandes was surprised at the easy acceptance. “I’m honored by your trust, my lord,” he murmured.

“Don’t be. We don’t know what we’ll be facing up there. It may be the monster XimXim or more bakali. Who knows? Maybe there’s a dragon loose in Hylo. Feel up to tangling with a dragon, Master Mandes?”

The wizard crossed his arms, insolently imitating Tol’s pose. “My lord, what you can face, I can face.”

For several heartbeats they gazed at each other, faces masks of measured stoicism. Suddenly Tol smiled, giving way in the end to a full-fledged grin.

“You have grit, wizard.”

“I seek only to serve a worthy master,” Mandes replied modestly.

*

The change in the imperial camp was profound. Healing tents emptied, and men who’d been without appetite for days crowded around the cookfires, stuffing themselves on beef and bread. The camp took on a new air of confidence and action. As Kiya observed, Tylocost and the Tarsans had better take care. Urakan’s hordes were looking to end their bored inaction, and the enemy would feel the force of their frustration.

From this scene of grim energy, Tol’s column moved quickly and quietly away. An army the size of Lord Urakan’s always attracted spies, especially when it remained in place a long time. Tol wanted no one to learn of his mission.

They made good progress up to the border between the Northern Hundred and Hylo proper. Beyond the stone markers bearing the arms of Emperor Ergothas II lay the kender kingdom, forested and sparsely settled. Four-fifths of the population of Hylo lived in six towns: Last Land, Windee, Hylo City, Far-to-go, Old Port, and Free Point. The rest wandered the countryside, doing incomprehensible kender things. One of Tol’s captains, the former seaman Darpo, had served on a merchant ship that traded in the Hylo ports. As they camped at the edge of the forest surrounding Hylo City, Darpo spoke of his experience with the kender.

“Everyone knows their light-fingered ways,” he began. The shifting light and shadow played eerily over his scarred face. When his audience snorted at his words, Darpo grinned, saying, “But kender don’t steal the way human thieves do, to enrich themselves. They do it out of mischief more than anything else.”

“Are there female kender?” Miya asked. They snickered at her, and she added hotly, “I’ve never seen one, that’s all!”

“One of the ones with us before Ropunt was female,” Darpo said, and took a long swig of beer, a parting gift from the grateful Lord Urakan.

“Eh? Which one?” Tol asked.

“The smaller one – the one we called Rufus.”

“I don’t believe it!” said Kiya. “He had a face like a spoiled apple, and no shape whatsoever!”

Darpo smiled, pushing dark blond hair back from his face. “Well, she was pretty old. Kender cultivate a vague appearance. They also change their names whenever it suits them.”

“Darpo’s quite right,” Mandes remarked. “I lived among the kender for half a year, and I seldom could tell male from female, or get one to answer to any name I thought I knew.”

As the Dom-shu sisters continued to dispute with Darpo over the gender of their erstwhile guides, Tol said to Mandes, “Once the kender know we’re from Ergoth, they’ll not resist us, will they?”

Mandes shrugged. “No one can predict a kender’s mood, not even another kender.”

“In that case, we’ll keep clear of them as much as we can.” He ordered a standard bearer to ride at the head of the column, displaying the colors of the empire.

They moved out at dawn, fording a shallow stream and entering the ancient forest. Trees here were twice the size of the oldest specimens in the smaller Ropunt woodland, giving the forest more the look of the primeval Great Green. Kiya and Miya were quite taken with their surroundings. It reminded them of home.

According to a map Tol had borrowed from Valaran, the stream they crossed was called Fingle’s Creek. It flowed directly into Hylo Bay, by the town of Old Port. Several well-worn paths followed the creek to the sea. Tol’s column glimpsed a number of kender in the woods, but they melted into the trees at the sight of so many armed men. Ever after, though they saw no one, the Ergothians knew many sharp eyes were watching them with great interest.

The creek broadened into a sizable river about the same time the first whiffs of sea air reached the marching soldiers. Tol reined in Cloud and surveyed the water from bank to bank. A few rickety piers poked out from under the trees, and nothing larger than a canoe was in sight. The kender were indifferent sailors but fanatical traders, and the lack of activity on the river told Tol that either word of the Ergothians’ coming had quieted traffic, or the force responsible for Tylocost’s defeat had cleared the area of commerce.

He asked Mandes, “Can you sense anything untoward?”

“I’m not a seer, my lord. My specialties are potions and perfumes, and I’ve begun studying ways to command the clouds —”

“I didn’t ask for your life’s history, just if you sensed danger!”

Mandes sniffed. “No better than you, my lord.” His tone implied he did not consider it a useful trait.

Tol halted his men. He sent Sanksa and thirty skirmishers ahead to look for trouble. Another company of thirty, under the command of the seasoned Frez, he sent back as a rear guard. The high ground west of the river looked harmless, but Tol sent his engineer, Fellen, with thirty more men to look around there. The balance of the demi-horde resumed its march.

The land remained hilly right down to the sea. Before leaving the cover of the trees, Sanksa’s men returned with word they’d overlooked Old Port and all appeared ordinary.

“What?” Egrin exclaimed. “Is there no garrison of Tarsan troops for us to contend with?”

“We watched all afternoon and saw naught but kender,” Sanksa replied.

Old Port was on the other side of the estuary. Curious to see for himself, Tol told his men to keep to the trees and continue up the shore to the next town, Far-to-go.

“Darpo, Mandes, Miya, and Kiya will accompany me to Old Port for a closer look around,” he said.

Egrin protested, saying a commander should not enter an unknown town without proper escort. Tol assured him no one would know his rank.

He proceeded to take off his helmet and red mantle. He tied a strip of homespun around his forehead as a sweatband. Dressed plainly to start with, without his cloak and helmet Tol looked like an ordinary man-at-arms. He shifted his dagger from his belt to his boot, a style affected by wandering mercenaries. Darpo likewise dressed down, commenting that Mandes already looked like a vagabond. The sorcerer pointedly ignored the slur.

Tol gave Egrin command in his absence, telling him to keep the men out of sight but moving. He wanted the demi-horde in Far-to-go by nightfall.

“How will you catch up with us?” Egrin asked.

“If there’s no danger in Old Port, we’ll hustle up the coast in time to rejoin you before the next town.”

“And if there is danger …?”

Tol let the question hang. He turned Cloud over to Narren, and with his four companions set out for the kender town.

As they walked, they spoke in loud, unguarded voices of ordinary things – food, work, the weather. At the water’s edge they found a kender lying in a flat-bottomed boat, face covered by a woven-grass hat. Snores rose from under the hat.

“Wake up,” Tol said, rapping on the gunwale. “We want passage to town.”

The kender said, “So what’s stoppin’ ya? Ya think I row folks across the river?”

“You mean we have to row ourselves?” said Kiya.

“Yep. One silver piece each, please.”

They all looked to Miya, the renowned haggler. Eyes brightening in anticipation, she rose to the challenge.

“For a silver piece, we could hire a Tarsan galley!” she declared. “A copper per head is plenty.”

“Four coppers per head,” said the kender.

“One!” Miya insisted. “Plus one when we get to the other side.”

“One more each?”

Miya would have continued disputing, but Tol caught her arm and nodded. “Done,” she said to the kender. “One per head now, one per head on arrival.”

“Done.” The kender stretched out one hand. Miya gave him the first half of the payment. They piled in, sat down, and searched in vain for oars or poles.

“Where’s the oars?” demanded Tol.

“Oars would be one silver piece each —”

“You try me, little man!” Miya fumed. “Nothing more! Two coppers each was the price!”

“One was just to get in, and the other pays for getting out. Nobody said anything about oars.”

Tol was somewhat amused, but the Dom-shu most assuredly were not. Kiya seized the kender by his vest and dragged him up. Oddly, the grass hat clung to his face, even when she had him upright.

“Oars!” she bellowed.

The boat owner merely hung limp in her grip. Furious, she flung him into the water. Darpo and Tol rushed to the side to help the unlucky kender, but he bobbed to the surface out of reach. He had a swarthy, sunburned face, despite his clinging hat. Floating serenely on his back, the kender boatman kicked lazily away.

“Now that’s negotiation,” Mandes said dryly.

Tol and Darpo went ashore and cut a pair of saplings. They trimmed off the branches and used them to pole the boat out from shore. The current was strong, but they managed slow progress across the river.

From the water, Old Port lived up to its name – weather-beaten, innocent of paint. The houses were tall and narrow, worn brown by years of sun and rain, but every building bore a brightly colored pennant or metal totem, swinging in the wind. Eight merchant ships of modest size were tied up at the docks. They looked deserted and neglected. Streaks of black mold stained the canvas sails, and many lines were broken or untied. A few smaller craft crawled around the harbor.

Tol guided the boat to an empty berth on a long, ramshackle pier. A single kender, pot-bellied and possessing enormous ears, sat in a small kiosk at the end of the pier. Kiya leaped out and secured a line. They climbed out, and Tol nodded politely to the kender in the kiosk.

“Are you the harbormaster?” Tol asked.

“I am. That’s Gusgrave’s boat. Where’s Gus?”

“He went for a swim. We borrowed his boat,” Darpo said.

“Oh.” The harbormaster closed his eyes and held out a hand. “Docking fee, two silver pieces.”

Miya gave him two coppers. “We docked ourselves.” The kender shrugged and put the coins in his shirt pocket.

“Quiet, isn’t it?” said Tol. “No ships coming or going, no one loading or unloading.”

“Blockade. Tarsis,” the harbormaster said, yawning.

No blockading warships were in sight, but the long, narrow bay could be sealed easily at its mouth, over thirty leagues away.

“How long has the blockade been going on?” asked Darpo.

The harbormaster scratched his brown cheek. “Since the dark of the moons,” he said. The night when no moons rose was forty days past.

Tol asked, “Any Tarsans here?”

“A few traders, some sailors. Flack the feather merchant, he lives in the high street.” The kender looked slantwise at his interrogators and asked, “Will Ergoth attack our town?”

“How should we know?” Tol replied casually.

“You talk like Ergos. Word is, an army’s coming overland from Ropunt. Are you them?”

Tol denied it, but he was perplexed. Despite their precautions, the kender seemed well informed of their presence. And if the kender knew, the Tarsans likely knew too. What of the unknown menace that had repelled Tylocost – did it (or they) also know the Ergothians’ movements?

“We’re mercenaries,” Tol announced. “We heard there might be work here for good fighters.”

“Try the Tarsans,’cross the bay.” The kender pointed vaguely northeast. “Big camp over there. General Ty-something. Maybe hell hire you. Or maybe he’ll hang you as Ergo spies.”

The harbormaster leaned forward and closed the shutters of his kiosk, indicating their conversation was over.

It was late afternoon by the time they finished their explorations and regained the western shore. They tied Gusgrave’s boat where they’d found it, and Miya tossed five coppers in it, the second half of the price she’d agreed to pay for use of the craft.

Tol led them quickly through the lengthening shadows. Mandes hampered their progress. He puffed and wheezed like an old man, and complained constantly of the too-brisk pace.

The setting sun colored the bay crimson, like an Ackal banner. On a bluff overlooking the calm sea, they paused to let the magician catch his breath.

“Look there!” cried Darpo, pointing out to sea.

Crawling across the flat water came a large vessel, a quin-quireme of the Tarsan Navy. It ploughed ahead steadily against the offshore wind, oars flashing in the fading sunlight. Foamy green water curled back beneath the bronze ram on its prow.

Tol and his comrades took cover in the trees. Lying on their bellies, they watched the Tarsan galley approach. Three flags whipped from a pole mast stepped amidships.

“Wizard, whose pennants are those?” Tol asked.

“Topmost is the flag of Tarsis,” answered Mandes. “The second is a naval flag of some sort. I’m not a warrior, but I’d guess it shows what flotilla the ship belongs to. The bottom banner” — he squinted at the colored fabric, tiny with distance — “looks like the flag of the Syndic House of Lux, the guild of goldsmiths and gem merchants.”

“Merchants on a warship?” scoffed Miya. “Wealthy merchants rule Tarsis,” Mandes explained. “The House of Lux is a rich and powerful guild. Many city officials, ambassadors, and diplomats come from their ranks.”

“Like Ambassador Hanira?” asked Tol, remembering the woman he’d seen in Daltigoth.

Mandes betrayed surprise. “Why, yes. Lady Hanira is mistress of the largest gemstone house in the city. How do you know her?”

“I don’t know her, but I’ve seen her. She leaves a lasting impression.”

The galley slowed as it came abreast of their position. From their high perch, the Ergothians had a clear view of the ship’s main deck. Some kind of violent activity had broken out there. White-clad figures swarmed fore and aft, wrestling with mysterious gear mounted on the forecastle and poop.

Suddenly, a shadow, larger and darker than the surrounding trees, fell over the cliff top. Tol looked up as something huge and airborne rushed in, snapping off treetops above them. Silent till then, it began emitting a loud buzzing sound, louder than anything Tol had ever heard. He could feel it in his bones.

Zimm-zimm-zimm —

He knew at once what it was: XimXim was here!

The droning buzz slowed and stopped. All around the hidden Ergothians, tree limbs cracked and popped, showering them with leaves and twigs. Through the thick canopy, all Tol could see was a large, dark green mass smashing its way through the trees. He saw long, articulated limbs moving in the treetops. He counted five and stopped. Whatever XimXim was, it wasn’t a dragon. Dragons were not common these days, and this monster had too many legs to be one anyway.

Loud, hollow thumps echoed across the water. Catapults on the deck of the Tarsan galley hurled giant darts at the monster. One missile hit an elm tree near Darpo, shattering the trunk.

“Tol, what should we do?” said Kiya, feeling trapped.

“Do nothing! Be still! No one knows we’re here!”

A trio of ancient alders crashed down. The monster was moving straight ahead, to the edge of the bluff. Catapult darts sailed in at a steady rate, but none hit their intended target.

Miya lay by Tol’s left hand, and she took hold of his arm in a grip made painfully strong by her astonishment. She didn’t have to say a word. They could all see it now, emerging from the woods.

The sun was behind them, nearly set. Its bold, ruddy glow darkened the monster’s green color almost to black. Rearing up nearly twenty paces, XimXim had an enormous three-sided head, with two faceted green eyes at the upper corners and a mouth equipped with many scissor-like palps. Two antennae, thick as a man’s wrist, sprouted from the creature’s forehead. Its head was perched on a thin stalk of a neck, which joined a relatively slender torso sheathed in green armor. Three pairs of legs supported the monster: four at the rear of the torso, and two enlarged arms hinged where the neck joined the body. Its forearms were shaped like a pair of downward-hanging scythes, their inside edges lined with sharp, saw-toothed spurs as long as a man’s hand.

One mystery was solved: XimXim was a monstrous insect, a mantis of truly gigantic size.

The monster gazed coldly at the Tarsan galley. In the center of its gigantic eyes, tiny black pupils tracked to and fro, following the movements of the terrified sailors. As more catapult darts whizzed by, XimXim unfolded stiff, bone-colored wings from its back. The wings didn’t flap or flex like a bird’s. They vibrated. The sound they made filled the air with the deafening, distinctive noise that gave the creature its name.

Tol wanted to shout a warning, but the men on the galley couldn’t possibly hear him. He and his companions watched open-mouthed as XimXim rose lightly from the bluff and flew slowly over the bay to hover over the ship. It was completely safe from catapults there; the machines could not elevate high enough to hit it. After watching the Tarsans’ futile efforts for a moment, XimXim dropped on them.

Slashing back and forth, the creature shredded the galley with its scythe-like forearms. Rigging and masts went down, entangling the hapless crew on deck. XimXim’s arms tore through the stout hull planking like a farmer’s blade mowing hay. After four horrible passes, the great ship was reduced to several large pieces, all sinking. By twilight’s glow, the Ergothians could see black dots bobbing in the water – the heads of the crew as they swam frantically for shore.

Not satisfied with sinking the warship, XimXim swept over the water, slashing the helpless survivors to pieces. When no one was left, XimXim climbed steeply into the evening sky and flew off to the northwest.

The teeth-rattling vibration of his flight eventually faded with distance. Soon, only the lap of waves and the steady sigh of the sea breeze remained. None of them spoke for several long minutes but simply stared in numb horror at the scene below.

“By all my ancestors,” said Kiya, breaking the shocked silence. “How can such a thing exist?”

“The gods’ ways are unknowable,” said Darpo flatly. His scarred face was ashen.

“Wizard, did you know about this?” Tol managed to say.

Mandes shook his head, whispering, “I’ve never seen or read anything about a monster like this in my life.” It was obvious he spoke the truth; he was as shaken and gray-faced as the rest of them.

“The kender have lived under XimXim’s threat for decades,” Darpo said. “They have a kind of understanding with it. It eats a few of them every year, takes their cattle, sheep, or pigs, but leaves them enough to live on.”

Tol remembered the day long ago when the kender delegation had come to Juramona to ask for Lord Odovar’s help against the monster. Odovar had chosen to send his hordes to fight in the Great Green, a choice that cost him his life – but probably spared the men of Juramona from wholesale slaughter such as they’d just witnessed.

It was clear now what had happened to Tylocost’s army, and to the eleven expeditions sent by the emperors of Ergoth to find the monster. XimXim had destroyed them all.

After years of equilibrium with the kender, the monster must have felt threatened by Tylocost’s army. Perhaps it thought the mercenaries were coming to attack it, so it struck first. Sorcerers in Tylocost’s pay raised a mist to hide their landing from Hylo’s Royal Loyal Militia, but the mist also hid XimXim. He had torn the invading Tarsans to bits, sunk their ships, and slaughtered ten thousand armed warriors in half a morning’s work.

“What now, husband?” Kiya asked.

“What can three hundred do against a beast that mighty?” Miya said. “We should go back.”

Tol’s response was immediate. “No,” he said. “The emperor himself chose me to deal with the monster, and I will not fail! First, we must catch Egrin before he goes too far. I don’t want XimXim doing to our people what he did to Tylocost’s!”

The Dom-shu regarded him with respect for his staunch words. Darpo was still shaken by what they’d witnessed, but didn’t question his commander. However, the reaction of Mandes, the city-bred sorcerer, surprised Tol.

For a man who had complained steadily about the pace of the march, his sore feet, and the bad food, Mandes seemed remarkably undisturbed by the prospect of facing XimXim. Once his initial shock had passed, his mood seemed more curious than afraid. “A fantastic creature, and a most unnatural one,” he observed. “The world is not generally populated with monsters so great. Someone, somewhere, may have created XimXim by magical means. Perhaps on purpose.”

His pale blue eyes were thoughtful as he added, “Sorcery that powerful should be studied. I would like to get a closer look at this monster, perhaps examine its lair. There may be much to learn from it.”

Tol was pleased to have the sorcerer’s support and felt obliged to say so. “I’m glad to have you along, Master Mandes. You may indulge your curiosity, so long as it doesn’t delay our mission. But take care! My first lord, Odovar, marshal of the Eastern Hundred, sent a priest, Lanza, to investigate XimXim five years ago. Lanza ended up dismembered like a feast-day chicken. What he might have discovered, no one will ever know.”

“Knowledge sometimes comes with a high price, my lord,” Mandes said primly, adjusting his worn, dirty gown. “How else would you know its worth?”

Chapter 19

TOE TO TOE TO TOE

Tol and his scouting party rejoined the rest of his command by the mouth of the Lapstone River, which began in the Sentinel Mountains to the west and flowed down to Hylo Bay through the capital city. Hiding from Tarsan patrols, Egrin and the soldiers had not caught sight of XimXim, though they too had heard the drone of his wings.

From a hilltop five hundred paces away, Hylo City was the picture of happy chaos. The town was a warren of narrow streets, market squares, and half-timbered houses cheek-by-jowl with inns, taverns, and courtyards. A riot of colors – if they were painted at all – Hylo’s buildings ranged from sky blue to beet red. Fowl flapped and squawked, pigs ran squealing (pursued by squealing kender), and all sorts of commerce filled the streets. But as Tol’s men drew near, the Hyloites fled inside, bolting every door and shuttering every window behind them. By the time the Ergothians halted in the main square, not a single kender could be seen. “I thought kender were curious,” said Miya. “Such gratitude!” Egrin said. “Here we’ve come to save them, and they don’t even greet us!”

“They don’t view us as saviors,” Tol said slowly, as he surveyed the houses around the central square. “We didn’t help them years ago, when they first asked for it. On their own they had to learn to live with XimXim, and now I suppose our war with Tarsis has ruined their peace.” His pointed to the tallest rooftops. “Look there!”

All around the town, the tops of the highest buildings had been ripped open. Long parallel slashes showed where XimXim had raked his sharp claws over them. Every house above a certain height bore severe damage.

It had been impossible to convey the horror of the monstrous creature to the city guardsmen. They had snorted dismissively at the notion of a giant bug terrorizing the countryside. But the visible destruction throughout Hylo, along with the clear reluctance of the kender to greet them, put an end to their cynicism.

Egrin asked if they should pay their respects to Lucklyn the First, king of Hylo, whose residence, just across the square, was shuttered and silent like all the rest. Tol, after thinking it over, decided against forcing their welcome.

In the midst of the empty square, Tol held a council of war. All his captains, plus the Dom-shu sisters and Mandes, crowded around as Tol spread a large goatskin map of Hylo on the cobblestones. He pointed out the bay, the river they’d followed, and then tapped the tip of his sheathed dagger on the little triangle representing Hylo City. A short hop west of the kender capital were the brown, jagged lines of the Sentinel Mountains.

“Our best information is that XimXim lives in a cave, somewhere in the lower reaches of the mountains,” Tol explained. “The monster is said to be able to see the city from his lair, so we can assume his cave is somewhere here.” He traced a short arc in the hills west and south of Hylo. “Anyone know anything about this region?”

No one did, not even Mandes or Darpo, the former seaman.

Tol continued, “Then we’ll have to reconnoiter as we go. Given the nature of the enemy, I propose to disperse the band into small, individual companies – the better to stay mobile and hidden from XimXim. Each company will explore the region directly in front of it, and stay in contact at all times with their comrades on either flank.”

He arrayed the ten companies across the map from south to north. Egrin was given thirty men in the center, with Narren on his left flank and Tol on his right. Tol took personal command of Valvorn’s men, the Karad-shu having been slain by bakali. Mandes would accompany Tol, as would Kiya and Miya. Any group encountering the monster was to signal its comrades immediately, by bonfire at night or with rams’ horns by day.

“Defend yourselves, but don’t try to fight this thing by yourselves,” Tol warned sternly. “XimXim is too powerful to be fought with sword and spear. Our purpose is to locate the creature’s lair. If you do, don’t signal. Hold your place and send a runner to me. If we can discover the monster before it knows we’re hunting for it, we may be able to find a way to trap it in its own den. Believe me, we don’t want to confront it in the open. This beast walks, flies, and kills with the speed of a whirlwind.”

“My lord?” said Darpo. “What about the Tarsans? What do we do if we come upon any?”

“Kill’em quick,” said Narren, and the men laughed.

Tol said, “As far as I can tell, no Tarsans have made it across the bay. Small parties of scouts or spies may be abroad. Deal with them as you see fit, but remember Lord Urakan might appreciate a few prisoners to question.”

The company leaders studied the map a while longer, each noting his line of march. The countryside between Hylo City and the mountains was hilly and wooded, though not so densely as Ropunt Forest. The Lapstone River divided southwest of town, and the fordability of it and its two tributaries was unknown.

One by one, Tol said good-bye to his retainers. All Juramona men, they had known each other for a large part of their young lives. Last to go were Narren and Egrin. The younger soldier Tol embraced.

“We’re a long way from mucking out the stables for the Household Guard,” Narren said almost wistfully. “You, me, and Crake were quite a trio, weren’t we?”

Tol forced a smile at the mention of Crake. He’d never told anyone the masked assassin in Daltigoth was their old comrade – only that he had fairly fought and slain the fellow who attacked him.

After Narren gathered his men and departed. Egrin stepped forward.

“My lord,” he said, and saluted in the old-fashioned way, with his bared dagger.

Tol colored. “I’m not your lord. I’m still the stupid boy you trained to be a soldier,” he said.

“You are my lord and commander. And you were never stupid.”

Tol blinked, surprised at the warmth in the old warrior’s words. Clearing his throat in embarrassment, he took a sheaf of parchment from under his tunic and gave it to Egrin.

“Keep this for me,” he said quietly. “If I’m unlucky, will you see those letters get to the person named on them?”

Egrin tucked them away without glancing at them. They clasped arms. A hint of the old taskmaster came through in Egrin’s voice as he urged, “No heroics. The gods favor you, Tol, but this creature does not abide by the gods.”

“Never fear. My life is dear to me, but I shall do my duty.”

Egrin led his men out. All that remained in the square were Valvorn’s company of twenty-two, with Mandes, Miya, and Kiya. Tol told the sisters they were risking their lives by going, and should stay behind.

“I don’t want to go,” Miya said frankly. “I hate crawling things! Especially Mg crawling things! But I won’t stay if Kiya goes.”

Kiya’s face was implacable. “Our father, the chief of the Dom-shu, owes much to you, husband,” she said quietly. “Where you tread, we shall tread. Where you sleep, we shall sleep. And where you perish, so shall we die.”

She drew her knife and grasped her long blond horsetail of hair. It reached the middle of her back. She cut it off just below the thong she used to tie it back at her neck. Miya gasped. The only time Dom-shu warriors cut their hair was before a battle to the death. Hair was sacred to the god Bran, lord of the forest. By cutting it, Kiya was making a serious sacrifice to her patron deity.

Tol said nothing, but clasped Kiya’s arm as he would a fellow warrior’s. She took her place with the soldiers. Miya, still looking a bit shocked, followed her sister.

Tol ordered his company to move out. They shouldered their gear and marched away. He swung onto Cloud’s back and looked down at Mandes. The sorcerer had picked up the heavy hank of Kiya’s hair.

“Leave it,” said Tol. He explained the Dom-shu custom of sacrificing their hair to Bran.

“Strange ways,” murmured the wizard, fondling the sheaf of golden hair. “The other one, her hair isn’t very long.”

“Miya isn’t a fighter. Her sister was pledged to the warrior society of the Dom-shu while still in her mother’s womb. Boy or girl, she was chosen to be a warrior. Miya was not.”

Mandes let the hank of hair fall to the ground. Picking up the bindle containing his rations and magical paraphernalia, he departed the square, following Tol’s troop.

*

The wind freshened, shaking the trees. Dust scoured the faces of Tol’s party as they worked their way through a notch in the low hills west of the kender capital. They continued to find copious evidence of XimXim’s wrath – an earthen dam torn asunder, orchards uprooted, isolated homesteads smashed to kindling. Everything bore the tell-tale slash marks of the monster’s claws. They came upon a herd of cattle – some torn in half, others pierced by wounds strangely neat and precise. Equally precise and more horrible was the fate of the four herders accompanying the cattle.

The four were human, probably from the northern reaches of the empire. Nomadic herders often drove their cattle into Hylo to take advantage of the mild sea climate and abundant fodder. Usually the only risk they faced was from pilfering kender. These men had met a far worse fate. XimXim had struck off their heads and placed them neatly in a row beside their bodies.

Although he hated to leave the poor herders unburied, Tol could not delay long enough to do what was proper. He and his company had to stay in contact with the others in case there was trouble. They moved grimly onward.

The brown slopes of the Sentinel Mountains grew more distinct in the distance. Not a mighty range like the Khalkist, the Sentinels were called the Not Much Mountains by the kender. They were not much high, not much rich in minerals, not much inhabited, and not much of a barrier to trade and travel. However, at seventy leagues from end to end, they made a big pile of stone to shelter a monster.

Near dusk, Tol’s group paused in the shadow of a vine-covered ridge. Wind was still gusting over the mountains, gaining force as it rushed down the slopes to the sea. While they rested, Mandes opened his bindle and spread the square of brown cloth on the ground. He sorted through various knots of dry herbs and shriveled roots, putting a chosen few in a small agate pestle. With a small mortar, he ground the ingredients to a fine powder, adding pinches of other powders he carried in small wooden tubes. Sniffing the resulting mixture carefully, he nodded with satisfaction.

“What are you making?” asked Tol.

“Balm of Sirrion. It creates the impenetrable mist.”

“Like the one you gave the bakali?” The sorcerer nodded. “Doesn’t it work only in darkness?”

Mandes smiled smugly. “I put that limitation on the balm I made for the lizard-men. Properly compounded, the mist will work in sunlight or darkness.”

He warmed a plug of beeswax in the hollow of his hand. When it was soft, he pressed his thumb into the center, making a hole. This he filled with the balm powder. Pinching the wax closed, he rolled it between his palms to make a round pill the size of a hen’s egg. He likewise filled three more wax balls, using up all the magical mixture. He presented the four to Tol.

Tol picked up one of the yellow wax balls, handling it carefully with the tips of his fingers.

“Tylocost and the Tarsans tried to land under the cover of a magical mist,” he said. “XimXim flew right through it and tore the mercenaries to bits. How do you know he won’t be able to see through your fog?”

“I don’t. But some things require experiment.”

“Experiment! You’re talking about our lives!”

The wizard put the wax balls away, repacked his paraphernalia, and tied the four corners of the cloth into a bindle again. “My lord, you’re gambling with all our lives,” he remarked. “My magic improves the odds in our favor. Why else did you bring me along, if not to try my means?”

A runner came crashing through the underbrush. Tol and Mandes stood, and everyone idling under the trees got to their feet, spears in hand.

The runner proved to be a soldier from Narren’s company.

“My lord,” he panted. “Narren bids me tell you, we think we’ve found the cave of the monster!”

“Are you sure?” demanded Tol.

“Dirt mounded outside the cave mouth is marked with huge claw prints. Narren explored a score of steps inside. He found many bones of cattle, pigs, humans, and kender. And this —”

The messenger reached inside his overshirt and brought out a dull yellow spike as long as Tol’s hand. It was hollow and light, and made of a hard, hornlike material.

“Narren thinks the monster sheds these spikes, my lord,” he explained. “The floor was littered with them.”

The cave was in the first valley beneath the Sentinel peaks, three-quarters of a league away. Tol sent a fresh runner to spread the news to Egrin’s company. Commanding all to be stealthy, he set his men on the trail blazed by Narren’s runner, who led them back through the woods.

Night had fallen when they found Narren. Crouching in a rocky defile a hundred paces from the black, gaping entrance to the cave, Narren greeted his commander in a fierce whisper. He held his helmet in one hand, letting the wind dry his sweaty hair.

“Any sign of the creature?” Tol asked, keeping his voice low as well.

“None.” Narren wrinkled his sunburned nose. “Stinks like a slaughterhouse in there.”

Tol grimaced at the too-apt description. “I notified Egrin. He’ll join us when he can, but I want to have a look myself now. Mandes, come with me.”

Kiya also followed him, as did a reluctant Miya. Tol told them to remain in camp, as this was only a scouting expedition.

“No, I am with you,” Kiya said stubbornly.

“And I am with Sister,” added Miya. “Though I wish she’d stay here!”

He ordered them to go back, but Kiya said flatly, “I’m not one of your warriors. I’m your wife, and I don’t take orders.”

Mandes chuckled. Tol glared at him, then hissed at Kiya, “All right! But please keep quiet!”

It was a foolish injunction, and he knew it. Having grown up in the Great Green, the Dom-shu were far stealthier than Tol or the city-bred sorcerer. They moved along silently as wraiths in the gathering night, while Mandes dislodged loose stones with every step.

At last they were crouching at the entrance to the cave. Sixteen paces wide and half as high, it was amply sized to admit the monster, and Narren had been right about the stench. Warm air emanating from the cave smelled worse than a charnel house. Mandes audibly gagged. Tol had to swallow repeatedly to keep from doing likewise.

Digging through his supplies, Mandes brought out a wooden tube of ointment. He put a drop of the oily stuff on their forefingers and bade them smear it under their noses. The sickening reek faded, replaced by a faint aroma of roses. Mandes explained the effect was only temporary.

The ledge at the mouth of the cave was a single slab of brown granite. Overhead, Luin had risen high enough to cast its reddish light into the opening. Tol could tell the cave had been gouged out of the living rock by force, most likely by XimXim himself.

At Tol’s request, Mandes cupped his left hand, and an orange-white orb materialized, throwing off a soft glow. Tol and Kiya started in, he drawing his sword and she nocking an arrow in her bow. Mandes walked between them, lighting the way. Bringing up the rear and glancing constantly over her shoulder, Miya also carried her sword.

The tunnel plunged straight into the mountain, slanting downward at a fairly steep angle. Heaps of stinking refuse lined the walls – bones of various victims with scraps of flesh drying on them, along with dozens of XimXim’s cast-off spikes, which had a musty reek all their own. Normal subterranean life was absent. No bugs scuttled away from their light; no bats clung in furry clusters from the cave roof.

Two dozen steps inside the cave, the muggy air gave way to a much warmer current, rising slowly from the depths of the tunnel. The passage continued straight as an arrow, with no end in sight.

“Let’s go back!” Miya said. Her whisper sounded booming in the stone-walled cave.

“Yes,” Kiya agreed. “There’s nothing to see.”

Tol wasn’t satisfied, and asked Mandes if he could throw the light farther down the tunnel.

“I can send it as far as I can see it,” replied the wizard.

He mumbled a brief incantation, and the little orb flew out of his hand. It sailed down the center of the passage, on and on, growing ever smaller with each passing heartbeat. Tol was astonished by the length of the tunnel.

Miya, still rearmost, suddenly cocked her head. “Do you hear that?”

“What? The monster?”

“No! More like … horns.”

That jolted Tol. Narren wouldn’t sound horns unless there was a grave emergency.

“Go back!” he shouted, shoving Mandes and Kiya around. “XimXim must be coming!”

It was hard going back up the slope. Mandes’s soft slippers lost purchase, and he fell repeatedly. The Dom-shu sisters finally grabbed him by the arms and dragged him along.

The journey seemed to take forever, but finally Tol was close enough to the cave mouth to see the stars beyond. Unfortunately, he also heard the dreaded sound – zimm-zimm-zimm. The creature flew past, blotting out the sky for an instant, and Tol’s heart spasmed in terror. If XimXim entered the cave now, they’d be trapped, with no hope of escape or place to hide.

Below the cave entrance, Tol’s men realized the same thing. Egrin had arrived with his company, and it was as he listened to Narren’s explanation of their commander’s personal reconnaissance that the dreaded hum filled the night air. Egrin immediately ordered all signal horns blown, though there was no way to know whether Tol could hear them.

Hoping to draw XimXim’s attention away from the cave, Egrin called forward the soldiers in each company who carried clay urns of live embers. In camp each night, the embers were revived for cookfires. Egrin ordered them thrown on a bed of dry leaves. The brisk wind fanned the glowing coals, and a lively fire erupted as XimXim’s hum grew louder.

Overhead, the monstrous creature spied the leaping flames so close to his lair. His large but primitive eyes made out warm-blooded figures moving in the darkness around the fire. He landed in a dry streambed upwind of the fire, and then, rearing up, front legs cocked and ready to strike, he advanced toward the flames.

A shower of spears arced out of the darkness. Reflexively, XimXim halted as they whizzed by. His slender legs were difficult to hit, but several iron-tipped missiles struck his thorax. They bounced harmlessly off his armored hide.

Palps clacking, XimXim strode rapidly into the shadows beyond the bonfire. He could see the dull white faces of his” enemies. Powerful forearms lashed out, scattering the humans. Raking backward with his right leg, he caught one man and hoisted him high. He tried to cut his captive in two, but the man’s iron breastplate resisted. The man screamed and struck at him with a sword. More men rushed out of the darkness, shouting.

XimXim watched, curious, as they swarmed around him. Humans did not usually rush toward him; they ran away. One of the odd humans thrust a spear into the tender joint of his left middle leg, bringing forth a stream of green ichor.

Furious with sudden pain, XimXim snipped the head off his captive human and dropped the limp body. He gathered his legs together and leaped six paces. Humans scattered as he landed hard among them, his narrow feet driving into the stony soil. Since their torsos were protected by iron, he proceeded to cut the humans down at the legs, which were not armored.

Crouching by a boulder, Narren wiped blood from his eyes. “That thing must be made of metal!” he cried. “Swords and spears don’t hurt it!”

“I hurt it,” Egrin replied, showing the younger man XimXim’s green blood on his spear. “It doesn’t have many soft spots, but it has some!”

The fire, ignored by the battling Ergothians, spread quickly from the masses of fallen leaves and licked at the abundant dry tinder. It filled the ravine with crimson light and grotesquely wavering shadows. Men screamed as the monster found them. Others roared defiance and tried to muster their comrades. Eight men of Egrin’s company climbed a tall outcropping that put them level with XimXim’s massive, angular head. They tried to spear the beast’s huge eyes, but it deftly parried their weapons with its massive forearms.

Bringing both arms together like interlocking scythes, XimXim mowed down every soldier on the outcropping. It seized the last one alive and bit off his head. Flinging the torso at the men below, it climbed the rock to gain a height advantage.

Egrin, noting the creature’s movements, shouted, “The beast shows his back! At him now!”

He, Narren, and eleven men rushed from cover. Two grabbed XimXim’s right rear leg, just as he was about to lift it off the ground. Weighed down, the monster swiveled its head to see what held him. While he was so engaged, Egrin ducked under the tree-sized limb and drove a spear into his lower joint.

XimXim shivered from one end to the other. His injured leg kicked out with enormous force, hurling free the men hanging on it. Reversing his stance, he butted four of the creatures who’d caused him such pain. They went down, and XimXim tried to bite the man closest to him. The fellow’s iron cuirass saved him for the moment, but XimXim kept biting at the hard metal plate.

“Egrin! Egrin!” Narren cried, seeing the older warrior pinned down by the monster. He scrambled to his feet. “Juramona!” he shouted, and attacked with his saber.

With one terrific slash, Narren chopped off the end of XimXim’s drooping right antenna. The monster gave a high-pitched shriek of pain and fury. Back came the terrible forearm, snapping like a spring. The blow caught Narren on his breastplate and slammed him against a sharp-edged boulder. His helmet flew off, and he slid to the ground. Blood welled from a terrible head wound, drenching his fair hair. He did not get up again.

Egrin rolled away from the angry monster. He heard death whisper by, as XimXim’s left forearm drove into the dirt, just missing him. With his antenna damaged, the creature’s aim seemed to be off.

“Get back! Fall back!” Egrin bellowed.

The Ergothians were only too happy to oblige. In the brief melee XimXim had killed twenty and wounded twice that many more. As the soldiers took cover in the scrub forest, several flung dirt over the burning brush, extinguishing the fire they had started.

Showing a distinct distaste for continuing the fight, XimXim clambered up a short pinnacle. His wounded leg stuck out behind him, trembling. Green blood stained the boulders, mixing with the red shed by the Ergothians. He opened his wings and took off, flying directly to his lair. When he had rested and was sound again, he would sally forth and destroy these reckless little pests, not only in his immediate domain, but everywhere he encountered them.

*

As sentries stood watch, graves were dug and wounds tended.

Egrin knelt by Narren and closed the young warrior’s lifeless eyes. Lifting his own gaze, Egrin ran a hand down his cuirass. The hammer-forged plate was dented and chewed as he’d never seen iron damaged before. Juramona iron had saved his life.

No, the armor had only protected him. Brave Narren had saved his life. How Tol would grieve when he learned his old comrade had died – and how proud he would be to know how courageously Narren had sold his life!

Drawn by the signal horns and the blazing bonfire, the scattered companies of Tol’s demi-horde gathered in the ravine below XimXim’s cave. Egrin dispersed them, so the monster wouldn’t find them too easily come daybreak.

He watched as Narren was consigned to the ground. So much death he had seen in his long life, so many young lives lost. Egrin stared up at the black hole in the mountain. Did his commander – his friend – still live?

*

From the blaring horns and flickering firelight, Tol correctly divined his men were trying not only to warn him, but to distract the returning monster. He couldn’t fault their gallantry, but he fumed at their disobedience. Hadn’t he told them not to fight XimXim?

He, Mandes, and the Dom-shu women were only a dozen steps from the cave entrance. The women released the magician to dash out the opening, and Mandes promptly slipped again. Tol grabbed for the collar of his robe, but missed.

Mandes, squeaking in alarm, rolled down the sloping tunnel.

Miya ran after him. She caught hold of his robe, planted her feet – and was yanked head over heels by his considerable weight. Hopelessly tangled, they slid on.

“Sister!” Kiya shouted and sprinted after Miya.

Tol yelled at her, knowing she wouldn’t abandon her kin any more than he would abandon the pair of them. The cave entrance was so close he could feel the night breeze, but without hesitation he too turned back.

Down and down Mandes and Miya tumbled, him grunting and her cursing eloquently. In the course of her whirling progress, Miya spotted a dull red glow in the distance, felt the rise in temperature, and finally realized what lay ahead. Drawing her arms in, she pushed away from Mandes with all her strength, and they shot apart. Mandes’s robe snagged on rough rocks in the curving wall of the tunnel. He jerked to a halt. Miya, no longer tumbling, slid on her rear briefly, then suddenly ran out of floor altogether.

Her legs dropped into open air. She scrabbled for a handhold, but there was none. For a terrifying instant, she teetered on the edge of a precipice, then plunged into the abyss —

— and landed hard on her back a few paces down. Dust flew up around her.

Mandes’s white face appeared above her. “Lady, are you all right?”

“Just wonderful!” she yelled at him, coughing. She tried to sit up, but her sides stung as though thorns had been hammered in. “I think I broke some ribs!”

“Don’t move!” said the wizard. “Don’t even turn your head!”

As soon as he said it, of course she had to do exactly that. There was rock under her head, but when she turned to the right, her cheek met only sweltering, stinking air.

She’d landed on a ledge just wide enough to catch her. Beneath her was an enormously deep pit. Intense heat, a red glow, and nauseating vapors rose from the depths below.

As Mandes tried unsuccessfully to reach her, Tol and Kiya arrived, feet skidding as Mandes shouted at them to beware the pit.

Tol had a length of rawhide wrapped around his waist, a spare bridle for his horse. He dropped one end to Miya. She lifted her hands and grasped it, but couldn’t pull herself up – not with her broken ribs.

Tol made ready to go after her, but Kiya stopped him, announcing she would go.

Tol planted his fists on his hips. “For once in your life, will you do as I say?”

“Someday, husband, but not now.”

Kiya laid aside her bow and quiver, then tied the hide rope under her arms. With Tol and Mandes anchoring her, she backed over the rim of the pit, feeling for footholds with her bare toes. The two men grunted under the strain.

“Sulfur,” Mandes muttered, gasping with effort. “That smell. Must be molten rock down there.”

Tol played out the rope a little at a time. “How can rock be molten?” he asked, eyes streaming moisture from the stinging vapors.

“Same way metal can. Deep underground … is heat enough to melt solid stone.”

“Where does the heat come from?”

“Some say Reorx’s divine forge. Others —” The rope slipped. Mandes drew in breath with a sharp hiss, as the hard hide cut the palms of his hands, then continued, as though speaking to a student. “Others believe the heat … is a natural state of the deep places.”

The line went slack, and Kiya shouted she had arrived.

“Where do you stand on the matter?” asked Tol, looking over his shoulder at the wizard as they both relaxed momentarily.

Mandes carefully patted his sweating, blistered hands with a corner of his robe. “I await further evidence before ascribing to either theory,” he said.

On the ledge beneath them, Kiya pulled her sister briskly to a sitting position, ignoring Miya’s squawks of pain. She set to work tying the rope under Miya’s arms. Both women were coughing, their eyes streaming tears. Fumes rising from the depths enveloped them in a noxious fog.

Tol’s face suddenly appeared above them, eerily highlighted by the glow from the chasm.

“Quiet!” he hissed. “Something’s coming!”

“Something? Something? It’s that monster!” Miya exclaimed.

“Haul me up! Let me die fighting!” Kiya cried, but Tol’s face disappeared.

Tol and the wizard heard, far down the passage, a series of rapid clicks – the sound of hard-shelled feet on stone – and an occasional loud whirr. Tol had seen wasps vibrate their wings when they were angry. XimXim must know intruders were in his lair, and was probably furious.

Tol stood, slowly removing his crimson mantle. Stripping to his iron breastplate and leather trews, he kicked his clothing out of the way, then drew his sword and war dagger. He tossed the empty scabbard away “You don’t think you can fight that thing single-handed?” said Mandes. He was sitting on the tunnel floor rifling through his clothing.

“What else can we do? We have no escape, and I doubt it knows mercy.”

Mandes produced the four wax balls containing the Balm of Sirrion and half a dozen other objects: two dried clay pills the size of acorns, a speckled bird’s egg, two stoppered wooden tubes, and a small glass cruet sealed with red wax.

“The sum of my life’s work,” the wizard said drily.

Tol gripped his weapons hard, pondering the sum of his own life. What did he have? A chest of gold coins, an old house, and the patronage of the future emperor of Ergoth – a man married to the woman Tol loved. Was that all he’d accomplished in his short life?

“Tol!” Kiya shouted. “Don’t leave us down here! I want to fight too!”

“Aren’t you going to answer her?” asked Mandes.

“Not this time,” he said.

That was something else he had, the Dom-shu sisters. Wives in name only perhaps, hut faithful and honorable companions. He would do his best to die honorably for them.

The clatter of many limbs grew louder. Several times Tol thought he saw movement in the shadows, but could discern nothing tangible. The sulfur vapors were making his head and chest hurt. If XimXim simply waited, the fumes would do his work for him. Yet Tol doubted there was much danger of that. The monster enjoyed killing too much to miss an opportunity to cleanse his home of invaders.

The drifting streams of smoke suddenly parted, revealing an enormous triangular head, half as wide as the tunnel. In the dull ruddy glow and tight confines of the cave, XimXim looked even more monstrous. The black pupils in his huge eyes swung round until they fixed on the two men. Two pairs of sharp palps clacked, as though eager to taste blood.

Tol felt a sharp stab of fear in the pit of his stomach. He could face any number of human foes with equanimity, but this creature was an abomination, an unnatural and terrifying evil.

Mandes shakily fell to his knees. At first Tol thought he was praying, but the sorcerer was simply adopting a more convenient posture for throwing his tiny arsenal of balms and vapors.

XimXim made a high-pitched noise and drew his lethal forearms slowly forward.

“May I?” said Mandes politely.

“By all means!”

The wizard chose one of the wooden tubes. Pulling the plug with his teeth, he flung it toward the monster. As soon as it left his hand, he intoned, “Ama, Ama, Kozom-dosh!”

The tube hit the floor in front of the oncoming creature. At once a bright blue, viscous tendril popped out. It spread rapidly across the floor, sprouting new tendrils as it went. Surprised, XimXim halted his advance.

The azure creeper climbed the walls and formed a web of glittering filaments, filling the lower half of the tunnel. XimXim threw up an arm, intending to slash the web apart.

“That’s right,” Mandes muttered. “Touch it! Go ahead!”

XimXim did not slice through the tendrils. Instead, the filaments stuck fast to him and continued to grow, moving up his leg. He backed away. Although the blue web stretched with distance, it did not break. In no time, his front leg was covered.

“Wonderful!” shouted Tol, relief washing over him.

XimXim retreated a bit, but the weird substance clung to him. Instead of using his other arm to try to cut himself loose, he brought his entangled limb to his mouth and began to chew the blue tendrils.

Tol hoped the monster’s mouth would become glued shut, but that was not the case. The palps worked and worked. Saliva dripped from the fast-moving fangs. The blue tendrils were shortly reduced to bits which fell inertly to the floor.

While the monster was thus occupied, Tol decided to attack. Knowing he couldn’t break through XimXim’s natural armor, he adopted a new tactic.

“Keep it busy!” he shouted to Mandes.

He dodged between XimXim’s many legs, dropping low beneath the creature’s underbelly. Here the dark green armor faded almost to white. With both hands on the hilt, Tol thrust his sword hard at the monster’s abdomen. There was resistance for a moment, then the thin shell gave. Green blood, black as ink in the dim cave, gushed over Tol’s hands. XimXim snapped violently from side to side, tearing the saber from Tol’s hands.

Mandes picked up one of his Balm of Sirrion pills and pressed it lightly between his palms. Uttering an incantation, he rolled the soft wax pellet across the stone floor. It stopped just short of the blue web and dissolved into a patch of white mist.

Flexing his six legs, XimXim brought his ponderous abdomen down hard, seeking to crush his tormentor. Tol rolled aside, grabbing his sword hilt and yanking it free. The creature tried twice more to quash him, but Tol evaded him.

By now Mandes’s mist was filling the tunnel. In response to Kiya’s shouted demands, the magician retreated to the edge of the precipice and gave the Dom-shu a terse account of the battle.

“Get me up there and let me have a crack at him!” Kiya roared.

“Sorry, lady, there’s no time. Ah! He’s bitten through the Phoenix Web!”

Mandes threw the second wooden tube, but this time XimXim saw it coming and batted it away. It sailed back over Mandes’s head into the pit. The wizard watched its fall with wide-eyed alarm.

“Uh-oh …”

Tol crawled on his belly until he emerged behind the monster. He could see XimXim’s bulbous abdomen waving in the fog as the beast attempted again and again to crush him. When the body dropped once more, Tol ran and sprang. He landed on the monster’s back.

XimXim, free at last of the clinging blue tendrils, whirled in a complete circle when he felt Tol’s weight on him. Tol slid over the hard armor, only halting his fall by driving his dagger into a hairline gap between the plates covering XimXim’s wings. More ichor oozed from the new wound, but Tol had found a secure handhold.

XimXim went berserk with pain and outrage. He ran up the tunnel’s side, his clawed feet easily keeping their grip. Tol tried to hang on, but when the monster turned him upside down, he lost his hold and fell to the floor. XimXim promptly let go and with astonishing agility twisted in mid-air to drop on top of his human antagonist. Quick reflexes saved Tol’s life. XimXim’s armored feet struck sparks off the hard floor, but just missed the young warrior as he scrambled clear.

The monster’s frantic movement had brought it closer to Mandes and the rim of the pit. Snatching up two clay pills, the panicked sorcerer hurled them at XimXim. One after the other they detonated in a silent flash. Mandes was blinded, and on the ledge below, the Dom-shu were dazzled. The flash instantly dispersed the magical mist and the remnants of the blue webbing, leaving the tunnel clear and open.

Fortunately, XimXim’s bulk protected Tol from the eye-searing blast of light. The young warrior’s vision went red in the glare, but he didn’t lose his sight. XimXim, though, was stricken sightless. The terrified monster charged back and forth, butting his head against the granite walls. Shards of rock and dust fell, and Tol feared the crazed creature might bring the whole mountain down on them.

Tol retrieved his sword, dropped when he fell from XimXim’s back. Gripping it in both hands, he stalked toward the monster. Blood ran down his face from cuts in his scalp. His arms were raw from scraping against the cave walls and floor.

On the other side of XimXim, Mandes groped for the last weapon at his disposal. His fingers found the glass cruet, but there hardly seemed any point to this last throw. If Balm of Sirrion, the Phoenix Web, and thunderflash powder had failed, what good would Oil of Luin do? It was all he had left.

The wax seal was hard, and Mandes couldn’t pry the glass stopper out. He could hear XimXim raging, feet pounding and palps grating, the sound reverberating through the tunnel. He had no idea what had become of Tol.

XimXim inadvertently kicked the prostrate wizard, a stunning blow. The cruet flew from Mandes’s fingers. Tol saw it sail through the air and shatter on impact. The contents spattered on the floor, shiny as quicksilver. He tensed for some big effect, but the liquid merely lay there. Mandes must not have had time to speak the proper words of power.

XimXim’s vision was returning. Having accidentally located the wizard, he turned to snip him into pieces. He hoisted the unconscious wizard high, holding his arm fast in the crook of one claw —

“Juramona! Juramona!”

Shouting to distract the beast, Tol ran under an arch of green legs, turned, and thrust his saber hard into XimXim’s gut. The creature convulsed in agony, his front legs twitching spasmodically. Mandes’s left arm was severed at the shoulder.

XimXim dropped the sorcerer and lurched away from his attacker, tearing the sword from Tol’s hand. Tol’s dagger was still buried in XimXim’s back. The young warrior was weaponless now.

Fluids green and black gushed from the monster’s belly wounds. XimXim opened his wings part way, but there was no room in the tunnel for flight. He staggered closer to the edge of the chasm. His middle legs trod on the Oil of Luin and promptly slid out from under him. He fell heavily on the thin pool of oil and slid toward the rim of the pit. Unable to stop himself, legs flailing, the monster skidded over the edge.

Kiya and Miya cried out when they saw the huge monster plunge by their narrow perch. It tried to spread its wings, but failed, and, helpless, clacking his palps in terror, XimXim plummeted into the pit. The awful noise he made was cut off abruptly when he splashed into the pool of molten rock far below.

A thick column of white smoke rose from the pit, filling the tunnel. The Dom-shu choked and gasped. Kiya had been hammering the rock wall with the pommel of Miya’s sword to make shallow toeholds. She began to climb.

When Kiya gained the tunnel floor above, she spied Tol kneeling by Mandes, working feverishly. Both men were covered, as was she herself, with a layer of white ash from XimXim’s immolation. She crawled to Tol, and he didn’t even flinch when she appeared suddenly at his elbow.

“What happened?” she asked.

“The monster cut off his arm. I’ve made a tourniquet, but I fear it’s too late!”

“Let me,” she said. “Help Miya.” Her hands were scored bloody from her climb, but she took over with the tourniquet. Beneath its coating of ash, Mandes’s face was pale as wax. His lips were purple in the red light of the tunnel.

“Miya!” Tol called, crawling on his hands and knees to the edge of the pit.

Miya still had the rawhide rope tied around her, so she tossed the free end to him. It took four tries, but he finally caught it and hauled her up. By the time she reached the top, her face was stiff with pain.

“Mind that silver stuff,” he said, indicating the magical oil. “That’s what did in the monster.”

“Poison?” she asked.

“Bad luck.”

Tol left her lying on the floor, nursing her cracked ribs, and went back to Kiya. She was threading a needle with a length of sinew, supplies from the kit she used to mend tears in her buckskins.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Sewing up his wound. Have you never seen it done? In the woodland, we often do it to gaping injuries.”

He watched, fascinated, as she used deer sinew to close Mandes’s terrible wound. It took time, but when she eased off the tourniquet, no blood flowed from the stump of the wizard’s arm.

“Now, let me see you,” she said.

He waved away her concern. “I’m fine.”

Kiya took Tol’s head in her strong hands and glared at him, looking like a stern ghost in her coating of ash. “I’ll tell you when you’re fine!” she said. “After all, what’s a wife for but to bind her husband’s wounds?”

Chapter 20

A PLACE BY THE SEA

The moons had set and sunrise was still a few hours off as the victors picked their way carefully down the mountain from XimXim’s cave. Tol and Kiya carried the badly wounded Mandes. Miya followed, slowly and painfully, clutching her sides. They saw no one in the gully at the foot of the mountain. Bloodstained rocks and charred earth gave evidence of the battle that had raged in their absence, yet all was quiet now.

Lowering Mandes’s limp body to the ground, Tol cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted, “Juramona! Juramona!”

The bushes stirred, and soldiers emerged. Some had their heads bandaged, or wore an arm in a sling. Seeing their commander, they raised a glad shout.

“The monster is dead!” Tol yelled.

The jubilant noise became a deafening tumult. Waving swords and spears, the soldiers engulfed them. A few ran down the ravine to inform the rest of their comrades. Tol ordered saplings cut to make litters for Mandes and Miya, then slumped to the stony earth. He sat with arms propped on his knees, head hanging tiredly. Something firm pressed against his back. Kiya had adopted the same posture, her back to his. He relaxed slightly against the welcome support.

The defile soon was full of happy, shouting men. The Ergothians cheered Tol so incessantly he gruffly ordered them to cease.

His officers soon got the troops in order. Torches were lit. Tarthan, Wellax, Allacath, and Frez sorted the men into companies and had them lined up in proper formation by the time Egrin arrived with the balance of the demi-horde.

Egrin, Darpo, Sanksa, and Fellen came forward and saluted. Tol lifted a hand and Darpo, his scarred face wreathed in smiles, hoisted him to his feet. Kiya rose as well, on the arm of Sanksa.

“My lord, I rejoice to see you!” said Egrin.

“I rejoice to be seen,” was Tol’s sincere reply.

“XimXim is destroyed?” Tol nodded. “Then this is a great day!” Egrin proclaimed.

In truth, Tol did not find it so. He was very glad to be alive, and happy the Dom-shu sisters and Mandes lived, but he wasn’t exactly proud of his victory.

“It wasn’t a battle, it was a bloody farce,” he growled. “We went up there just to have a look around! We had no plan. We just fought for our lives and managed to win – barely!”

Egrin nodded. “There’s no antidote for victory. It often leaves a bitter taste.” He told Tol of their losses in XimXim’s attack.

Narren’s death hit the young commander hard. He stood with eyes closed until the burning in them subsided.

When the litters were ready, Miya and Mandes rested a bit more comfortably. Frez, who as a boy had apprenticed to a sawbones in Caergoth, wrapped a tight linen bandage around Miya’s ribs. It was the only treatment he knew for her condition. After a few drafts of strong wine, though, the Dom-shu woman fell asleep.

In addition to his arm, Mandes had lost a great deal of blood, but he was still breathing, thanks to Kiya’s timely attention. Frez had a strengthening broth of bone marrow, herbs, and red wine prepared, and a soldier was appointed to spoon small amounts between the sorcerer’s slack lips.

Kiya washed the ash from her hands and face, and ate cold rations from a leather pouch. By this time the rising sun was beginning to color the eastern sky and Tol realized he was ravenous. He cleaned up and broke his fast.

A young soldier brought Cloud. Muscles aching, Tol swung into the saddle. Seeing Kiya limping along, he held out his hand. “Will you ride, lady?”

“A Dom-shu walks,” she replied proudly.

“Get on and spare your feet.”

To everyone’s surprise, she did just that. She cut a curious figure, seated behind Tol. Her arms and legs were covered in cuts and scratches, and she was a head taller than her ostensible husband. At first, she looked uncomfortable on Cloud, but soon leaned her head on Tol’s shoulder and fell asleep.

“What now, my lord?” asked Egrin.

Tol said, “Back to Hylo town. We’ll rest there a day, then march to the coast. By now Lord Urakan should have reached Old Port. The Tarsans will not sit and wait for him to find them. I mean to join our companies to his army.”

“Very good, my lord.”

Egrin gave the orders, and the foot soldiers assembled in marching formation. They should reach Hylo City by late afternoon.

*

Word of XimXim’s demise spread ahead of the Ergothians. The journey out from Hylo’s capital had been desolate and lonely; the return was like a festival. Kender turned out in droves, lining the road to cheer the Ergothians. Lacking flowers so late in the season, they stripped off the most colorful leaves from nearby trees and spread them before Tol’s horse.

Riding alongside his commander, Egrin said drily, “Victors are always popular.”

Kiya, still mounted behind Tol, eyed the cheering crowd with distrust. “Just keep an eye on your valuables. Kender are even more dangerous when friendly!”

The soldiers did lose equipment to kender “curiosity” – haversacks, gauntlets, a few mantles – but nothing vital. By the time the Ergothians entered Hylo town, the crowds were tremendous. None of the soldiers, not even the oldest and most experienced, had any idea there were so many kender in all of Hylo. Little people cheered from every window, some waving bits of scarlet cloth tied to sticks, like miniature imperial banners. Kender children ran alongside the marching column.

“XimXim is de-ad! XimXim is de-ad!” they chanted, drawing the last word into two syllables.

Their procession bore left into the main square, packed from side to side by the shouting throng. The mob had left a clear lane across the square. It led straight to the door of the royal residence, where Tol halted the column.

“Looks like we’re expected!” Egrin shouted over the din.

Tol nodded. “We represent the empire – let’s pay our respects to the king.” He looked back over his shoulder at the unmoving line of men. “Find Darpo! Tell him to join us up front.”

Soon, the former sailor rode through the double line of soldiers to Tol’s side. Tol raised his hand to signal the soldiers forward. The kender took this as a greeting and let out a high-pitched roar of delight. Tol managed a smile, then waved his men to follow between the two walls of cheering kender.

Hylo’s royal residence was no bigger than any other house on the square. Three stories high, built of cut stone, and half-timbered, the residence was guarded by a detachment of the Royal Loyal Militia. These seventeen kender were dressed in a hodge-podge of military finery – Ergothian iron helmets, Tarsan octagonal shields, mantles in the Silvanesti style. Their weapons were the usual swords and spears, though reduced in size for kender. According to Lord Urakan, the kender imported weapons from the dwarves of Thorin, so the implements were likely made of very good iron and bronze.

Standing at the top of the steps was a fellow slight even by kender standards, almost lost in a long pinkish-brown cape.

“Is that the king?” Tol asked Darpo, but Darpo could only shrug. He had visited various Hylo ports, but had never caught sight of the kender king.

Tol halted Cloud at the foot of the steps. Kiya dismounted and stretched, her limbs unused to riding. Tol tried to mask the exhausted tremor in his own muscles. At his order, Egrin, Darpo, and Kiya joined him in climbing the steps of the royal residence. The tiny kender in the cape resembled a wooden doll, his face seamed with a thousand fine cracks and his long white hair pulled back in a tight bun.

The crowd quieted somewhat. With a respectful nod, Tol said, “Do I have the honor of addressing Lucklyn, king of Hylo?”

“You have more honor than that,” said the wizened kender. “I’m Casberry, the queen. Lucklyn’s gone on a wander and left me in charge.”

Tol and his party knelt. “Forgive me, Your Majesty!”

The queen cackled. “Never mind. At my age, I don’t mind being mistaken for a king. It’s better than being taken for a corpse!”

“Very true,” said Tol. The Ergothians rose.

The queen took out a long-stemmed clay pipe and stuffed a brown weed into it. She stamped her foot and one of the militia left his post to fetch a burning twig from within the house.

While he waited for the queen to get her pipe lit and drawing, Tol noticed she had extremely bright green eyes, like the color of new spring leaves. They reminded him, with an unexpected pang, of Valaran’s.

At last the queen said amiably, between pulls on her pipe, “So, you finally killed XimXim?”

“I did, Your Majesty, though not alone.” Tol introduced Kiya, and gave credit to Miya and Mandes as well.

Queen Casberry choked on smoke. “Not Mandes the Mist-maker?”

“It may be, Majesty. He is skilled at making fogs.”

“He owes us money,” said the queen. “For practicing magic in our realm without a license.”

Tol promised to settle the debt, and the queen moved on to another subject. She tottered over to the Dom-shu woman, gazing up at her considerable height.

“Did someone hex you?” she demanded. “You’re tall as a vallenwood!”

“We of the Dom-shu tribe are all of goodly height,” said Kiya.

The queen tapped the pipe stem against her yellow teeth thoughtfully, then asked, “How’d you like to work for me?”

“Doing what?”

“Bodyguard.” The ancient little queen stepped closer and continued in a loud whisper, “This bunch of empty pockets aren’t much good, you know. When XimXim attacked the city, all of them hid in the cellar!”

“Probably a wise decision,” said Kiya, remembering the terrible toll XimXim had taken on the trained warriors of Ergoth.

The queen snorted. “So? Want to be my royal guard?”

Kiya’s open face revealed the blunt rejection she was prepared to make, but a warning glance from Tol prompted her to say, “Sounds tempting, Your Majesty, but I’m not a free woman. Lord Tolandruth here is my husband.”

The map of fine lines on the queen’s face drooped in unison. “Oh. Well, if you ever get tired of him, come see me. I pay good. Ask anybody.” With a sparkle in her green eyes, she returned to the center of the landing.

“Thanks very much for killing XimXim,” she said to Tol. “He’s been bothering us for a long time. Ate a cousin of mine, Rufus Wrinklecap. Not the Rufus Wrinklecap, mind you. That one once borrowed —”

“You’re welcome, Your Majesty,” Tol said hastily, forestalling what he supposed would be a long tale. “By your leave, we would like to camp for the night just outside the town. We’ll be marching off to Old Port in the morning.”

“Fine, fine. There’s the matter of the fee, though.”

Tol again promised to meet any fine levied against Mandes for his unlicensed practice in Free Point. He was grateful to Mandes – and not a little worried about his recovery from the battle with XimXim.

“There’s another fee,” Casberry said, stroking her pointed chin. “For killing XimXim.”

Tol’s comrades exploded with outraged exclamations. The queen was unmoved by their protests.

“Our law requires all hunters pay a fee, since all game in the kingdom belongs to the crown. That’s me,” she explained. She rapped the bowl of her pipe against the heel of her hand. Burnt weed spilled out, soiling the front of her belted robe. “You being foreigners, I don’t hold it against you that you didn’t pay first. But I must have the hunting fee before you leave my domain.”

Kiya muttered something about thievery. Egrin looked grim, and Darpo scratched his scarred brow, trying to think of a reasonable argument to offer for why they shouldn’t be required to pay.

Tol simply said, “How much, Your Majesty?”

“It’s based on the weight of the game killed. Rabbits are half a copper each, wolves three, deer five, pigs seven, elk and wild oxen go for one silver piece per carcass,” Casberry said, regarding Tol slyly. “XimXim was a rather big fellow, was he not?”

“Yes, Majesty. Yet his carcass weighs surprisingly little.”

“Eh? What?”

“He fell deep into the mountain and burned up in a pool of molten rock. All that’s left of him is smoke and ash, probably weighing no more than a grown boar.” Tol put two fingers in his belt pouch. “Seven coppers, you said, for pig-sized game?”

Plainly unhappy, Queen Casberry ignored the snickers of her militia and grabbed the coins. “How do I know XimXim burned up?” she asked, once the money was in her hand.

“You have my word as a Rider of the Horde and a lord of the Ergothian Empire,” Tol replied loftily. “Of course, Your Majesty could visit the cave and see for herself that the monster is dead. I myself will mark a map for you.”

“Yes, yes, thank you very much!” she said, waving away Tol’s offer. “You may camp outside our city for as long as you like.” The crafty look returned to her wizened face. “Your Lord Urakan is already defeated, though.”

Tol advanced two steps until he was standing over her. The Royal Loyal Militia tried to interpose their spears, but he would not be deflected.

“You have news of Lord Urakan?”

“I do,” answered the queen, not in the least intimidated.

When she offered nothing further, Tol said, “Perhaps my men and I should remain in Hylo City, to defend it from the Tarsans. We could camp here in this square —”

“They aren’t coming here!” Casberry snapped, then began fussing with her pipe, trying to stuff more brown weed into the bowl.

“How do you know?”

When she ignored him, stubbornly persisting in loading her pipe, Tol delved into his pouch and produced five gold coins – part of the original treasure paid to him by Prince Amaltar after the battle in the Great Green. The coins were imperial crowns, rated at twice the value of a typical gold piece. The haughty profile of Ackal Ergot marked each thick, heavy disk.

Seeing the coins, the queen of Hylo forgot her pipe completely. Tol put the imperial crowns in her hand and gently closed her tiny fingers around them. She could hardly hold them, they were so large.

“I may have been wrong about XimXim’s weight,” he said in a low voice.

Casberry bit one coin. Satisfied, she tucked all five up one voluminous sleeve. “I’m told on good authority that Lord Urakan’s army tried to cross Three Rose Creek two days ago,” she said, naming a shallow stream northeast of Old Port. “When half his army was across, the Tarsans attacked. Many Ergothians were slain, and Lord Urakan withdrew into the town.”

Tol chewed his lower lip. Timing like that was no accident. Tylocost was living up to his reputation. He’d probably had Urakan’s hordes under observation the whole time, and struck when he could do the most damage.

“How do you know the Tarsans won’t come here?” he repeated.

“Don’t have to,” was her acute reply. “If they destroy Lord Urakan, Hylo is theirs, isn’t it?”

When Tol turned to order his men to march away, he was stunned to see the square, formerly packed with deliriously cheering kender, was now empty, save for his ten companies. He heard a rustle of cloth and the clink of armor and spun around in time to see the last of the Royal Loyal Militia closing the door of the royal residence behind him. The Ergothians were alone in the square.

*

It was raining by the time they pitched camp, halfway between Hylo City and Far-to-go. A pile of thunderheads had risen out of the bay and rolled ashore, loosing a deluge that drenched everyone.

Tol made sure Mandes had a warm, dry place to sleep. The wizard was still in his litter, face wet with sweat. Tol lightly pressed two fingers to the vein in Mandes’s throat. His pulse was rapid, his breathing shallow.

Surprisingly, the sorcerer’s eyes opened. “My lord?” he said weakly. “The monster … defeated?”

Tol smiled. “We’re alive, aren’t we?”

“Filthy creature … mangled my arm, didn’t he?”

Tol didn’t know how much to tell the weak man, so he said, “You made the difference, Mandes. If it hadn’t been for your magic, none of us would be alive now.”

“Thank you, my lord.” His gaze flickered around the tent. “Where …?”

“Outside Hylo town. We saw the queen today. She claims you owe her money.”

For the first time Tol heard Mandes use a foul word. “Some thieves get hanged,” he murmured. “Others get crowns.”

“Never mind. Take your ease while you can. We’ll be on the march tomorrow. Lord Urakan has been bested by Tylocost again, and we’re marching to his aid.”

Tol was leaving when Mandes rasped, “My lord, a thought!”

Tol returned, and the sorcerer said, “It’s no betrayal of the empire to help yourself, instead of Lord Urakan. To win the war, you must overcome Tylocost, even if that means letting others taste defeat.”

Mandes’s strength was exhausted. He closed his eyes and slept.

Outside, rain poured down Tol’s face. What did Mandes mean? The words of a feverish man were often like divination – a glimpse of truth through a veil of mystery. Was there a way Tol could defeat Tylocost with fewer than three hundred men?

Tol walked around the camp, weighing what he knew about the situation in eastern Hylo. He turned the facts over in his mind, considered, pondered, mulled. Although several of his soldiers called greetings, he never heard them.

There was a way, he decided at last. A very dangerous way, calling for extreme coolness and the utmost courage from his men. He was prepared to try it, but what of the others?

He stalked through the rainy night, calling for Egrin and his captains. It was time for a council of war.

*

“With all respect, my lord, the notion is insane.” The flat statement came from Egrin. As a life-long warrior, his opinion carried considerable weight, but for once Tol was unmoved by his mentor’s caution.

“Very well,” Tol replied. “Other opinions?” Darpo, as stalwart a man as ever lived, looked at the movements marked in charcoal on Tol’s map.

“If it works, it would be glorious,” he said, chewing his lip. Egrin was adamant. “Our men will be slaughtered.”

“I don’t think so,” Tol countered. “Tylocost is a clever, accomplished general, but who has he faced all these years? Lord Urakan? – a stout fighter and steady leader, but a dull tactician. Lord Regobart? – a brilliant general, but impetuous and unstable. Prince Nazramin —” Tol paused, unwilling to speak his mind even in front of his loyal officers. “Prince Nazramin thinks war is like a boar hunt: Whoever sheds the most blood wins.”

A few tired chuckles greeted this comment. The council of war had gone on a long time, first with Tol explaining his idea, then with his subordinates discussing it. Midnight had come and gone.

“I believe in this plan,” Tol said. “Tylocost knows nothing about us. If he’s heard we went after XimXim, he might even believe us destroyed. Should word of the monster’s demise reach him, he’ll not credit it. After all, his army of trained mercenaries was decimated by XimXim. What chance would three hundred Ergothians stand?”

“It took only four,” said Sanksa, with a rare smile.

Tol remained serious. “We must attack,” he said, “but I want each of my commanders to believe in my plan. Anyone who doesn’t should remain behind in Old Port.”

The men from Juramona didn’t hesitate.

“We’ll follow you anywhere,” Darpo vowed, and others echoed the sentiment.

Only Egrin remained silent. He stared down at the map with a frown on his bearded face. All eyes turned to him.

At last he looked up. “I go where you lead, my lord,” he said.

“That’s not what I want,” Tol said. “Do you believe the plan can succeed?”

When the elder warrior pursed his lips and said nothing, Tol nodded. “Very well. I have a special task that needs doing. You will undertake it.”

Although Egrin looked chastened, Tol clapped him on the shoulder warmly. He was ordered to head south with Miya, Mandes, and the seventeen men who had been badly wounded in the fight with XimXim. Mounted on all their remaining horses, Egrin and his party would seek out Lord Urakan and inform him of Tol’s intentions against the Tarsans.

Egrin saluted. “That mission I shall fulfill.”

The soldiers caught a few hours of rest, then, before dawn, with the rain still falling, they broke camp. The demi-horde was reorganized into eight companies – some two hundred and sixty fighting men, plus Kiya. They parted company with Egrin at Fingle’s Creek. The line of wounded, some in litters, others hobbling on crutches fashioned from spears, moved slowly away in the rain. A two-wheeled kender cart, acquired in Hylo City, carried Mandes and Miya. Miya was still asleep, which was just as well; conscious, she would never have agreed to be parted from her sister.

Egrin raised his hand in farewell, then rode away. He and his limping command were quickly veiled by the gray morning.

“I wish he was with us,” murmured Frez, at Tol’s side.

Tol, equally sorry for Egrin’s absence and still grieving the loss of Narren, stiffened. Frez’s downcast words penetrated his gloom, reminding him how important their fighting spirit was to his plan.

“Regret nothing!” Tol said staunchly. “Egrin has nothing to prove, to us or anyone.” Assuming a light-hearted tone, he gave Frez a slap on the back and added, “Would we not gladly die for the empire?”

“Why not?” replied Tarthan, a wry look on his dark face. “I’ve done most things, but I haven’t been killed yet.”

Muddy to their waists, the foot soldiers turned south. When Fingle’s Creek shrank to a narrow stream, they forded it and mounted the eastern bank. The woods were thin here, crisscrossed by footpaths and cart trails. The Ergothians hugged the creekbank, and by midmorning had reached the slapdash defenses of Old Port.

Kender weren’t known for keeping buildings in repair, and the Old Port wall was no exception. The stones were cracked open by vines, and the wooden gates were rotten. None of the wall seemed to be guarded, but Tol and his men avoided the south gate just in case. They slipped silently into the sleepy town.

In the high street they came upon a pair of armed humans, each carrying a bucket. Wellax’s company swiftly captured them. They proved to be mercenaries – men from the eastern lands beyond the Khalkist Mountains. Astonished to find Ergothians in Old Port, they finally answered Tol’s questions after a little encouragement.

They had been looking for fresh water to take back to the Wave Chaser Inn, three streets away. A few score Tarsan soldiers were quartered there, and a late night revel had used up every potable in the place. The main Tarsan army was south of Three Rose Creek, outside Old Port. Tylocost was preparing to strike south and destroy Lord Urakan’s army once and for all.

The number of men in the Tarsan army was somewhere between ten and twelve thousand. All the rest of Tylocost’s fifty thousand strong had been lost in the past two years – in battle, to sickness, and to XimXim. More troops were on the way from Tarsis, the prisoners said. A reinforcement of twenty thousand was expected before autumn.

This news added urgency to the Ergothians’ plan. Tol had the two men bound, gagged, and heaved into a convenient cellar. He sent half his men up the high street. He and the rest of the demi-horde surrounded the Wave Chaser Inn, a stout stone structure built by a Tarsan sea captain as a haven for his fellow countrymen in the kender town.

Slipping on a helmet and yellow cloak taken from one of the mercenaries, Tol walked boldly in the front door.

The great room was full of soldiers sleeping off the effects of too much drink. Tol took a deep breath and shattered the silence.

“On your feet!” he bellowed. “Lord Tylocost comes! Get on your feet, you stinking swine!”

His training-ground voice stood him in good stead. Blearily, the mercenaries got to their feet, shaking their more sodden comrades awake.

“Turn out! Turn out!” Tol shouted. “The army’s moving out! Any man not on his feet and in the street will be considered a deserter. We all know what Lord Tylocost does to deserters!”

In threes and fours, the soldiers staggered into the rainswept street. Tol’s own men were drawn up in two double lines, and the befuddled Tarsan troops obligingly formed up between them.

Meanwhile, an officer, from the look of the gold leaves on his helmet, approached Tol. “What’s happened?” he asked in a hoarse voice. “I thought we were staying in Old Port for at least a fortnight —”

“General’s orders. He’s routed the Ergothians and needs every available man to join the pursuit.”

The officer nodded. Looking down to buckle his sword belt, he noticed Tol’s Ergothian-style riding boots.

The Tarsan’s head came up. “You’re —!”

Tol whipped out his saber and laid its edge against the man’s neck. “Be wise!”

The Tarsan officer glared at Tol with bloodshot eyes. His hesitation lasted only a moment; he had no choice, and knew it. He surrendered.

Tol prodded him outside, where the bewildered Tarsans were facing four lines of Ergothian spears. At their officer’s command, the Tarsans grounded their arms.

The wine cellar of the inn proved a perfect dungeon, albeit filled with casks of north plains wine and Tarsan-style beer. Tol had the disarmed enemy soldiers herded into the cellar and the door bolted. Laughing at their easy coup, the Ergothians demolished the wooden stairs leading up from the cellar and used the heavy timbers to brace the door shut. Full casks, long feasting tables, and heavy bags of flour were piled against the braces. It would take the Tarsans a full day to break out.

“Let’s go,” Tol said. “Time is short! Egrin should have reached Lord Urakan’s camp by now.”

The rain had ended at last, and the sun was breaking through the tattered clouds. Tol’s men sorted through the cloaks and weaponry given up by the mercenaries. One entire company – Darpo’s – was outfitted with saffron-colored cloaks and peaked Tarsan helmets. They also tied red cloths around their right arms to identify themselves as imperial soldiers.

They left Old Port by the east gate, heading toward the alluvial plain between Fingle’s and Three Rose Creek. A low ridge dominated the north side of the stream. Tol could not imagine crossing the creek and climbing that ridge in the face of an entrenched enemy, but stubborn Lord Urakan had tried. Tol was counting on that same stubbornness now. Stung by defeat, Urakan would fall back, but slowly and reluctantly. Tylocost would swoop down upon him to complete his victory.

That’s what Tol would do, and what he expected the skilled elf general to do.

The south shore of Three Rose Creek was covered with rafts, scows, and barges used to ferry the Tarsan army across. No guards remained behind. Tylocost had cut loose from his base and was going all out to catch Urakan’s retreating hordes.

As most of Tol’s force hurried on, Fellen’s company stayed behind. They proceeded to sink or set adrift all the watercraft the Tarsans had left behind. There would be no escape for Tylocost.

The enemy’s trail was easy to follow. Thousands of men and horses had trampled through the waist-high cattails as they climbed up from the creek into the sparse pine woods. Just inside the woods, Tol paused, waiting for Fellen’s company to rejoin them. A distant rumble came to his ears – Tylocost’s army, on the move.

“Twelve thousand men,” Allacath muttered.

“Equal parts foot and cavalry,” Tol added. “The Tarsans hire plains nomads for their riding skills.”

“They can’t stand up to our horsemen,” said Darpo staunchly.

“They’ve been doing a pretty good job so far,” was Allacath’s gloomy reply.

When Fellen’s men had caught up with them, Tol ordered his men into battle formation. Five companies would lead: Tarthan’s on the far left, then Wellax, Allacath, Frez, and Darpo on the right. About fifty paces behind them would come the second line, the companies of Fellen, Sanksa, and Egrin, the latter now commanded by Kiya. In ordinary times, it would have been impossible to convince Ergothian warriors to follow a tribal woman into battle, but her part in defeating XimXim had won Kiya much respect from the hard-nosed soldiers.

Darpo’s company, disguised by yellow cloaks and peaked helms, advanced slightly ahead of the rest of the line. Several times they came within sight of the rearmost echelons of the Tarsan army, but Tol held them back, allowing Tylocost to keep ahead. The time was not yet right to strike.

Midday came. The sky was bright blue, flecked with clouds only at the far eastern and western horizons. It was summer, and the warm wind off the sea combined with the sun to make the day sultry.

Tol and his men ate and drank on the march, passing waterskins back and forth in the ranks. Off to their right, the west, a distant shout went up, closely followed by the telltale clatter of arms. Tol tossed his waterskin to the man behind him and drew his sword.

“Close up the line. Shields up,” he said quietly.

Two hundred round shields swung into line; two hundred long spears protruded beside them. Darpo’s company scattered into a thin skirmish line. They trotted through the slender pines toward the din of battle, but hadn’t gone far when an officer on horseback cantered back to them.

“What are you men doing here?” the Tarsan demanded. “Get to the front! We’ve caught the Ergos. They won’t escape this time!”

Darpo hurled a spear, killing the officer. The riderless horse galloped away. While the Ergothians were searching the dead man, a troop of enemy cavalry came riding by. They were lightly armed nomads, wearing Tarsan colors, but rode past without stopping. Darpo let them go.

In the dead officer’s cuirass, Darpo found a dispatch. As he was skimming its contents, Tol and the main body of soldiers came jogging through the trees. Darpo handed him the letter.

“‘Proceed at once to the enemy’s left, and charge home,’” Tol read aloud. “‘Their unhorsed cavalry won’t fight on foot.’” He looked up swiftly. “It’s signed ‘Tylo.’”

“What are we going to do?” Wellax said.

Tol crumpled the strip of parchment. “We go straight in,” he replied.

He knew his plan would work better if the Tarsans routed the battered, horseless Ergothian riders. It was a harsh decision, but there was no time to waste explaining to his men. Mounting Cloud, he urged his soldiers forward.

The sounds of combat increased. Atop a sandy knoll Tol took in the panorama of battle. On his right, the Tarsan cavalry was swarming around a large body of Ergothians on foot – the horseless riders mentioned in the dispatch. Had Tol commanded them, the Ergothians might have formed a tight circle and held off the enemy light horse, but the imperial riders had no proper training in fighting afoot. They sallied forth in groups of ten and twenty to attack the nomads, who easily evaded them. Then the Tarsan cavalry charged and tore the isolated knots of Ergothians to pieces, trampling them underfoot or impaling them with their long, light lances.

In the center of the battlefield, a strong force of Ergothian horsemen was holding out against combined forays of Tylo-cost’s cavalry and heavily armed foot soldiers. Encased in armor, using shields so large and heavy it took two men to shift each one, the Tarsan infantry could push the Ergothian cavalry back. But the Tarsans’ great weakness was their lack of maneuverability.

On the left, another mixed force of enemy foot and cavalry was driving steadily through a small force of riders. Judging by the stout resistance in the center, Tol deduced Lord Urakan was there, his granite-hard resolve steadying his men. Tylo-cost would gravitate to the center as well, looking to overwhelm the imperial hordes and complete their destruction.

“Darpo, off with those rags!” Tol said.

“Yes, my lord!” Darpo’s company shed their Tarsan cloaks and helmets.

“Juramona!” cried Tol.

“Juramona!” answered his chosen retainers. The city guardsmen under their command raised spears high and added, “Daltigoth! Daltigoth!”

Tol’s men fell on the rear of the Tarsan force. His hardy footmen drove through the nomad cavalry but slammed to a halt when they reached the armored infantry. The nomads reformed and swarmed around the rear of Tol’s formation, expecting to scatter the few Ergothians. To their immense surprise, Kiya’s company formed a tight block bristling with spears and ran at them, trapping the Tarsan force against Sanksa’s company in the rear. At least a hundred nomads fell, and the balance fled in consternation. A few of Sanksa’s men picked up stones and contemptuously flung them at the fleeing barbarians.

Deep in the fight, Tol saw none of this. He was in formation with Darpo and Frez, and they hit the enemy foot soldiers hard from behind. The rear ranks died where they stood, unable to face about in the press, but the middle ranks managed to turn and meet Tol’s onslaught. The Tarsan troops were armed with short, heavy swords, shields, and halberds. Tol’s spearmen kept the short swords away, battling the halberdiers to a standstill. The fight degenerated into the kind of slashing match Tol could not afford with his slender line of men, so he called for Fellen’s company to hit the enemy’s flank. The engineer arrived like a whirlwind, bowling over the mercenaries in their weighty suits of iron mail and bronze plate. In the center, five thousand Tarsans were pinched between Tol’s two hundred sixty and Urakan’s three thousand. Lighter troops might have fought their way out, but the heavily armored foot soldiers were trapped by their inability to maneuver.

Lord Urakan felt the tide turning, even before he understood why. The pressure lessened on his beleaguered riders. By his side, Egrin declared, “My lord, Lord Tolandruth has hobbled them! It’s up to you to knock the enemy down!”

Brandishing the standard of his own horde, the Golden Riders of Caer, Lord Urakan charged straight into the center of the melee. His Ergothians broke the first line of infantry, then the second; by the time they reached the third, however, they had no momentum left. Mercenaries closed around Lord Urakan. Halberds whirled and struck the standard from his hand. He replaced it with his saber, but the foot soldiers used the hook ends of their pole arms to drag him from the saddle. Fighting furiously, brave, arrogant Lord Urakan was pulled into the mob of Tarsan soldiers, and brutally slain.

Seeing this, an angry Egrin took command and re-formed the center of the imperial line. The center held, but the Ergothians were now in difficulty on both flanks. The unhorsed warriors on the left had been beaten and were streaming away from the fight with howling nomads in pursuit. On the right, the Tarsans and Ergothians battled back and forth, neither side gaining an advantage. Everything depended on the center, on which side would outlast the other.

Tol left the front line long enough to climb a small pine tree and survey the battlefield. The enemy center was pinched in the middle, leaving two large blocks of troops joined by a thin line. Egrin was sending waves of mounted attacks against this narrow line. Men and horses were piling up in heaps.

Sunlight flashed off a brilliant object in the midst of the Tarsan center. Tol shaded his eyes and saw an officer on foot wearing a tall, silver helmet with a brightly polished comb. Such workmanship had to be elven. Could this be Tylocost himself?

Shinnying down the tree, Tol shouted for Darpo. Covered in blood not his own, the intrepid warrior raced to his commander’s side. Tol pointed out the shining helmet.

“Tylocost?” Darpo exclaimed, his scarred face brightening. “I’ll bring you his head!”

“Only if it’s still attached to the rest of him!”

Darpo grinned, nodding. He knew his commander did not approve of butchery. He called together a dozen men and prepared to thrust deep into the enemy formation. Tol joined them, moving shoulder to shoulder with his brave foot soldiers.

They rushed through a gap in the line and used their spears to lever apart the armored Tarsans. Because they didn’t stop to fight, Tol and Darpo were able to force their way through enemy lines quickly. They found a gap, where wounded Tarsans were sheltering from the battle. Idle archers, their bowstrings made slack by the recent rain, grabbed maces and tried to drive the Ergothians out, but were no match for the spears and shields of Tol’s men. Half the archers perished. The rest broke and ran.

From the open ground, Tol could see Lord Urakan’s army as it pressed forward, and the mercenary infantry bending back under the strain. He spotted the bright helmet again. Its owner was up a birch tree, watching the attack of Urakan’s hordes.

Tol, Darpo, and their small group ran through the wounded and dying men, leaping over them as they lay on the bloodstained soil. They reached the birch tree with Tol in the lead.

“Tylocost! Come down!” he shouted, striking the slim trunk with the flat of his sword. “Come down, or I’ll cut the tree down with you in it!”

The warrior in the shiny helmet showed no sign of hearing, much less complying. A handful of nearby Tarsans rushed to their leader’s rescue. Darpo’s men fought them off while Tol, Darpo, and two guardsmen chopped at the tree with discarded Tarsan swords. Chips flew. With a loud crack, the slender birch sagged and began to fall.

Hardly had the tree come to rest when Tol and his men swarmed over it. The Tarsan in the bright helmet stepped nimbly from the branches and whipped out a fine sword with a long, slender blade. Tol rushed in, dagger in his left hand, saber in his right.

The Tarsan’s blade flickered in and out, close to Tol’s throat and face. He knew his opponent was trying to unnerve him, but he refused to be cowed, and bored in with his saber while blocking his opponent’s attacks with his dagger. At last Tol pinned his foe’s blade with the dagger and brought his own weapon down on the Tarsan’s grip. The cup hilt saved the fellow’s hand, but the blow broke three of the Tarsan’s fingers. The slender sword fell to the ground.

Tol brought the edge of the dagger to his opponent’s neck. “Surrender!” he panted.

“Will you spare my men if I do?”

“Yes!”

The Tarsan pulled off his helmet. He was an elf all right, but not at all what Tol had expected. Instead of the handsome gallant of bardic song, Tylocost was downright homely. His hair was long, but more gray than yellow, and his pale blue eyes were closely set over a long, thin nose. His fair skin was blotched with large brown freckles, and he was thin to the point of emaciation. He asked Tol’s name, then confirmed his own identity.

“I am Janissiron Tylocostathan, called Tylocost by the Tarsans.”

The men of the storming party surrounded the enemy general. Tol guided his prisoner at sword point to the center of the Tarsan line, where Tylocost called for a cornet. A youth answered, standing just outside the ring of Ergothian spears, but hesitated when ordered to sound “ground arms.”

“Do it, boy,” Tylocost told him. “We’ve lost today. There’ll be another time, another day to fight.”

Blushing with shame, the cornetist put the brass horn to his lips and blew a four-note signal. He kept repeating it until the Tarsan foot soldiers threw down their weapons. The Tarsans’ nomad cavalry, not inclined to submit to Ergothian mercy, galloped away. Weary imperial horsemen let them go. The Battle of Three Rose Creek was over.

Moments before, twenty-five thousand men had been fighting to the death. Now a hush fell over the battlefield. The survivors of Tol’s small band pushed through the Tarsan army, most of whom were sitting dejectedly on the ground. Tol saw Tarthan and Frez, Fellen and Sanksa, leading their men toward him. He strained his eyes and stretched his neck until, with great relief, he saw Kiya among the survivors. She had an ugly cut on her sword arm, but walked her with head held high.

Tarthan, the eldest of Tol’s retainers, saluted with his dagger. “My lord,” he said. “I present the demi-horde of Daltigoth and Juramona, one hundred forty-eight blades fit for duty.”

Before Tol could reply, Kiya walked past the gathering Ergothians and threw an arm around his shoulders.

“You are well?” he asked, smiling up at her.

“Sore.” She eyed him up and down. “And you haven’t got the slightest scratch, have you?”

“No holes. No missing parts.”

With a rumble of hoofbeats, the imperial hordes arrived. Tol was surprised but pleased to see Egrin leading the riders.

“Greetings, my lord,” the elder warrior said. “The day is yours!”

“Well, we won, at any rate. Where is Lord Urakan?”

Egrin shook his head once, and Tol understood. “Are you in command of the army then?” he asked.

A smile ghosted through Egrin’s gray-flecked beard. “No.” In answer to Tol’s puzzlement he added, “You are the victor, my lord. The army is yours.”

Tol was about to protest when Kiya raised a cheer: “Tolan-druth! Tolandruth! Tolandruth!”

Tol’s retainers added their hoarse voices, then the multitude of Ergothians took up the cry. Tol felt his face burn.

Turning away, he found himself face to face with the homely but clever General Tylocost.

“To the victor goes all praise,” the elf said calmly. “Savor it – for now. Soon enough it will be only a memory, given the fortunes of war.” When Tol grimaced and kept his flushed face averted, Tylocost frowned and asked, “Forgive me asking, but just how old are you, my lord?”

“Twenty and one years.”

The elf looked pained. “Merciful Astarin! I’ve been beaten by a child. What will they say in Silvanost?”

Tylocost’s chagrin cheered Tol considerably. He raised his head, and his grin incited fresh cheers. Tol stared in bemusement at the sea of dirty, bloodstained men, all happily bellowing his name.

“Don’t just stand there grinning like a lout,” Tylocost said.

Nettled, yet unsure, Tol said, “What should I do?”

The elf sighed. “A child, a veritable babe! Raise your sword or spear, my lord. Such devotion should be graciously acknowledged.”

Tol took out his nicked and battered saber one more time. When he lifted it high above his head, the chant of his name became a great single roar. It was heard as far away as Old Port.

It would soon be felt in both Tarsis and Daltigoth.

Epilogue

THE REWARD OF TRUST;
THE SILENCE OF VIRTUE

The days that followed the battle were frantic and noisy. Imperial soldiers, elated by their hard-won victory, celebrated long and heartily.

Tol retired to the tent that had been Lord Urakan’s. Amid the carpets and tapestries, gilded braziers and leather camp chairs, he felt very out of place and very much alone. His first night there, for reasons he did not understand, he was seized by violent fits of trembling. He downed a cup of Lord Urakan’s best vintage, and the shivering faded.

Scattered across the dead general’s trestle table were sheets of the finest foolscap. Tol sat down, took up an ink-stained pen and wrote a lengthy missive to Valaran.

The battle is won, he wrote in a neat but slow hand. But I would give up all the cheers I hear now and the honors I will receive, if I could be with you tonight …

He was still at the table when Egrin found him, slumped forward, sleeping with his head resting on his folded arms. The conqueror of XimXim, liberator of Hylo, and victor over Tylocost had ink on his fingers and a black smudge on his nose, the result of a careless scratch while he was writing his long missive.

Egrin did not try to wake him. Tenderly, the elder warrior draped one of Urakan’s heavy capes around Tol’s shoulders, then went out to begin the reorganization of the scattered imperial army.

*

Within ten days of Tylocost’s defeat, all opposition to Ergoth was overcome. Tol marched through eastern Hylo, driving out the Tarsan garrisons posted in Free Point and other towns. Tarsan mercenaries not captured at Three Rose Creek fled the country, taking ship or escaping over the mountains. Although they expected vengeful Ergothian hordes to pursue them, the imperial army had little strength left to chase anyone.

Tol halted his tired hordes at Old Port and requisitioned all available ships. Then he turned all the captured Tarsan soldiers loose. Stripped of arms and armor, with only enough food to get them home by the most direct sailing route, nine and a half thousand men were sent on their way. They were all that was left of the force of fifty thousand who’d come to Hylo to wrest the kender kingdom from the empire’s sway.

Veteran warlords under Tol’s command, including Egrin, argued against such clemency, saying the freed men would only take up arms against Ergoth in the future.

“They’re defeated,” Tol said. “Let them go back and show their masters in Tarsis their humiliation. Let the wealthy syndics of the city feed and house them, not us.”

Tol defied accepted custom in another way: He did not send Tylocost’s head to the emperor. The elf remained his prisoner. To disguise him from vengeance-minded Ergothians, Tylocost’s hair was cut to chin length, and he was dressed in nondescript yeoman’s clothes. He was hidden in plain sight among the enlarged retinue of warriors and servants now attached to Lord Tolandruth. Tylocost took captivity in good stead, but proved to have a melancholy nature to match his eccentric looks. His life depended on Tol’s good will, so he readily played the biddable captive.

One evening, during supper in the vast tent Tol had inherited from Lord Urakan, Miya blurted, “I thought all Silvanesti were finely made. What happened to you?”

Tol nearly choked on his roast, but Tylocost took the rude query calmly.

“It’s said my mother, while burdened with child, beheld a human woman in the forest, and the image of the wretched creature was impressed on my features before birth.” After a brief pause, he added, “It was a Dom-shu woman she saw.”

Miya flushed, and Tol smothered a laugh.

“No Dom-shu is as ugly as you!” Miya said hotly.

And so the evening’s wrangles would begin. It seemed more than passing strange to Tol to have the former terror of the empire at his side, shabbily dressed, matching jibes with his boisterous wives. Even so, Tol held no illusions about Tylocost. The acute mind that had defeated Lord Urakan and three other Ergothian generals in the past twenty years had not been thrown out with his gaudy helmet. Tylocost was biding his time.

Knowing he needed a sharp pair of eyes on the elf, Tol designated Kiya to act as the elf s guardian. He had no specific suspicions but realized Tylocost might try to escape or foment a plot from within Tol’s camp.

Hylo was firmly in imperial hands, but the war continued. Tarsan fleets raided the west coast of Ergoth. Far to the south, Tarsan gold raised the pirate fleets of Kharland into open war against the empire. Elaborate and flattering treaties were proposed to convince the Silvanesti to enter the war as Tarsis’s ally. Thus far, the elves had resisted Tarsan blandishments, but the pirates quickly choked off all trade in the Gulf of Ergoth. Something would have to be done about them.

Victory had not ended the war, only changed its venue.

*

Before the winds of autumn set in, Tol organized the return of the sick and wounded to their homes. More than one thousand Ergothians were seriously injured, and another two thousand were needed on their farms to finish the harvest. Tol gave Egrin the task of leading the sizable column south, calling first at Caergoth, then Daltigoth. He prepared lengthy documents describing the death of XimXim and his subsequent victory over Tylocost. With Egrin busy rounding up wagons and carts to transport the sick, Tol decided to entrust his dispatches to another – Mandes the wizard.

Mandes had weathered his personal catastrophe well. The loss of his left arm was a hard blow – a wizard needed two hands to perform most incantations – but Mandes proved surprisingly adaptable. By the time the imperial hordes returned from clearing out the last Tarsan garrisons, Mandes was up and walking. He spent most of his time in Old Port, drinking in noisy kender taverns or prowling the seedy shops lining the waterfront. Such shops were treasure troves of odd merchandise, brought in by wandering sailors or “found” by kender on their wide-ranging travels.

One afternoon, with the chill of early autumn in the air, Tol found the wizard in the Wave Chaser Inn, the same place they’d captured the Tarsan soldiers. The wizard was seated in a snug corner by the hearth, at a table heaped with moldering manuscripts. A wooden tankard of mulled wine steamed by his right hand.

Tol greeted him. Unlike nearly every other soul in Hylo, Mandes did not rise and salute the now famous warlord, but he did bid Tol join him in a pot of warmed wine.

Tol dragged up a three-legged stool and accepted the offer of a drink. When the wine arrived, it proved to be heavily spiced. Though not to Tol’s taste, he sipped it politely.

“You’ve heard I’m sending men home to be discharged for wounds or work?” he said. Mandes grunted assent. “Would you like to go along?”

That brought the wizard upright on his bench. The wool blanket draped around his shoulder fell away, exposing the empty sleeve of his velvet robe. The cuff was pinned to his chest.

“I, go to Daltigoth?” he said, and Tol nodded. “That is a handsome offer!”

Tol smiled. “There’s a price to be paid. Some letters and dispatches I’ve written must be delivered. Will you see to it?”

Mandes leaned forward, knocking old scrolls from the table top. “Gladly, my lord! To whom will I give them?”

“Crown Prince Amaltar gets the reports bearing Lord Urakan’s seal.” Tol had inherited the old warlord’s signet with command of his army. “The remainder – only one – goes to his wife, Princess Consort Valaran.”

He expected some comment, but Mandes showed no sign of recognizing the unusual nature of the second recipient.

“I’ve long dreamed of going to Daltigoth,” the sorcerer said, sinking back in his bench. “Tarsis was too tight-fisted, too mercantile for me. In Daltigoth, a man can be recognized for his talent and rewarded for his deeds. When do I leave, my lord?”

“Tomorrow morning, first light. I’ve secured a conveyance for you. Not a wagon or a kender’s cart, but a real coach-and-four. You’ll have company on the ride, but it’s still better than a ox-drawn wagon, eh?”

Tol called to a pair of soldiers waiting by the inn door. They brought a strong box, strapped with iron, and set it on the floor at Mandes’s feet. Tol opened it. Nestled inside were eight short, thickly wound scrolls. Seven bore the seal of the warlord, pressed into the red wax enclosing the parchment. The eighth scroll was tied with white ribbon and sealed with ordinary white wax.

Tol looked over the brief legends inked on the outside of the rolls. Finding the one he wanted, he tapped it with a finger.

“I haven’t forgotten you,” he said. “This dispatch mentions the bakali, your role in helping to stop the Red Wrack, and our battle with XimXim. I would be very surprised if His Highness Prince Amaltar didn’t reward you for your deeds.”

He closed the box and clamped a soft lead seal around the hasp. Rising, he said, “I thank you, Mandes – for everything. And I know you’ll see my words safely into the proper hands.”

After Tol departed, Mandes rose from his chair, swaying slightly from too much wine. He summoned two kender from the kitchen to carry the box to his room on the second floor. Gathering up his old manuscripts, he followed them upstairs.

Alone in his room, he sagged heavily on the straw-stuffed mattress. His features lost their carefully neutral expression and twisted with omnipresent pain. Agony lanced through his shoulder, throbbed down his left arm, and ended as it always did, in the tips of the fingers of his left hand – arm, hand, and fingers he no longer possessed.

Mandes held up his right hand, palm down, and felt his crippled shoulder flex as though lifting his left as well. He could see his left arm and hand alongside the right; the phantom limb glowed faintly in the gloom. His searches through the scrap shops of Old Port were not merely a cure for idleness. Mandes was looking for magical tomes that might contain secret recipes to restore his arm, or at least give flesh to the phantom limb he was certain he possessed. He’d found nothing so far and had begun to despair. But now —

Now he was to go to Daltigoth!

The empire’s capital contained perhaps the greatest concentration of wizards and sorcerous literature in the world. Only the libraries of Silvanost could rival it, and they were beyond the reach of a mere human.

Mandes shivered, more in anticipation than from the autumnal chill. Lord Tolandruth’s offer was a gift from the gods. Yet it was a gift he felt he had more than earned with his suffering.

Pain was replaced by the equally familiar rage. Mandes stood and flung the useless manuscripts across the room.

Tolandruth! It was that fool’s fault he’d lost his arm! True, he had consented to help in the fight against XimXim, but he’d never imagined he’d have to battle the monster himself in that hellish cavern!

Now, Gilean’s book of fate had turned a new page. He was getting that which he most desired: access to the great and powerful. In Daltigoth he would place his magical skills at the disposal of whomever offered him the highest rewards. It was only right and proper. Wealth and power belonged to those who could do, whether they were warriors, woodcutters, or sorcerers. One day, he vowed, he would be the most powerful wizard in Ergoth. When that happened, his persecutors in Tarsis would have cause to regret their past injustices to him.

Giving the bakali the Balm of Sirrion had been a mistake, he now realized. Embedding the Red Wrack in the mist had been an even greater folly. The lizard-men hadn’t asked for a plague. That had been his own idea. Since the Tarsans and kender were not sufficiently admiring of his talents, he’d decided to repay them with pestilence. But the dead bakali had taken the blame, and no one living knew the truth but him. Even so, he wondered if Tolandruth still suspected.

The sealed box sat by the door, black and bulky. Within were Tolandruth’s thoughts on the events of the past sixty days. His decisions, his opinions, his praise, his condemnation – all were locked inside that box. Mandes needed to know what had been written. It would be to his advantage to embellish adulation of himself and expunge any criticism.

The lead seal was weighty in his hand. He knew no spells to remove seals intact, but he did know how to re-forge broken ones.

Mandes was awake till dawn. He read and wrote all night, scraping off Tol’s carefully penned letters and inking in his own. The former farm boy had little skill as a writer; his simple handwriting was easy to alter.

The last scroll, addressed to Princess Valaran Mandes found most interesting, but it mentioned him not at all. He did not bother changing any of it. Instead he made a copy.

*

The caravan rolled out at sunrise. Tol saw it off. Egrin led the homeward-bound column on horseback. He saluted his former shield-bearer proudly, and Tol returned the gesture with enthusiasm. Egrin bared his dagger and raised it high, holding it there long after he’d passed Tol.

Behind Egrin came those riders going home to their families and farms. Most were from the Caergoth region. They raised four cheers for their valiant commander as they rode.

In their wake came the walking wounded. Weakened, they did not shout so lustily, but there was pride in their stride and gratitude in their eyes.

Lastly, a long, irregular parade of carts and wagons rolled by, filled with warriors too hurt to walk. Leading the line of wagons was a black coach drawn by four matched bay horses, once the property of a rich Tarsan merchant who spent some months each year in Old Port. Tol’s men had found the coach hidden away in a barn and liberated it for their commander’s use.

Mandes sat in the coach’s rear seat. The other places were taken by riders who’d lost limbs or sustained other grave injuries. The wizard did not wave as he passed, but did incline his head to the author of his new opportunity.-Tol called out, “Farewell, Mandes! When I return to Daltigoth, we’ll feast at Juramona House!”

He remained until the last cart in the long caravan was gone, then turned Cloud about and rode back to camp.

It was the middle day of autumn. Tol expected that once his letters were received, he would be recalled to the capital to confer with the crown prince and the highest warlords of the empire. Fresh hordes would be needed if Tarsan territory was to be invaded. Tol had fewer than seven thousand men, enough to defend Hylo but not enough to conquer the powerful city-state.

He knew no attack could be mounted until spring. Winter’s snow would close the roads and make troop movements laborious and expensive. Tarsis might launch coastal raids in the meantime, but the loss of a huge army and their best general had to give them pause. Time would tell how much.

Riding back into camp over ground crunchy with frost, Tol was stricken anew with longing for Valaran. She’d been much on his mind during the journey north, but once they encountered real danger, his mind had been fixed on the peril in front of him. His pent-up desire surfaced with a vengeance now. How long would it be until he saw her again? The letter he’d entrusted to Mandes begged her to write to him. Before, when he’d been on the move, there was no way for her letters to find him, but he would be in camp for some time now and regular correspondence was possible. He was lord of the northern hordes. The thought made him smile with pride.

A few flakes of snow drifted down, melting on Cloud’s gray hide and Tol’s bare hands.

It will not be long, Val, Tol vowed. Not long.

*

Snow was falling in Daltigoth. The sun shone warmly over the Inner City, as it always did thanks to the college of sorcerers, but the outer city lay muffled under a fresh mantle of white.

Treading carefully through the drifts came a man swathed in furs from head to heels. He made directly for the gate of a darkened villa sited in a cramped corner of the Old City. Stucco was peeling off the villa’s wall in wide patches, exposing red bricks underneath. Snow padded the spikes atop the wall.

Few people dared approach the crumbling mansion. It was inhabited by a gang of disreputable nobles, former members of the city Horse Guards, drunkards, wastrels, and thugs. They were called – though not to their faces – Nazramin’s Wolves, in honor of the prince who was their patron.

The gate was shut, so the fur-clad man tugged on the chain hanging nearby. A bronze bell tolled dully. The wicket opened.

“Who is it?” demanded a deep voice from within.

“A visitor to see your master.”

“Go away before I set the dogs on you.” The deep baying of hounds within proved the threat was not an idle one.

The wicket started to close. Quickly, the stranger held up his hand, palm out, and muttered a short cantrip. A brightly glowing ball of fire, no bigger than a hen’s egg, shot from his hand through the wicket.

Exclamations and curses from the other side told the visitor his credentials had been noted. The wicket widened, and a fiercely scowling face appeared.

“Why didn’t you just say who you were?”

The man’s clean-shaven face, lined by recent suffering, twitched into the faintest of smiles. “I just did.”

The old gate swung inward, scraping back a wedge of newly fallen snow. Seven hard-looking men, cloaked and hooded, stood on the other side. One jerked his head to indicate the visitor should proceed straight ahead to a columned porch and a great brass door much dulled with tarnish. The visitor strode on, only to be stopped by the point of a sword against his breastbone.

“Open your furs. I have to search you for arms.”

Wordlessly, the stranger allowed the guards to probe him for weapons. One of them noticed his left sleeve was pinned to the breast of his robe.

“What’s this?” he said, snatching the cylinder of cloth free. It swung limply by the man’s side.

“As you can see, I have no arms to hide,” said the stranger. The guards grunted, and sent him on his way.

The villa’s interior was almost as cold as the evening outside. Only every third wall sconce held a burning torch, giving the hall a dim and forbidding air. Suits of armor hung on stands along the walls, and racks of spears and swords were everywhere. The villa had more the air of a barracks than a fine old house.

A stooping servant, bearing a tray with a tall beaker on it, scurried down the stairs and entered the door at the far end of the hall. When the door opened, a blaze of heat and light washed out. The visitor followed the servant and stood, unannounced, in the open doorway.

The room beyond proved his host was not averse to comfort after all. It was well illuminated and heated by crackling fires in two large fireplaces. Between them was an enormous chair padded with leather. A table to one side was laden with food and drink, heavy plates and goblets wrought in bright gold. On the chair’s right was an identical table, covered with partially unrolled scrolls. Two wolfhounds lolled by the fire. They growled at the visitor.

“Come forward, Master Mandes,” beckoned Prince Nazramin. He set aside the document he was reading and leaned back in the leather chair.

Mandes pulled off his cape and let his robe hang open. Although he’d been cold before, the heat here was stifling.

The prince waved to the pile of parchment. “You bring amusing gifts. The peasant boy has been busy, hasn’t he?”

“Indeed he has, sire.”

Nazramin’s brown eyes narrowed. “I am not my brother,” he said slowly. “Do not call me ‘sire.’”

“Forgive me, Lord Prince. I am but lately come to Ergoth. My sojourn in the uncivilized wilds —”

“You altered these dispatches, wizard. What parts did you change?”

Sweat beaded on Mandes’s high forehead. “Only those portions that mentioned me, Lord Prince. Some I embellished to make more flattering; others I repaired because they were, ah, critical of my deeds in Hylo.”

“I see.” After a moment’s thoughtful pause, Nazramin added, “You left Lord Mudfield’s description of his own successes. Those will have to go. In fact, I intend to change them all. I know several expert forgers – though for this lout’s handwriting, a pig with a pen would suffice. When I’m done, no one will care a whit about farmer Lord Tolandruth!”

He drained a golden goblet in one toss. He did not offer his perspiring guest any refreshment.

“Lord Prince, many soldiers were present at the battle of Three Rose Creek,” Mandes said carefully. “Lord Egrin himself is now in the city, and knows the truth. How can you take Lord Tolandruth’s acclaim away without arousing suspicion?”

“First, Lord Urakan won the battle,” the prince said, refilling his goblet. “I’ll put those words in the upstart’s own mouth. That Urakan died is both poignant and useful. He was a military blockhead, but also a noble of the first blood. Let Urakan have the glory. He’ll bear it better than a peasant boy, no matter how high my brother elevates him!

“Second, the situation in Hylo is delicate. Very delicate. Lord Mudfield will request permission to remain there, to keep an eye on the machinations of Tarsis. He will be granted permission. And stay there he will – until he rots!”

Without warning, the prince flung his goblet on the stone floor. It rang loudly, and showered yellow nectar on Mandes’s feet. The wolfhounds, each one hundred fifty pounds of muscle, teeth, and fur, rose and stalked to the nervous wizard, sniffing the spilled wine. They began to lick the sticky droplets from the floor and Mandes’s boots.

Mandes bowed his head. He would have bowed more deeply, but didn’t dare shift his feet. The hounds were still busily licking them.

“An excellent stratagem, Lord Prince,” he said. “The frontier is a dangerous place. Lord Tolandruth may perish amidst its dangers.”

Nazramin gave a disgusted snort and scrubbed strands of red hair from his face. “I doubt it. Peasants are like cockroaches: Try to stamp on them, and they survive.” Slightly drunk, he mimed his own words, lifting one foot unsteadily off the floor. Letting it fall heavily, he added, “I prefer he survives anyway. I’ll savor it more if he wastes his life away on a distant frontier.”

“Alive, Lord Tolandruth is a threat,” Mandes offered.

“Perhaps to you, wizard. Not to me.”

Gauging his words carefully, Mandes said, “May I ask, gracious prince, why you loathe Lord Tolandruth so?”

Nazramin seized the front of Mandes’s robe, dragging him close. Nose to nose he whispered, “He offends me, wizard. Because he’s not in his proper place. Because he does the deeds of a hero, even though he was born to grow turnips. A proper order must he maintained if the world is to turn as it should. Don’t you agree?” A dangerous glint came to the prince’s eyes. “Most of all, he gives me a convenient way to torment my brother.”

He shoved Mandes away, swept a hand through the scattered scrolls, and came up with the one Tol had addressed to Valaran. He smiled at it – and Mandes suppressed a shudder at the singularly unpleasant expression.

“And this,” Nazramin murmured, caressing the scroll. “This gives me a chain I can bind around Valaran’s slender throat. I pull, she comes. I let the chain go slack, she flees – but never very far. She is privy to my brother’s doings, which I otherwise would not hear of. By making certain alterations to this” — he tapped the scroll against his palm — “I can twist the chain, convincing the princess to give voice to the words I want said.”

“Your vision far exceeds mine, Lord Prince,” said the sorcerer. “I confess it is beyond me.”

The prince gave a dismissive wave. “Get out. Do not approach me again unless I send for you.”

The dogs had gone to sleep, forsaking Mandes’s boots, so he stepped back and bowed deeply.

“As you command, Lord Prince.” Necessity required Mandes to add, “A reward was mentioned for what I placed in your hands …”

Nazramin took a weighty purse from the folds of his dressing gown and tossed it to Mandes. The sorcerer was not yet adept at catching with one hand, and the bag of coins thumped into his belly and fell to the floor. The clatter of heavy coins woke the dogs. In a flash the wolfhounds were on their feet, barking and snarling. Mandes paled and drew back.

The prince rocked with laughter. “Take your reward, wizard! Buy yourself a new arm!”

Mandes scooped up the purse and backed out of the sweltering room. As he was about to close the door, Nazramin said a word to the dogs, and they leaped for him.

Mandes shut the door just in time. The savage beasts hurled themselves against the oak panels time and again, howling like the cursed hounds of H’rar. Sweating and shaking, he beat a quick retreat. Out in the snowy streets, he clenched his fingers tightly around the prince’s gold.

Buy yourself a new arm. Nazramin had meant it as a cruel joke, but that’s exactly what Mandes planned to do. With a new arm, his campaign would start. Not for him the petty plans of Prince Nazramin.

His goal was nothing less than the magical conquest of Daltigoth.

*

Valaran let Tol’s letter fall from her hands.

On the sunny battlements of the Imperial Palace, she looked over the silent, gray city. Snow always stole the color from everything. All the poets said so, and for once, she saw the truth in their fanciful words.

“Duty demands that I remain here, to guard the borders of the empire,” Tol had written. “I cannot say when I will see you again. Our lives mean little compared to the glory of our nation … here I can serve the empire best, instead of rotting away as the crown prince’s lackey.”

She could hardly believe it. He had promised to come back – and now seemed in little hurry. The realization stung like a slap in the face. If he’d been ordered to stay, she might have accepted it – they both had their duties – but he didn’t want to come back! At first she couldn’t fathom it, then her eyes found the letter’s final sentence, and all was made dreadfully clear. That cheery postscript had stolen the breath from Valaran’s lungs and driven her, pale as a wraith, to this great height.

“The Dom-shu sisters have been of great worth to me. Kiya is an excellent warrior, though she still cannot cook. Miya has proven herself in other ways. Our child will be born in the spring.”

Valaran looked down in despair. It was a long way to the plaza. Unblemished by winter’s snow, the heroic mosaics sparkling in the sunlight seemed to mock her, ridiculing her pain. She could see every one of the thousands of stones in them. In a moment she would see them closer still.

Two women crossed the plaza slowly. From this height Valaran couldn’t recognize their faces, but their elaborate gowns and deliberate, stately tread marked them as imperial wives. How they and the rest of the Consorts’ Circle would coo and jabber over her fate! Poor Valaran the Wisp, the skinny, unfeminine scholar who had somehow caught the eye of the hero Tolandruth, and killed herself when he was unfaithful. Silly girl! Didn’t she know all men are unfaithful at some point in their lives?

Anger flooded her, sending hot blood to her face. No! Not for any man would she throw away her life – certainly not for an upstart, arrogant peasant who imagined himself a noble!

Upstart, arrogant, lying peasant! What a fool she had been to believe him!

The wind dried her tears. Valaran turned away from the parapet and made her way with firm steps down the winding stone stair into the palace. She went directly to the imperial library and filled her arms with books. Ignoring courtiers and servants, she moved purposefully through the halls, back to the corridor between the kitchens and the Consort Circle’s salon. She wanted nothing now but to seclude herself in her old hiding place, where she’d first met Tol.

She shook her head savagely, excising that event from her memory. It hadn’t happened. He hadn’t happened. How stupid she had been to order her life around such a ignorant, unfeeling farm boy!

Valaran closed the curtain and sat down to read.

*

Through the cold and achingly dull winter, rumors began to circulate among Daltigoth’s elite. People having problems with health, love, or business dealings could seek help from a man who could solve any problem, a wise and discreet man, said to be unknown to the college of sorcerers. Skilled in many magical arts, he was new to the city. For gold, or the right sort of favor, this clever wizard would unravel even the most difficult problems, no questions asked. Fortunes changed hands. Enemies disappeared, or succumbed to the worst “luck” imaginable.

When word of this dangerous freelancer reached Yoralyn’s ears, she attempted to find out more about him, but she had foresworn spies, and could find out little with her own resources. By the time the name of Mandes became better-known to the college, the rogue wizard was too entrenched, too popular, too protected by powerful patrons, for the White Robes or Red Robes to move against him. It was said that even Prince Amaltar consulted Mandes – most discreetly.

Emperor Pakin III took ill that winter and never left his bed again. Tough and stubborn still, Pakin III clung to life but gave up his power. No longer simply co-ruler, Prince Amaltar was proclaimed Imperial Regent by a conclave of warlords. Formerly a penniless outcast, Mandes now moved closer to the most powerful man in the empire.

The sorcerer settled into a sumptuous house only a short distance from the entrance to the Inner City, living there alone. The day Prince Amaltar was made Imperial Regent, Mandes stood in the center of his beautifully appointed, scroll-filled study and rubbed his hands thoughtfully. One hand was pale and soft, like the rest of Mandes’s flesh. The other was muscular and brown. Unable to grow a new arm, he’d found a suitable replacement. Its former owner had not given his limb willingly, but he was past protesting. His lifeless body had been consigned to the Dalti River before it froze over for the winter.

Too easy, too easy, some part of Mandes’s mind told him. His goals may have been too modest, for everything he wanted had seemed to fall into his hands within six months of his arrival in Daltigoth. Only two things still vexed him, in minor ways. Prince Nazramin, whose power behind the scenes had grown enormously, remained indifferent to Mandes and rarely sought his counsel. The other niggling problem was Lord Tolandruth. Consigned to the distant reaches of Hylo, the young warlord still lived. Even with half the nobles of Daltigoth on his side, the other half under his thumb (for he knew too much about their indiscretions), even with the patronage of the regent himself, Mandes could not contemplate Tolandruth without foreboding.

*

Days passed into months. New hordes arrived to bolster Tol’s army, but no word came with them – not from Prince Amaltar, Egrin, or Valaran. The silence was so troubling that Tol wrote new letters to Valaran and Egrin.

When the sun broke through on the first day of spring, sixteen new hordes arrived under the command of Lord Regobart. Many years Tol’s senior, Regobart bore orders from Regent Amaltar which named him commander of the northern army. Regobart had been charged to convey the prince’s appreciation to Tolandruth for keeping station through the winter, and his continued affection for his champion. That was all. No words of praise or gratitude for last autumn’s victories. No personal missive came from Valaran.

When a private message finally did arrive, it came in the form of Sanksa, one of Tol’s chosen retainers. The Karad-shu man had gone to Daltigoth with Egrin. He returned looking haggard and grave, and Tol’s heart fell. He feared the worst.

Muddy and trailworn, Sanksa gratefully accepted a flagon of warm grog.

“Egrin’s at the Bay of Ergoth. Been there since before the first snowfall,” he told Tol. Upon their arrival in Caergoth, Sanksa went on to say, they had been ordered to the south coast to train six hordes to fight the Kharland pirates, who plundered the empire’s coasts at the behest of Tarsis. The rest of the caravan, including Mandes, went on to Daltigoth.

Tol had heard about the depredations of the pirates from other new arrivals and wondered why Egrin hadn’t written him before this. Sanksa’s response caused fresh worry.

“From then until now he couldn’t write because our raising of seaborne hordes was counted a secret,” the Karad-shu said. He lowered his voice. “To bring you this word, I left our camp on the bay and stole my way to you!”

“Desertion? What could possibly make you, a loyal warrior, do such a thing?” Tol asked.

“I will not water the wine, my lord, but pour it straight: That faithless villain Mandes has set himself up in the capital as a free sorcerer, taking on clients for gold and defying the edicts of the colleges. The Red and White Robes would have moved against him, but he has made powerful allies, chiefly Prince Amaltar. The colleges dare not provoke the prince, as he now rules the empire in his father’s stead. Worse to tell, Mandes must have altered or destroyed your reports, offering instead to the prince his own lies. He claims to have bested XimXim alone, and gave sole credit for the defeat of Tylocost to Lord Urakan, who he said died of his wounds on the very doorstep of victory!”

Sanksa clawed dirty blonde hair from his face and drained the flagon. “The final clod of dirt on your grave was a letter claiming, in your name, that ah you wanted from life was to remain in Hylo with the army until Tarsis was defeated. With Mandes performing wonders for him, Prince Amaltar’s fears for his own safety have been greatly eased, and he does not feel so strongly the need of a champion. So, my lord, you, Egrin, and the good men of Juramona are condemned by lies and villainy to exile at opposite ends of the empire!”

Stunned and silent, Tol wandered to the tent flap. Outside, the imperial camp was alive with activity as Lord Regobart’s new arrivals sought their billets.

“And Regobart?” Tol said, casting an ugly look over his shoulder at Sanksa. “Is he also a part of this web of deceit?”

“Egrin says Lord Regobart is not to blame for your predicament, being an honorable soldier and a loyal vassal of the emperor. ‘Serve him well, as you did Lord Urakan,’ Egrin told me to tell you,” the lanky warrior said.

Tol turned away, his shoulders hunching slightly in defeat. Rising to his feet Sanksa exclaimed, “Do not despair, my lord! The gods know virtue and will punish evil. You will best your enemies as you did XimXim and Tylocost, two mighty foes!”

Tol thanked the earnest warrior for his efforts and bade him stay in Tol’s own tent to rest and eat. He promised to make right Sanksa’s desertion.

Stepping outside the modest tent (he had ceded the larger one to Lord Regobart), Tol inhaled the cold air of early spring. It had been a morning like this, many years ago, when he’d gone to the onion field to work, and instead ended up saving the life of Lord Odovar. What would he be doing now if he had run away and left Odovar to the Pakin rebels? Still hoeing onions on a frosty morn? He banished such thoughts. There was no going back. Whatever destiny the gods intended for him, it was not on a hardscrabble farm in the wilds of the Eastern Hundred.

He looked south at the greening sward of forest between the camp and the plains of Ergoth. Juramona lay that way, and beyond, Daltigoth. Valaran was there. Had Mandes altered his letter to her, too? Loneliness like a fist gripped his heart. Had she been told he was staying away by his own choice? Would she believe that of him?

“My lord!”

The call did not penetrate Tol’s troubled thoughts. Fellen approached, saying, “The new infantry spears are ready for your inspection. Will you see them now?”

Tol’s gaze was still fixed southward.

After a moment, Fellen asked, “My lord?”

“Take it back!” Confused, Fellen asked him what he meant.

Tol looked at the engineer and proclaimed, “I will crush my enemies, and when they are dust, I shall take back what is mine!”

Fellen took him to mean the Tarsans. Later he would remember Tol’s words, and know the truth.

The Wizard’s Fate

(2408 PC)

Chapter 1

SOLDIERS AND DIPLOMATS

Raising a tin cup to his lips, Tol of Juramona took a sip. The water was warm and brackish, but it cut the thick coating of dust from his throat. He spat, noting it was tinged with red.

“Are you well, my lord?” asked his comrade, Darpo.

“Well enough.”

Tol had taken a hard knock from an enemy horseman. The blow had left his jaw black and blue and loosened a couple of teeth. The plainsman who landed the blow was with the gods now. Tol had separated his head from his shoulders.

During this brief lull in the battle, Tol and his men had ridden into a shallow draw to down bread and water. Wine would have been more welcome, but after ten years on campaign, wine was in short supply.

Tol removed his helmet. Beneath the heavy iron pot his long brown hair was soaked with sweat. He untied the thong at the back of his neck, letting the breeze blow through his hair. The wind off the bay was cool – too cool. Winter was coming, and life in the open on the Tarsan coast would soon be even more difficult.

Through the swirling dust, Tol spied a rider galloping toward them. His company drew swords and interposed themselves between their commander and the approaching stranger. When they saw he wore Ergothian trappings, the warriors relaxed.

“Dispatch coming,” Frez announced. A spearman of great repute, Frez was one of Tol’s companions from the early days in Juramona.

When Tol first came to that provincial town as a mere boy, twenty years before, Frez and his fellow foot soldiers had been in the pay of the Marshal of the Eastern Hundred. Since then, they’d all come far, in station and location. Tol, the farmer’s son, was now Lord Tolandruth, Champion of the Empire; Frez and Darpo were his chief lieutenants.

The young dispatch rider hauled his mount to a skidding stop. “Message from Lord Regobart!” he cried, voice cracking.

Tol dismounted and made his way to the rider, parting his men’s horses with easy shoves. Not a big man, he was compact and very strong. Taking the dispatch from the messenger, he saw the youth’s hands were shaking.

“Nervous, boy?” he asked, not unkindly.

“The enemy has sortied, sir!” The messenger’s fist spasmed, drawing the reins tighter and causing his sweat-streaked horse to prance in a half-circle. “They mean to break Lord Regobart’s position!”

Tol studied the missive. His reading skills had improved over the years, but the abbreviated script used by Regobart’s scribe was hard to decipher. Frowning, he held the square of parchment up to Frez and Darpo.

“Does that say twenty thousand, or thirty?”

Frez, less literate than his commander, merely shrugged. Darpo, a well-traveled former sailor, pushed blond hair from his face and peered at the writing. “Thirty thousand,” he said firmly.

Tol’s face split in a fierce grin. “They’ve come out at last!” he said, spirit rising in his voice. “Anovenax has committed the garrison – the Tar sans have come out!”

He strode back to his horse and leaped into the saddle. “To your positions, men! At last we can carry out the plan!”

By the dispatch rider Tol sent message to Lord Regobart to hold on. Tol and his men were coming hard and fast.

Before departing the young warrior bared his dagger in formal salute. “My lord! I have long prayed to Corij for this day!”

“So have we all, son.”

Tol’s retinue broke up, each man riding out to resume command of his horde of one thousand men. Only Frez remained close by his commander’s side. The two of them rode down the ravine, toward the battlefield where eighty thousand warriors and sixty thousand horses had churned, screamed, fought, and died.

The Imperial Army of Ergoth had battled its way to the very gates of Tarsis. Behind its thick white walls, the city’s thousand spires gleamed, despite the haze of dust drifting overhead. Beyond the spires lay the Bay of Tarsis, dotted with numerous ships of the Tarsan fleet. The normally placid blue water of the bay was dotted with whitecaps. A strong offshore wind churned the water and kept the great galleys, crowded with highly paid Tarsan marines, from reaching land.

Tol squinted against the sunlight. Three, perhaps four, hours of daylight remained. The battle must be concluded before sunset or their great gamble would fail.

He and Frez guided their mounts to the ridge above the ravine. On their right, battle raged between Lord Regobart’s thirty hordes and the city’s army. The Tarsan commander, Admiral Anovenax, was bold and brave but not much of a tactician – very like his opponent, Regobart. The admiral had marched forth from the city with his entire garrison thinking to smash the Ergothian army and enable the Tarsan fleet to dock. With the Tarsan forces thus united, the imperial hordes would be outnumbered and cut in two. All that would be left to them was ignominious retreat.

However, the admiral’s plan had not brought him the swift victory he’d expected. Foiling his triumph were the inhabitants of a cluster of tents set up on the rolling dunes two leagues from the city. There, priests employed by the empire worked the powerful and prolonged wind spell that held the Tarsan fleet at bay. Twice the Tarsans had tried to destroy the clerics; first, in a night raid that failed, and then with magic of their own. Their hired magicians had called forth a flock of fire-ravens, living birds made of flame. Imperial spellcasters countered with torrential rain, and the fire-ravens were extinguished before they could do serious damage. Now Anovenax was concentrating his attack on the tents.

Sixteen hordes were under Tol’s command, the six thousand horsemen and ten thousand infantry which made up the Army of the North. All lay flat on their bellies, the riders’ horses likewise down. Rolling dunes screened them from the sea and from sharp-eyed city sentinels.

The preponderance of foot soldiers in Tol’s command was unique in an empire forged by the Riders of the Great Horde, hut Tol had made a specialty of leading men on foot. He and his tough, well-trained, highly loyal force had won many signal victories. In the past decade they had marched all the way from Hylo in the north, fighting eleven battles large and small, to arrive at this place, where they hoped to end the war that had raged so long between Ergoth and Tarsis.

Tol drew his saber and lifted it high. “Rise up!” he cried. “Now is our time! For Ergoth!”

Sixteen thousand men rose as one. Shouting “Ergoth! Ergoth!” they came streaming over the ridge. The horsemen spread out to confuse the enemy about their true numbers; the footmen marched in close order to convey overwhelming strength.

As the first block of spearmen reached him, Tol got down from his rawboned gray mount and tossed the reins to a surprised Frez. “I’ll fight this battle on my own two feet,” he said.

He accepted a spear from a nearby warrior, telling Frez to remain in the saddle, the better to bring the news from other fronts. Frez dismounted anyway and sent both their horses cantering away.

“After the battle, you may flog me for disobedience, my lord,” Frez said to his glowering leader. “But now, shall we fight?”

The going was hard – the soldiers had to slog through loose sand while burdened by the weight of scale shirt and leggings. In addition, each man had an eight-foot spear ported on his right shoulder and a brass and wood shield slung on his left arm. Tol was glad he’d taken the time for water, brackish or not.

The din of combat grew louder with each dune they crossed. A vast melee was boiling under the walls of Tarsis. Regobart’s force, nearly all cavalry, had been bent backward like a huge bow.

In the center of the battlefield was a bizarre sight: four enormous turtles, each six paces high, and each carrying upon its back a tall wooden hoarding. The Tarsans had bought the creatures at great expense from the breeders of Silvanost, where they were used to tow ferries across the Thon-Thalas. From the makeshift platforms on the turtles’ backs, Tarsan archers showered the Ergothians with arrows. No weapon in the imperial army could penetrate the shells of the giant turtles.

“Quarter turn, right!” Tol shouted.

The marching block of men slanted off, avoiding the slow-moving, implacable turtles. Arrows fell on them like a deadly squall. Men toppled, pierced in the head or shoulders. The phalanx closed the resulting gaps and kept going. They had no choice but to ignore wounded comrades; if they paused, more men would fall. The surest way to save Ergothian lives was to come to grips with the enemy as quickly as possible.

Riderless horses galloped past, eyes wide with pain and terror. Broken weapons cracked underfoot, and the sand was stained with large scarlet patches. At Tol’s order, spears were leveled. A section of Regobart’s cavalry scrambled to steer clear of the approaching block of warriors. Catching sight of the banner of Juramona, Tol’s hometown, the cavalry let out a roar of approbation.

“Tolandruth! Tolandruth!” they chanted, raising high their bloodied sabers. Tol’s footmen pushed through open lanes between the cheering horsemen.

The Tarsan soldiery grouped behind the spearhead of giant turtles was composed mainly of mercenaries, with a few city dwellers pressed into the ranks. The mercenaries were a mixed lot: leather-clad plains nomads, Thoradin dwarves wielding double-axes, and a few wild elves from the forest lands, their faces painted with red, blue, and green loops and lines. Tarsan officers led this contingent. Their bright golden headgear made them easy targets for the Ergothians.

Tol swung his phalanx smartly in a half-turn left. The leading ranks of the Tarsans, long-haired sailors now serving as spearmen, recoiled at the sight of five hundred Ergothians maneuvering with such unity and precision. Tol watched them brace themselves for the inevitable collision, setting their feet firmly as inexperienced soldiers were wont to do. To his expert eyes, the Tarsans with their spears couched looked like a picket fence standing in the path of an avalanche.

For the last few paces the quick-moving Ergothians leaned forward, now almost running. Arrows flickered in from the platforms atop the creeping turtles. One creased Tol’s cheek. He ignored the sharp sting, blinking away involuntary tears. The clash of arms was at hand.

Iron spearheads, backed by the weight of a full phalanx, hit the Tarsan line. They went down like grass before a scythe, hurled backward into their comrades and knocking them likewise flat. Tol’s men penetrated five ranks deep before they were stopped. Ergothians in the rear ranks laid their spears on the shoulders of their comrades and pushed. All the maneuvering and strategy came down to this: bodies of armed warriors shoving at each other.

On either side, other blocks of Ergothian spearmen struck the enemy line. Horns blared, and the Tarsan ranks opened to reveal a corps of archers. At spitting distance they lashed the Ergothians with arrows. The soldier on Tol’s right dropped, pierced through the eye. Tol put up his shield in time to block an arrow coming at his face. The bronze-tipped shaft penetrated halfway through his shield.

“Get those sons of snakes!” he cried.

Men four ranks in the rear broke formation and charged. The archers were northerners, from the wild coast east of Thoradin. They stood their ground admirably, bombarding the Ergothians with deadly missiles. At the last moment the archers melted back into the Tarsan army, several lofting arrows backward at their foes as they ran. It was a masterly performance, and Tol grudgingly admired their skill.

Freed by the pressure of Tol’s counterattack, Lord Regobart re-formed his horsemen and charged again, aiming to cut off the Tarsans from their city. A small band of mercenary cavalry tried to defend the gates but proved no match for the fury of Regobart’s Great Horde. With their guard routed, the Tarsans had to close the city gate to keep Regobart out. The massive brass portals swung shut just as the lead riders reached them. From atop the walls, stones, molten lead, and arrows scourged the Ergothians. Lord Regobart recalled his men.

Cut off now, the Tarsans did a remarkable thing. Instead of surrendering or trying to fight their way back into the city, they continued to drive toward the distant row of tents where the imperial priests labored. For a moment the Ergothians did not react, so surprising was this bold move. The four giant turtles ponderously changed formation from a wedge to a line. One of Tol’s phalanxes tried to stop a green behemoth, jabbing it continuously with their spears. The beast’s shell and leathery hide turned aside all their efforts.

Frez appeared at his commander’s side. “They’re not themselves today!” he shouted in Tol’s ear. “They fight like wild men.”

Tol nodded. “They’ll expend every life they have to reach our mages – then their fleet will have a chance to save the city!”

“Can we stop those monsters?”

Tol craned his neck to see over the sprawling battle. The hoarding on each turtle’s back held fifteen to twenty archers. The wooden structures, pointed at the fore, reminded him of the forecastle of a ship. That thought brought a grin to his face.

“Let’s board’em!” he said, clapping Frez on the back.

Tol withdrew his phalanx, ordering the rest to keep up the pressure on the Tarsans. Marching swiftly behind the line of battle, his men grounded their spears and drew swords. With about four hundred men fit to fight, Tol sent a hundred against each of the four turtles.

“Scale them any way you can,” he ordered. “Rope and grapnels, a human ladder – whatever you can devise!”

One group dashed off to the closest turtle. Bracing themselves against the nearly vertical slope of the beast’s shell, they laced their arms together. More of their comrades clambered up their backs to their shoulders and repeated the pose. Tol’s band used shields to create footholds for the next wave to scale the great creature’s side. All this occurred under a constant hail of arrows. Fortunately for the Ergothians, the safest place to be was up close to the crawling giants. There the turtle’s bulk shielded them from the Tarsan archers.

Tol, Frez, and a dozen soldiers climbed the staircase of shields to the top and threw themselves onto the turtle’s back.

The shell was steeply curved here, but the Ergothians were able to crawl up the smooth shell. Tarsans on neighboring animals shouted and pointed at the encroaching enemy. More arrows whistled in and several of the climbing Ergothians tumbled to the ground, their bodies studded with white-fletched Tarsan missiles.

Tal reached a more level area and drew himself into a crouch. Survivors of his band gathered behind him. All drew sabers.

With a shout, Tol vaulted over the low wooden hoarding and planted a booted foot on the chest of a wide-eyed Tarsan archer. His men swarmed in behind him, howling for blood. Some of the archers had star-headed maces for close combat, but these were no match for Tol’s swordsmen. The Ergothians cleaved through the enemy in short order, shoving dead and wounded foes over the side to clear the small structure. Soon only the turtle-driver remained.

The driver, a Silvanesti hired when the turtles were purchased, sat on the forward slope of the shell. Bare-chested, wearing loose white trousers that ended above his knees, the elf was screened on each side by a low wooden wall. His bare feet rested in niches carved into the forward face of the shell.

Tol put the edge of his saber to the elf’s throat and demanded he halt the beast.

Calmly the driver replied, “Kill me, and nothing will stop the great Zeboim.”

The turtle named for the tempestuous sea-goddess was by now only half a league from the tents housing the imperial clerics. Frustrated, Tol sheathed his sword and ordered the insolent Silvanesti dragged from his perch.

There were no reins or other obvious means of control, but with its driver gone, the turtle did slow a bit. Tol slid into the leather seat and tried yelling for the creature to halt. Zeboim continued to plod directly toward the vulnerable tents.

Frez leaned over his commander’s shoulder. “The elf’s nearly naked,” he said. “Mayhap the beast needs to feel skin?”

Tol unwound his leggings and removed his boots and stockings. Planting his bare feet in the carved niches, he tried to influence the giant with pressure from one foot, then the other.

Zeboim swung his huge head from side to side. A deep grunt gusted from his nostrils. Tol’s men cheered him on, while he gave all his attention to the task. Sweat rolled down his face. Zeboim was foremost of the turtles; Tol was close enough now to see the pennants on the tent tops. A solid wall of Ergothian infantry had formed between the tents and the oncoming giants, a gallant, if futile, gesture.

Tol’s men had seized a second turtle but failed to wrest the other two from their owners. Ergothians on the captured turtles took up Tarsan bows and loosed arrows at the two beasts still controlled by the enemy.

Tol exerted more and more pressure with his right foot. With agonizing slowness, the beast bore into a turn until it was crawling straight at another turtle, one still under Tarsan control. Between the slowly converging creatures the air was thick with arrows. A quartet of missiles shattered around Tol’s naked feet and more thudded into the low-walled box that sheltered his upper body.

He glanced back to see the other beast captured by his men had halted for some reason, but even that slight movement stirred Zeboim off his path. Wiping sweat from his eyes, Tol concentrated on keeping the giant on his collision course.

“Stand ready, men!” he shouted.

The driver of the other turtle was so distracted by the general melee that he didn’t notice Zeboim’s approach until it was too late. Zeboim’s nose touched his comrade’s shell. Then he kept moving doggedly forward until gradually his head was forced back into his shell.

When the two domes collided, the impact shook Tol hard, though he was out of the driver’s seat in a flash, sword drawn. His diminished band followed him as he leaped, still barefoot, onto the other turtle. He snagged the rail of the enemy hoarding and swung a leg over it. Only a handful of Tarsans remained on the platform, and when the blood-spattered gang of Ergothians stormed aboard, the archers threw down their bows and begged for their lives.

Three of the four turtles had been captured. The last, the southernmost, experienced a mutiny when the Silvanesti driver proved unwilling to continue the charge alone against the Ergothian tents. Instead, he wheeled his beast away from the fighting and toward the seashore. The archers he carried, unable to control the beast themselves, had no choice but to abandon their perch. The last anyone saw of the fourth turtle and his driver, they were paddling far out to sea.

Their final thrust defeated, the Tarsan mercenaries grounded their arms and surrendered. Admiral Anovenax had managed to escape capture with a small retinue of loyal retainers, and they re-entered the city. But the surviving members of his army of thirty thousand were captured.

Back on the ground, boots and leggings restored, Tol reorganized his scattered forces. Casualties had been heavy. He himself had received a few minor wounds. Loyal Frez had not even a scratch, but word came that Darpo had been gravely injured. Tol found him lying on his back on the ground, shielded from the glare of the setting sun by a wall of fellow soldiers.

Felryn Felryn’s son, cleric, healer and a friend of Tol since his arrival in Juramona, was working on the wounded man. Sleeves rolled back to free his lean brown arms, Felryn probed Darpo’s side gently for the head of the arrow. Darpo’s brown eyes were open, his face moist with sweat. The scar that ran from his left eyebrow to his left ear stood out sharply white against his waxy pallor. His gaze flickered briefly to Tol, but he had no strength to acknowledge his commander.

There was no better healer in the empire than Felryn, not even in the imperial household. Time had thinned his curly hair and streaked its black with white, but the skill had not left his long, powerful fingers. He located the arrowhead and deftly removed it. Darpo gasped. Felryn spoke to him soothingly, applying a clotting powder to the wound. An assistant raised the injured man’s head so he could sip a soporific from a silver cup. Darpo’s eyes closed.

“Will he live?” asked Tol softly.

“I think so, but that is in Mishas’s hands,” Felryn said. “I dress their wounds. It is the goddess who heals them.”

Horns blared, the sound followed by the rumble of hooves. The foot soldiers parted ranks as a contingent of horsemen thundered in. Leading them was a white-bearded warrior with a black leather patch over his right eye. Lord Regobart had lost one eye in a duel when he was a young man.

“My lord!” he hailed Tol. “The day is ours!”

Tol approached the general’s horse, replying more temperately, “The battle is won, anyway.”

Behind Regobart were arrayed some of the highest warlords in the empire. Although their names were a roll call of imperial glory, Tol’s many victories made him their equal. Even so, most of them looked upon him as an upstart, a clever peasant whose martial success smacked of unnatural influences or illicit magic.

Regobart would not allow Tol’s caution to tarnish what he saw as the glory of this day. “The war is won,” he insisted. “I have summoned the city to surrender, and the princes and syndics have signaled their willingness to parley.”

Tol frowned. It was true they had vanquished the last sizable fighting force in Tarsis, but the city’s defenses were still intact, and the Ergothian armies were not equipped to conduct a long siege. In spite of the efforts of the imperial priests, the Tarsan fleet remained in place, a potent threat. If they escaped the bay, they could wreak immense havoc along the empire’s lengthy coastline.

None of these thoughts troubled the warlords arrayed before Tol. Triumph was evident on every face.

“When is this parley to take place?” Tol asked.

“Tonight, four hours past sundown. A pavilion will be erected by the Tradewind Gate.” This was the same gate through which the Tarsans had sortied that day.

The wounded and dead were removed to camp, and thousands of dejected Tarsan prisoners were marched away under guard. Tol paraded them within bowshot of the walls, to make sure the city-dwellers could see their defeated army. The sun, sinking into the bay, bloodied the white stone walls and gilded the hulls of the Tarsan fleet, still held by magical winds and hovering like birds of ill omen.

*

Tol hated diplomacy.

It was not that he opposed talk. In fact, he rather enjoyed it, and he thoroughly approved of any measure that lessened bloodshed. Unlike the typical imperial warlord, who regarded his warriors as expendable, Tol valued the life of every soldier under his command. Of humble birth himself, he did not ascribe to the notion, common among noble Ergothians of the Great Horde, that dying for the empire was the greatest honor a warrior could achieve. Tol preferred life to honor, as a rule.

Diplomacy, however, was something else again. It required him to wear his formal armor, a flimsy set of plate enameled in imperial crimson, to tame his unkempt hair and beard, and to try to look fierce and amenable at the same time. There would be interminable discussions of boring points of trade, land rights, tariffs, and indemnities; veiled threats and counter-threats would be made, the same ground would be covered and re-covered until a sane man felt like screaming.

In Tol’s tent, Kiya and Miya helped lace him into his fancy general’s armor. The sisters had been with him fifteen years. Ostensibly wives and hostages given by their father, Chief Makaralonga of the Dom-shu tribe, whom Tol had captured in battle, in reality the women were more like big sisters (each was a head taller than he) than hostages. Wives they were not, either. Tol’s heart lay elsewhere.

Tol studied his reflection in a dull brass mirror. Just past thirty, broad-shouldered and stocky, with a square face and long brown hair, he had grown to look very like his father. Even the short beard he sported, in place of the sweeping mustache favored by the empire’s elite, was very like Bakal’s. He suddenly realized he was now about the age Bakal had been when Tol had left the family farm to begin his training as a warrior in Juramona. Where was his father now?

The crimson armor, jeweled dagger, and velvet mantle Tol wore as a warlord and the General of the Army of the North couldn’t keep him from looking like who he was. In spite of twenty years’ service and the favor he enjoyed from the imperial regent, Crown Prince Amaltar, he still felt like an impostor hobnobbing with the high and mighty. The decade he’d spent campaigning in the wilds had only strengthened that feeling.

Kiya flipped her long horsetail of blonde hair over her shoulder and announced, “You look like a bushberry,” naming the bitter, inedible, and bright red fruit of a forest vine.

“A bushberry with whiskers,” Miya added. She had short golden-brown hair and a lighter build than her warrior sister. In charge of Tol’s household and domestic affairs, she had a skill as a haggler which made her the bane of merchants across the empire.

Tol divided a sour look equally between them. “Exactly what I needed to hear before facing the nobility of Tarsis.”

Kiya made a dismissive sound. “You’re twice the warrior of any of those snobs.”

“And you’re the Crown Prince’s champion,” put in Miya. “When he becomes emperor, your star will know no bounds. Why should you be unhappy?”

A face flashed into Tol’s mind – green eyes and a smile framed by a rich fall of dark brown hair. Valaran. Ten years had passed since he’d last heard from his beloved, ten years of silence that puzzled him. Despite the passage of time, the distance between them, and the fact she was married to Crown Prince Amaltar, Tol still could not forget her. Val was lodged in his heart, a thorn that could never be removed.

The sisters knew of that old pain, but with the practicality of their forest upbringing, they saw no point in dwelling on it.

“You’re right, I’ve no reason to be unhappy,” Tol replied firmly, replacing his frown with a smile. “Life is good.”

Kiya grasped him by the shoulders, staring hard into his eyes. “Let the Tarsans see the great Lord Tolandruth in all his glory. By the gods, I wager if you glare at them the right way, they’ll melt into their fancy boots!”

The jest had its intended effect, lightening his mood. Seating his ceremonial helmet on his head, Tol stepped outside.

Torches blazed at the entrance to his tent, and his honor guard snapped to attention when he emerged. All his old comrades were present, save the wounded Darpo: there was balding Frez, dark-skinned Tarthan, Fellen the engineer, and Sanksa, the Karad-shu tribesman.

Looking them over with a grin, he suddenly missed Egrin, Raemel’s son, the man who more than any other had made a warrior out of a clumsy peasant lad. Egrin had become Marshal of the Eastern Hundred when his predecessor, Lord Enkian Tumult, dared to criticize Prince Amaltar’s leadership during the worst part of the war against Tarsis. Removed as marshal, Enkian was made Warden of the Seascapes, the wild, desolate northwest coastal province. Not only a demotion, it was a dangerous assignment. Tarsan ships raided the Seascapes regularly. The previous two wardens had died leading their men against Tarsan raiding parties.

Wind lashed at the burning torches and drove sand against the soldiers’ armor. Tol pulled on a pair of studded gauntlets, the last detail of his formal outfit, and strode away flanked by his retinue. He didn’t like twenty armed men following his every move, but generals were expected to have entourages.

They marched through camp. At every junction soldiers turned out to cheer them. Even the camp followers joined in. By the time Tol reached the pavilion where the meeting was to take place, the whole Ergothian camp resounded with his name.

Lord Regobart was waiting outside the tent with his own large honor guard. He inclined his head politely to his young colleague.

“Welcome, my lord. I was able to track you by your stealthy approach,” Regobart said.

Tol removed his helmet, smiling at the old warlord’s jest, and they conferred in confidential tones. Regobart wanted to establish his primacy in the upcoming negotiations. He was twice Tol’s age, a warrior of long service to the empire, and the scion of one of the oldest and noblest families in Ergoth. His ancestor, also named Regobart, had fought at the side of Ackal Ergot, founder of the empire, yet he knew the younger man had the acclaim of the troops and the powerful backing of the prince regent.

“You speak for the emperor here, my lord,” Tol assured the elder general. “You understand these matters far better than I.”

Regobart looked relieved. “Shall we put our brand on these sheep?”

Tol did not believe the Tarsans would be so compliant. Nonetheless, he nodded agreement, and thus they entered the great tent.

Regobart had spared no effort to make the pavilion extravagant. The center room was easily twenty paces across. Thick carpets covered the sand, and light was provided by six brass candle-trees, each holding twenty fat tallow candles. A trestle table in the center of the room was laden with ewers of wine and beer. Along the rear wall a cold repast had been laid out on another table. The Tarsan delegation hovered there, murmuring among themselves and eyeing the guards posted around the room.

The entrance of the two enemy generals silenced the desultory talk. The Tarsans – eight men and four women – sorted themselves into a line. The central place was held by a tall noble, finely made and clad in a pale linen robe edged with gold. A gilded chaplet sat on his head.

“I am Valgold, Prince of Vergerone,” he said, pressing a beringed hand to his chest and bowing slightly. “I speak for Tarsis.”

“Regobart, Lord of Caergoth.” The elder general gestured to Tol. “And this is Lord Tolandruth of Juramona.”

Glancing down the row of enemy leaders, Tol spotted a face he recognized. It belonged to a woman of striking appearance, with black hair and prominent amber eyes. She was elegantly attired in a close-fitting gown of green velvet and stood with one hand on her hip, the other holding a heavy goblet. Her gaze moved from Regobart to Tol and back, with no sign of recognition.

Prince Valgold began to introduce his colleagues: first, Syndic Trylani, a portly, balding fellow; then Syndic Formigan, ebony-skinned; and Princess Shelei Gozandstan, a silver-haired matron dressed entirely in white. Four strands of lustrous gold chain encircled her neck and hung to her waist.

Regobart bowed. “Princess Shelei and I have met. Greetings, Your Highness.” Unsmiling, she acknowledged the general with a barely perceptible nod.

Syndic Pektro was the one with wine-stained fingers and crumbs in his brown beard. Prince Helx of Mokai was a clean-shaven young man with a cruel expression and a dagger poorly concealed beneath his purple robe. Syndic Tomo, a stout fellow clad in a leather-girded tunic, was the only Tarsan still eating.

Masters Vyka and Rorino, and Mistress Xalia Tol, were immediately recognizable as priests. Plainly dressed, all three wore incised amulets on chains around their necks and stood with hands clasped at their waists. Vyka was the elder of the men; Rorino, no more than twenty. Xalia, about Tol’s own age, wore the medallion of a priestess of Shinare.

The striking, raven-haired woman in green velvet was Syndic Hanira. Tol had glimpsed her first some fifteen years earlier, in Prince Amaltar’s tent before the campaign against the forest tribes of the Great Green. Later, she’d served as the Tarsan ambassador to the imperial court in Daltigoth. She’d made an audacious appearance before the regent in manly attire, an act calculated to unsettle the conservative warlords. It had worked. Tol certainly remembered Hanira.

The last Tarsan was a red-faced man whose hands and face bore many small cuts. This was Admiral Anovenax. Tol was surprised to meet his adversary face to face.

“My lord admiral,” he said. “I compliment you on the good fight today.”

“Not good enough,” said Anovenax bitterly. He had a deep, powerful voice. Bawling commands from the quarterdeck of his flagship, he must be quite impressive.

At Lord Regobart’s invitation, everyone took their places at the table. They presented an interesting tableau. On one side, the twelve richest and most powerful people of the city of Tarsis; on the other, only Tol and Regobart.

“Let me begin by saying we are here to bring about an end to the war between our states,” Regobart began. “I have a list of our requirements given to me by the prince regent.” He held out a sheet of parchment to Prince Valgold.

The prince quickly scanned the document, eyes darting down the short list. “This is unacceptable,” he said bluntly. “Agreement would mean the end of Tarsis.”

“If the war continues, there will be no Tarsis,” Regobart replied coldly.

“That remains to be seen!” Anovenax growled.

“Would you care to try conclusions with us – again?” asked Tol, bristling.

Regobart placed a hand on his comrade’s arm, and Prince Valgold called for calm. Valgold handed the list of demands to the man on his left, the portly, balding Trylani. He read it and passed it down. In moments, all the Tarsans had seen it.

Hanira spoke firmly. “Tarsis cannot live without the ships of its navy,” she said, gesturing with one hand. Her fingernails were long and painted a pale rose color. Tol had never seen such a fashion, not even in the imperial court.

Admiral Anovenax offered his vigorous agreement with this statement, but Lord Regobart interjected, “Your raids on our coast must end. Either you stop them, or we shall.” At that Anovenax took instant umbrage.

The arguments escalated, about fleets and trade and war indemnities to be paid to the empire in gold. At one point Prince Helx’s harsh expression drew into an even fiercer frown, and he asked sarcastically, “Why stop with gold? Why not enslave us all and be done with it?”

“I will gladly entertain alternatives,” Regobart answered, refusing to be baited. “Silver, copper, grain —”

“Hostages?”

The single word from Hanira silenced the room.

Tol and Regobart exchanged a glance. Tol asked, “What do you propose?”

“That a certain part of the indemnity be rescinded in favor of a number of volunteer hostages to be sent to Daltigoth in token of our peaceful intentions.”

“Noble hostages?” Tol asked. “You, lady?”

Valgold flushed, and Prince Helx looked furious, but Admiral Anovenax snorted with amusement. “As well try to put a panther on a leash!” he scoffed.

Most of the Tarsan men in the delegation laughed nervously and shifted in their chairs. Princess Shelei frowned in reproof. The three clerics lowered their eyes. Only Hanira herself seemed unperturbed.

“My countrymen jest with you,” she said evenly. “As head of the Golden House, I’ve had many sharp dealings with them.”

“Golden House?” asked Tol.

“The guild of goldsmiths and jewelers,” Prince Valgold explained, then quickly shifted the subject back to the more serious questions of trade.

The discussion lasted far into the night. Another meal was served by Ergothian orderlies. Wine flowed, but all kept their heads clear. At times tempers flared. Prince Helx, with arrogant rudeness, dismissed a compromise proposed by Lord Regobart.

Regobart smote the table with his fist, declaring he would turn Tarsis into a tidal pool if need be.

Helx jumped up, hand hovering over his dagger. “Do your worst, you savage! How will you breach our walls, eh? With sabers?”

The prince had a point, Tol reflected. Victorious as they were in the open field, the Ergothians still did not have the means to ravage and reduce the great city.

Tol had kept silent through most of the stalemate, watching and listening, and he felt he was beginning to understand what mattered to the Tarsan delegation. For all their talk of freedom and culture, what truly set their blood coursing was money.

Breaking the charged silence, he said calmly, “We don’t have to destroy your walls, Your Highness. We can occupy your country. If all supplies to the city were cut off, how long would your food hold out? How long would your gold supply last?”

“Gold is not bread,” said the admiral quickly.

“No, but gold is the lifeblood of Tarsis, is it not? Will you sacrifice your fortunes to save your lives? How about the fortunes of your comrades, not to mention the common folk of Tarsis?” Tol let his questions hang in the air, then added, “When you’re paupers, what good will your pride be?”

Silence reigned. At last, Prince Valgold stood. He rolled up the list of Ergothian demands and slid the parchment into his voluminous sleeve.

Scanning the assembly with tired, bloodshot eyes, he announced, “It is late. I will take your demands to the City Assembly. You will have our response soon.”

When the Tarsans were gone, Regobart filled a goblet with strong red wine and drained it.

“Bloody merchants,” he said. “Call themselves princes? There’s no nobility in counting money!”

Privately, Tol agreed, but then, he didn’t see that riding a horse and killing people made one noble either.

He and Regobart took their leave of each other. Tol was so exhausted he thought he would be asleep as soon as he fell into bed. Instead, he slept very poorly. The yowl of a panther out in the dunes disturbed his rest. He even stumbled outside, sword in hand, dressed only in his breechnap, seeking to kill the beast. The only sound to be heard was the wind, hissing over the sand.

At dawn, the Tradewind Gate was thrown open abruptly. Alarms sounded in the Ergothian camp, and warriors rushed to fend off what they imagined was a last-ditch Tarsan attack. Instead of soldiers, however, a band of officials emerged, flanked by heralds.

One of the horn-bearing heralds, his eyes bright with tears, announced, “By order of the princes, syndics, and City Assembly, the city of Tarsis hereby yields to the forces of the Ergoth Empire!” He choked, cleared his throat, and continued. “Here are our counterproposals to the emperor’s demands!”

A youth dashed out and presented a large scroll to Lord Regobart, who had arrived with hair uncombed and still in his sleeping gown. At his side, Tol, haggard from his unsettled night, watched as Regobart broke the seal and opened the scroll. The elder general’s expression grew hard.

“They refuse to give their fleet,” he reported, “and they offer only one hundred thousand gold pieces instead of five hundred thousand!”

Tol shrugged. “Does it matter? It’s a goodly sum. Leave them their ships – or better, demand a token reduction of, say, one hundred galleys. They’ve surrendered. Leave them some pride and they won’t be so resentful in the future.”

Regobart struggled with conflicting emotions. As the warlord of a mighty empire, his inclination was to squeeze a defeated foe for every last drop of blood. As a diplomat, he knew even better than Tol that it was often wiser to let a loser retain some dignity.

The Tarsan officials were waiting, glaring at their conquerors with impotent hatred. Regobart drew himself straight and spoke loudly to them.

“In the name of His Imperial Majesty Pakin III and Prince Regent Amaltar, I accept these terms,” he said. “Let every gate of the city be opened! We shall enter and receive your surrender at noon today!”

Cheers erupted from the warriors who’d rushed to the gate believing themselves to be under attack. The jubilant men engulfed their generals. Cries of “Ergoth! Ergoth!” alternated with “Regobart!” and “Tolandruth!”

In the confusion, a man in Tarsan livery sidled up to Tol and thrust a note in his hand. Tol turned to confront him, but the fellow melted quickly into the crowd. Tol unfolded the small square of foolscap. It bore the seal of the Guild of Goldsmiths.

Hanira of the Golden House, the note read, requests the pleasure of your company for dinner at her residence. On Emerald Square, in the Crucible District. At Sunset.

Faintly, over the tumult of celebration, Tol heard the call of a panther.

Chapter 2

GOLDEN HOUSE

Tol struggled with the buttons on the high collar of his tunic, his face reddening.

“I say it’s a trap,” Miya repeated. “I say go,” countered Kiya, normally the more cautious of the sisters. She helped Tol fit the broad belt around his waist, adding, “She’s rich, beautiful, and a woman of influence in this city. She probably wants to discuss business.”

Miya snorted, and the two sisters were off again. While they argued, they helped him struggle into less martial finery. Since he’d returned to the tent and told them about the invitation from Hanira, Kiya and Miya had disputed nonstop about whether he should go. Miya feared an assassination plot. To put a stop to her relentless urging, Tol had donned a light mail shirt under his tunic. It wouldn’t stop an arrow or sword, but it would turn aside a dagger thrust from close range.

Kiya dismissed her sister’s fears. Trained forest fighter that she was, she had a low opinion of city-bred women. They had nothing more in their heads than thoughts of clothes and pretty baubles. It was nothing but a flirtation.

Still, when Miya departed to call for Tol’s horse, Kiya said quickly, “You wear the amulet?”

Tol assured her he did. The Irda nullstone was sewn into the waistband of his smallclothes, so it would always be close.

As a youth, he’d come across an ancient, forgotten ruin at the headwaters of the Caer River. There he had found a small artifact. Strands of copper, silver and gold had been braided together to form a circlet, the free ends joined by a bead of copper. On the bead was etched a complex pattern of angular lines and curving whorls. A piece of dull black glass filled the center of the circlet. It was a pretty find and fit easily in the palm of Tol’s hand, so he’d kept it.

Later, he learned from the wizards of Daltigoth that his simple souvenir was in fact a millstone, an exceedingly rare relic of the lost Irda race. It had one unique ability: it absorbed all magical power it came in contact with.

Yoralyn, the elderly leader of the White Robes in Daltigoth, warned him there were people who would slaughter entire cities to possess such a powerful artifact, so he should destroy it. Unwilling to give it up, Tol did not heed her words. He did, however, keep the amulet a secret. Only Kiya knew he possessed it.

In spite of his dismissive attitude toward Miya’s worries, Tol recognized that he was indeed taking a chance. No Ergothian troops would enter Tarsis until tomorrow, when a small group would escort Lord Regobart to the City Assembly for the formal ceremony ending hostilities. Tol was placing himself alone in the midst of his former foes, but Hanira’s invitation was too intriguing to decline.

He declined the sisters’ offer to escort him. To those unfamiliar with his strapping hostage-wives, the notion of them acting as his personal escort while he visited the home of a beautiful woman would have seemed shocking.

“If Lady Hanira harms me, it would be a disaster for Tarsis,” Tol pointed out reasonably. “What she wants to see me for I don’t know, but I can’t believe this is merely a crude plot against my life.”

Brown eyes serious, Miya folded her arms and loosed a last volley of objections, including, “She’s too old for you.”

Tol ignored her as he buckled a sash to his belt and slipped his jeweled dagger, presented to him by Prince Amaltar years ago, into the silken sling. Miya seized him by the shoulders and spun him around to face her.

“If you get killed, what would happen to Sister and me?”

“When I die, you’re both free to return to the Great Green.”

Kiya broke her sister’s grip and stepped between her and Tol. Holding out Tol’s dress sword to him, she said over her shoulder, “You see, Sister, there’s still a chance to be free of this brute!” Tol laughed and buckled on the sword.

Glowering, Miya muttered, “We put out the lamps when we go to sleep. It’ll be dark when you return. I hope you trip and fall.”

Kiya cuffed her, none too gently, and Tol made his escape.

The fiery disk of the sun was just touching the Bay of Tarsis. Wind swirled, frosting the distant water with whitecaps. Although the fighting had ceased, the Ergothian priests maintained their wind spell to keep the Tarsan fleet at sea.

On the wind-tossed ships, sailors were hoisting lanterns to the top of each ship’s mast to mark the vessel’s position in the coming darkness. One by one, all the galleys acquired a single yellow star. These rose and fell with each roll of the waves.

Two soldiers arrived and saluted. These were the men Tol had asked Frez to pick to accompany him.

The soldier on his right identified himself as Sarkar, corporal of the Long Knife Horde; he named his comrade as Belath. The second fellow dipped his head.

“I see you brought your cloaks as I requested,” Tol said. Both soldiers carried long, dark blue wraps over their arms. “Put them on. We’re not declaring ourselves tonight.”

As the two men obeyed, Sarkar said, “Begging your pardon, my lord, but is this really wise? Entering the enemy’s stronghold with just two men —”

“I’m expected and welcome,” Tol said. “Besides, aren’t three warriors of Ergoth more than a match for any number of Tarsan merchants?”

Buoyed by his words, the soldiers took two horses from the picket line for themselves as Tol mounted his own animal, Shadow.

The sun was half-buried in the sea now, and the cloudless sky was a palette of colors, from darkest red in the west to pale rose directly overhead and sapphire eastward. Tol put the sinking sun on his left and rode to Tradewind Gate.

The massive portal stood open, as had been agreed under the terms of the truce. However, the lack of Tarsan guards was somewhat surprising.

An amber glimmer appeared in the shadowed depths beyond the gate. Nervous, Sarkar and Belath reined up.

“What ails you men?” Tol asked, pulling up as well.

“I don’t know,” said Corporal Sarkar. “Just an odd feeling.”

“I expect we’re being met, since I don’t know the way,” Tol replied. “Is that so strange?”

The men could hardly disagree with their leader. The three of them moved on.

Lofty white walls towered over them, cutting off the last of the sunlight. Although the battlements looked empty, Tol saw glints of metal in the arrow slits of a watchtower by the gate. Their progress was noted.

The sound of their mounts’ iron-shod hooves echoed off the masonry, and the glimmer of light ahead grew brighter. Slowly, the shadows resolved into a figure: a slender rider on horseback, holding a lantern. At first, Tol thought it a beardless boy, but drawing nearer, he realized the light-bearer was a young girl.

She appeared no more than fifteen or sixteen. Mounted on a fine bay horse, she wore striking livery comprising a cloth-of-gold tabard over black tights. Her yellow hair was drawn back in a short, thick braid.

Tol identified himself and asked, “Are you my guide?”

“I am, my lord,” she replied, her voice high and clear. Glancing at the two soldiers, she added, “My orders are that you must proceed alone, my lord.”

Both Sarkar and the taciturn Belath began to protest, but Tol held up a hand for silence. “I must have my retainers,” he said.

“I was bidden to bring only you.”

“Then return to your mistress with my regrets,” Tol said coldly. “A warlord of Ergoth does not scurry about unaccompanied, like a common lackey.”

The girl clenched her mount’s reins in small white fists, biting her lip in indecision. “My lord, you are awaited,” she said, as if that made the difference.

Tol tugged on the reins, as Shadow whirled in a tight circle. “If the syndic wants to see me so badly, then she can come to our camp. Let’s go, men.”

They hadn’t ridden ten paces before the guide cantered up behind them. “My lord, please! The lady I serve will be sorely disappointed if I return without you!”

“Then let my men come with me.”

She gave in. As they turned about once more, Tol asked her name.

“Valderra, my lord. Most call me Val.”

The name scored a sharp wound on his heart, but Tol let nothing show on his face.

“Lead on, Valderra.”

Inside the city wall, the houses were high and handsome, faced with buff-colored stone and with steeply pitched roofs covered in green tiles. Through narrow gaps in the closed shutters Tol could see dim lights flickering. The streets, although wide, paved, and clean, were eerily empty and unlit. An Ergothian city of similar size, like Caergoth or Daltigoth, would have street lamps burning at every corner and torches in sconces by the door of every shop and tavern.

Tol remarked on this. Valderra explained that because of the prolonged war, supplies of tallow and lamp oil, which had to be imported into Tarsis, were almost exhausted.

“Why are there no folk about?” Sarkar wanted to know.

Valderra’s lips set in a firm line. “We have a severe curfew. There has been trouble at night.” She kept her eyes fixed ahead. “Malcontents. Criminals.”

Twilight had arrived when they reached Emerald Square in the very heart of Tarsis. A vast columned building, gabled and turreted, squatted on a hill overlooking the square. Valderra identified it as the City Assembly, with adjacent palaces for the city’s rulers. Tol took the opportunity to ask her the difference between a syndic and a prince.

“Princes are hereditary proprietors of the city’s affairs,” the girl said, eyes rising to the marble complex above them. “They’re descendants of the founders of Tarsis. Syndics are the chosen heads of city guilds.”

So princes were born, syndics made. That fit Tol’s impression of Hanira.

“It’s not correct then to call your mistress ‘Lady’?” he asked.

Valderra shook her head. She wore several tiny gold rings in each earlobe and these tinkled musically with the gesture.

“Syndic Hanira is not a Lady,” she said quite seriously.

Tol smiled. Miya would agree with that statement, no doubt.

Emerald Square was actually two intersecting squares, creating a cross-shaped plaza at the foot of Palace Hill. For the first time since entering Tarsis, the small party encountered other traffic. Virtually all of it was on foot, including several luxurious palanquins carried on the shoulders of bearers. Although cloaked in relative anonymity, the four riders drew stares.

“Horses must be in short supply,” Tol reasoned.

Valderra nodded. “Most were taken for the army.”

Golden House stood at the end of one of the arms of the plaza. Six stories tall and filling the width of the plaza, it was beautiful, but built like a miniature fortress. An outer wall surrounded it, and the house itself showed massive contours. Every corner, every window inlet and doorway was rounded and radiused, giving the impression the whole building had been cast in a single piece instead of constructed. Each window facing the square had its shutters open and a rack of candles burning on its sill.

The gate was closed. Flames leaped in brass braziers – or were they gold? Flanking the gate were guards in livery like Valderra’s, standing with spears ported.

Valderra announced their party. The guards exchanged disapproving glances at learning Tol had brought retainers. They began to protest, but Tol soon put a stop to that.

“Stand aside, you louts!” he bellowed in his fiercest battle-field voice. Both guards flinched. “I have business with your mistress, and these men are with me! Now admit us!”

Immediately, the near guard produced an iron key as long as his arm. It had been dangling from his belt, and Tol had mistaken it for a scabbard. The guard inserted the huge key into a slot in the gate and, with the other sentry’s help, twisted it until a loud clank announced the lock had disengaged.

Once Tol’s party was inside, the gilded gate swung shut and the lock clanged as it was secured. Belath muttered unhappily about being trapped inside.

Uniformed servants appeared out of the dancing torchlight and held Shadow while Tol dismounted. No one came forward to assist Sarkar or Belath.

“Will you see to my men?” Tol asked, and Valderra nodded.

Gesturing at the two warriors, she rode away toward a garden nestled between the wall and the house proper. The garden contained fruit trees, and lush green shrubs trimmed and shaped to resemble all manner of whimsical items – a bell, a leaping dolphin, a flock of birds rising into the air.

When she realized the two Ergothians hadn’t moved to follow her, Valderra halted between a leafy statue of a minotaur and a rearing unicorn.

“My lord,” Sarkar said to Tol. “Our place is by your side!”

“All will be well. Go with the girl. Be pleasant but vigilant. I will send for you if I need you.”

Unhappy but obedient, the two men followed their young guide into the topiary.

Tol was met at the door by an older woman in a high-necked, golden gown. Plump and gray-haired, she radiated competence and serenity.

“My lord,” she said, clasping her hands at her waist and bowing. “I am Zae, Keeper of the Golden House.”

“You are the syndic’s chamberlain?”

“Just so, my lord. Will you come this way?”

The entrance hall was staggering. Tol had never seen anything to equal it, not even in the imperial capital. The view overhead went straight to the roof, six floors above. At each level, on three sides, balconies faced the atrium. Underfoot, a carpet woven of golden thread covered a floor of polished black granite. Gilded statues, half again life size, lined both sides of the hall. Extremely lifelike, some statues were portly, some wizened and stooped, a few youthful and strong. Zae explained they represented former syndics of the Guild of Goldsmiths and Jewelers.

Between each statue was a bright globe, perched atop a slender marble column. Each globe emitted a soft, warm light. The air was sweet with the unobtrusive hint of floral incense.

The richness of his surroundings – the heavy tapestries, thick carpets, and ornate furniture – amazed Tol. Even the knobs and hinges of the doors they passed were covered with gold.

Zae told him the Golden House comprised two hundred rooms. Begun in the sixty-sixth year of the city by Syndic Morolin, the house had taken eleven years to build. Hanira had lived here since Year 221 of the city.

Realizing the figure meant nothing to Tol, Zae added, “She has been in residence for fifteen years, my lord.”

At the end of the monumental hall, a corridor crossed at right angles. Zae turned right, leading Tol to what she called the Minor Hall.

She stopped before a pair of tall double doors. They parted for her, swinging in silently. Each was quite thick and probably weighed several hundredweight, but no motive force was visible, here or in the room beyond. The great doors opened seemingly of their own volition.

A wave of noise hit Tol. The Minor Hall was revealed to be as large as the Feasting Hall of the Riders of the Horde in Daltigoth. Instead of an intimate dinner, Tol found himself facing a room occupied by at least fifty guests, all of whom seemed to be talking at once.

Zae paused and spoke to a man who wore golden livery and an open-faced helmet of shining gold. In response, he struck the stone floor with his staff, commanding attention.

“Guildmasters, syndics, and princes!” the fellow boomed. “His Excellency, Lord Tolandruth of Juramona!”

The chatter and clatter ceased instantly. All eyes turned to Tol. Striving to appear casual and calm in the face of so many judgmental stares, Tol unhooked the pewter frog at his throat and handed his cloak to Zae. He thanked her for her help.

“I am here to serve, my lord,” she said, and withdrew. The doors closed behind her.

The continued silence was deafening. Tol walked to the table. An enormous feast was laid out, but no one had partaken yet. All stood or sat around the long, heavy table, drinking from delicately shaped golden goblets. Most of the Tarsans were men, well fed and with red faces. Apparently they’d been drinking a while.

Hanira rose from her place at the head of the table. The only other face Tol recognized was that of young Prince Helx, seated at Hanira’s right hand. The blond prince did not rise but glowered at Tol, pale blue eyes tracing his every move.

“My lord,” said Hanira. “Welcome to Golden House.”

Tol executed a slight bow. “Thank you. I hope I have not inconvenienced you by arriving late.”

“Not at all.” She extended a smooth arm to indicate an empty chair. The single ring on her hand held the largest diamond Tol had ever seen. It flashed like a beacon in the glow of massed candles.

“Won’t you be seated?”

Those were the last words he would hear from her for several hours. She had placed him at the foot of the table, directly opposite herself. Although it was obviously a place of honor, Tol was vaguely annoyed to find himself so far from his hostess.

Spurs and sword jingling accompanied his every footfall. A servant stood at his chair, a gesture Tol at first did not understand, but as he approached, the servant pulled the chair out for him. When a second lackey offered to take his sword, he frowned the fellow into retreat. Unhooking the scabbard from his belt, Tol sat down and laid the weapon across his lap.

Tol had been a long time away from the grand dinners of the Ergothian capital. The life of a soldier on the frontier had roughened the edges Valaran had worked to smooth during his time in Daltigoth. Still, he found himself surprised by the affected manners of the Tarsans seated nearest him. In wary silence, they eyed him throughout dinner as if he was a beast they might provoke with the slightest word. He didn’t try to initiate conversation.

Considering the sumptuousness of the surroundings, the food was rather plain. Tol supposed even the wealthy Hanira had to deal with the shortages caused by war.

Wine there was in plenty, both native red and Silvanesti white, the nectar of the elves. As the evening wore on, Tol drank more and more, mostly out of boredom. Isolated at the end of the table, he amused himself by studying the Tarsans.

Hanira was at least ten years older than him. In her early forties, she had reached the age when a woman’s face either fines down or plumps up. The former was the case with Hanira. Her cheekbones were high, her chin a trifle sharp, but her most arresting feature was her eyes. Large, they were the warm color of honey or polished wood. Even at this distance, Tol was very much aware of her gaze when it fell upon him.

In a room full of curled hair, silk and brocade finery, and powdered faces, Hanira seemed elegantly natural. She wore her raven-black hair simply, parted in the center and drawn forward over her right shoulder into a single heavy braid. Her gown was of ruby silk, with a high collar in back and a low neckline in front. At her throat, between the wings of her collar, a dark jewel – onyx or jet – glinted.

The sullen Prince Helx, seated on her right, kept trying to capture her attention, reaching for her hand. She evaded him time and again. The prince obviously was attempting to woo his hostess, but she brushed him off with smiling, casual replies and chatted gaily with the elderly man on her left.

The party grew loud, as parties do when wine is consumed in quantity, then began to falter as the effects took hold. As the hour grew late, guests rose from the table, bowed to their hostess, and tottered out. Some required the support of a servant or two to make their way from the room. Tol kept his head and his seat. He was the only Ergothian in attendance; he must have been invited for some reason. He wouldn’t hasten to leave until he learned what that reason was.

A regiment of boys appeared to ferry the dishes away. As they staggered out under the weight of dozens of golden plates, other servers gathered goblets on trays. Through the swirl of activity Tol saw Helx speaking in low tones to Hanira, with an intent expression in his light blue eyes. She was leaning back in her great chair, seeming to distance herself from his entreaties.

Tol stood and clipped the scabbard to his belt again. Walking around the end of the wide table, he approached his hostess at a deliberate pace. The sight of the fearsome enemy warlord on his feet froze the bevy of servants in various poses. The clatter and the tinkle of cutlery ceased abruptly.

Helx and Hanira watched him draw near, but only Hanira smiled.

“My lord,” she said warmly. “Was the dinner to your liking?”

Her voice was like a fresh draft of wine. Slightly more befuddled by the wine and the room’s heat than he’d thought, Tol answered rather bluntly: “Your palace is magnificent, but the repast was a bit plain.”

“Food is in short supply,” Helx snapped.

“Is that why you surrendered?” Tol responded, again too bluntly, keeping his eyes on Hanira. He dragged the chair on her left out with his foot, unbuckled his sword, and sat down. “Not enough food to withstand a siege?”

Helx leaped to his feet. “Insolent savage! Remember where you are!”

Tol grinned disarmingly, his attention still on the woman before him. “Begging your pardon, lady. I mean no disrespect – to you.”

Helx’s hand flashed to the dagger under his draped blue robe. Tol leaned back, both hands on his scabbard. “Your Highness, be calm.”

The prince’s hand tightened on his dagger. Hanira lost her bland, pleasant manner and said sharply, “Helx, don’t be a fool! Sit down!”

“I won’t be insulted by this – this barbarian!”

Hanira leaned toward Tol, saying sweetly, “Pay him no mind, Lord Tolandruth. You have my leave to bloody him if he acts up.”

Tol threw back his head laughing. White-faced with fury, Helx demanded, “Hanira, give me your answer! I have a right to know!”

She picked up her goblet. Just before the golden rim touched her lips she murmured, “Go home, Helx. It’s late, and you are no longer amusing.”

“I demand an answer!”

“Sounds to me like you got an answer, boy.”

Tol’s chuckling comment goaded the prince into drawing his slim silver blade, eight inches long. Fast as he did this, however, he found the tip of Tol’s dress sword pressed into his throat.

The prince froze, seething with fury, and looked at Hanira. She calmly sipped her wine.

Helx lowered his dagger. Tol took his sword from the fiery young man’s neck. Pale eyes riveted on Hanira’s unconcerned face, Helx drove his blade into the tabletop, burying a quarter of its length in the richly polished wood, then turned on his heel and stalked out. On the way he shoved aside any hapless servant who came within reach.

“Poor fool,” Hanira murmured when he was gone. “He imagined I’d swoon at the chance to marry him.”

Tol’s brows rose in surprise. The prince seemed the merest puppy compared to the mature, sophisticated Hanira.

“He’s an ardent and usually agreeable boy,” she added, “but the time is long past for me to consider marriage again.” A smile touched the corners of her mouth. “Besides, I couldn’t bear the loss of status.”

Hanira rose, and immediately Zae was at her side, poised to assist her.

“I will retire now, Zae,” Hanira said. “You have the key?”

The older woman bowed. “Yes, mistress.”

Tol stood, but before he could speak, Hanira swept out a side door. Like the door through which Tol had entered, this one opened without her touching it.

Zae bade Tol sit and indulge in a strengthening draught. He wanted no more drink, but she gently insisted. The liquid a lackey poured from a slender amphora was not wine. It was thick, with a pearlescent blue sheen. Zae said only that it was a “decoction of many ingredients,” and very healthful.

Tol eyed the goblet uncertainly. The liquid had a mild aroma, not unpleasant, but more animal than vegetable. Milk of some kind, he reckoned.

“Juramona!” he whispered, raising the cup high, then draining it in one gulp.

The liquid was cold. When it hit his stomach, Tol felt his head abruptly clear of the wine-induced fog. His fingers and toes knotted involuntarily then relaxed. A smile spread over his face.

Zae nodded sagely. “An ancient family recipe,” she said. Dipping a hand into her sleeve, she brought out a small object and pressed it into his hand. “Your key, my lord.” She pointed toward the side door where Hanira had exited.

The so-called key was a small figure, no larger than his thumb, made of silver. It depicted a crouching man, clutching a bar or rod.

Zae said, “That is Shinare, patron deity of the Golden House. There is much treasure here, many precious things. Every door in the Golden House is secured by an ancient spell. Only the key of Shinare unlocks them.”

Without further explanation, she said, “Good night, my lord,” and swiftly withdrew.

From chatter and gaiety, the Minor Hall now resounded only with silence. No outside sounds penetrated its walls. The heat generated by the crowd of diners was dissipating, the room cooling rapidly.

Tol had two choices: follow Zae and return to camp, or follow Hanira and stay the night. The potion he’d drunk had left him feeling alert and utterly clear-headed. Staring at the tiny silver image of Shinare in his hand, he made his decision.

The key opened the side door. When his hand touched the cool metal doorknob, a slight prickling sensation passed through his fingers, telling him magic was present. The knob turned easily enough..

A candle flickered on a table in the dim corridor beyond. Just a few steps away was a set of steps, leading up. A faint trace of perfume lingered in the air. Hanira had passed this way.

Tol picked up the candle and ascended the stairs. At the top, the way left was dark. To the right a second candle glowed in a wall niche. He went that way.

A trail of lighted candles led him to an ornate door, perfectly round and as wide across as he could stretch his arms. The portal was decorated in high relief and looked exactly like a giant gold coin, complete with a stylized rendering of the walls of Tarsis. Again, the key fit.

Tol put a hand to the door and pushed, but it didn’t immediately budge. A much harder shove finally caused the massive door to swing slowly inward. From its ponderous weight, he realized the door was made of solid gold.

The room beyond was capacious, and illuminated with racks of candles. The chamber was divided into more intimate spaces by wooden screens, carved and painted. The scent of Hanira’s perfume was stronger here, and a melodious tinkling sound wafted to Tol, borne on the warm air like the music of wind chimes.

He wended his way through the maze of screens, his footfalls muffled by thick carpets. He passed through sitting rooms, a study, and a private dining spot, all equipped with light, elegant furniture draped in rich brocades. On the small dining table was a golden bowl brimming with fruit. Tol plucked a fine ripe pear.

A curtain of gold and black silk closed off the passage out of the dining nook. Tol bit into the pear and parted the curtain with a sweep of his hand.

“Welcome,” said Hanira.

*

The candles had gone out hours ago, leaving as the only light the glow from a blue glass globe by Hanira’s bed. About the size of a man’s head, the globe perched on a polished marble column and emitted a soft, silent illumination.

Tol turned over, seeking Hanira, but the bed was empty.

Getting out of bed, he winced as his bare feet touched the cold marble floor. His clothes had been left in the sitting room below, where he’d found Hanira.

Strange evening, he mused. He’d come to Golden House a victorious general with seduction in mind, but in the end, he was left feeling like the conquered one. Years of service to the empire, a score of battles, large and small, had not prepared him for this night.

He wrapped a thin blanket around his waist and went down the stairs to the sitting room.

His clothes and Hanira’s were strewn about the floor and furniture. Donning his linen breeches, he checked his waist-pocket for the nullstone. It was still there.

Feeling more secure now that he was at least partly dressed, Tol went looking for his hostess.

Great beams crisscrossed the high, vaulted ceiling like the strands of an enormous web. He easily made out the sheen caused by the blue glimmer of the globe by the bed. There was only one other light source in the entire, vast chamber, a mild amber glow off to his left. Hanira must be there. One of the many things he’d learned about her in their brief time together was she never slept in the dark.

The story of her life, as she’d related it to him, had been both horrifying and fascinating. Of common birth, she had gained all she possessed by sagacity and ambition. When her third husband, Morgax, syndic of the guild of goldsmiths, had died, she had assumed control of the guild. It hadn’t been easy. Many in the guild opposed her, as she was not an artisan herself, but she outlasted some of her enemies and actively ruined others. Her arsenal of weapons included bribery, extortion, persuasion, and not a few dagger thrusts in the night.

Once her rule of the goldsmiths’ guild was established, Hanira set out to take control of the jewelers’ guild as well. In a struggle that cost several fortunes and a number of lives, she merged the two separate guilds into one powerful, wealthy organization under her absolute control. All of this she had accomplished by age forty.

“Not bad for a poor girl and former courtesan,” she’d explained. “We’re much alike, Tolandruth of Juramona. From the time you defeated Tylocost in Hylo, I’ve followed your doings with great interest. I knew we’d cross paths again, sooner or later. We’re conquerors, you and I. We should be allies.” Trailing a rose-painted fingernail down his chest, she added, “We should be friends.”

He was flattered and wary at the same time. Hanira was entirely captivating, yet he knew he could never turn his back on her. He put off answering her proposal, using revived passion to evade the issue of an alliance. Later, he feigned sleep, which became real enough when Zae’s invigorating tonic wore off.

Now he found the source of the amber glow and there found his lover as well. She slept in an alcove, screened from the rest of the room. He gaped, astonished.

Hanira was completely enclosed in a rectangular shell of flawless, clear crystal, like a coffin made of glass. Lamps burned at each end of the box. The panel over her face was not fogged with breath, but he could see her ribs expand with every breath.

After his initial surprise, he quickly grasped the reason behind the weird arrangement. This was the price Hanira paid for her success – reposing each night in a beautiful crystal cage to foil assassination.

Just then he heard a metallic scrape in the darkened chamber behind him. His senses, honed by war, immediately recognized the sound of a blade being drawn somewhere nearby. He rushed out of Hanira’s chamber to the sitting room, hunting through his discarded clothing for his sword and dagger. This particular sword was largely ceremonial – its straight blade thin, damascened and pretty, but hardly a warrior’s weapon, yet it would serve, and he also had his dagger.

Something bumped into one of the many wooden partitions somewhere in the vast room. Tol climbed a tall chair and peered around. Back in the direction of the door he’d entered by, he spied the slight movement of one of the screens.

Though underdressed and barefoot, he prepared to fight. He decided not to rouse Hanira. If this was an assassination attempt, she would be safer within her crystal enclosure. If he called for Hanira’s guards, he would betray his position to whomever was out there.

Now he heard sounds from a second direction – perhaps a second attacker. Off to his right, there was another sword-scrape. Three assassins?

He waited, heartbeat accelerating, as the muffled footfalls came nearer. He timed his first move with care. Two intruders were approaching straight at him, and one flanked him on the right. The two were nearer, and when he judged them close enough, he ran forward and planted a foot squarely on the tall wooden screen in front of him. It flew back, crashing into something that prevented it from falling. Tol heard a raspy snarl as the panel shattered to kindling.

Facing him were two hulking figures, thick-necked and bald or perhaps wearing smooth helmets. In the dim light it was impossible to tell. Tol presented his sword in his right hand, dagger in his left. The pair lumbered forward.

As they drew closer, he realized with a start that the two were not human, but he wasn’t sure exactly what they were. Man-shaped, half a head taller than himself, the two creatures wore neither clothes nor armor. Their bodies were made of some translucent substance, tinged blue. Their faces were vague, frightening representations of normal features, with bumps for eyes, thin noses, and simple slits for mouths. Wielding swords, they rushed at him.

He met the near one’s overhand chop with his thin dress sword. The blow made his hand sting. Tol slashed at its neck. He felt the dagger tip rake over rubbery flesh, but the creature gave no sign it felt any pain, and no blood flowed from the cut. Tol leaped back to avoid the second monster’s blade.

Tol scrambled around Hanira’s furniture, thinking frantically. He’d never heard of a race of beings like these. They were sent to kill – who? Hanira or him? Both Syndic Hanira and Lord Tolandruth had many enemies.

The third intruder was crashing through screens off to Tol’s right. Hanira slumbered on in her glass box, and Tol led the monsters away from her. If they did not follow, if they went for the syndic, he would know their true target.

They followed him. They seemed brutes, strong but dull-witted. One of the monster’s legs became tangled in one of Hanira’s low couches. Tol let out a yell and jumped over a chair, lunging at the creature’s chest. It parried, but too slowly. Tol’s narrow sword blade hit and penetrated. He leaned into the thrust, knotting the considerable muscles in his shoulder. The monster’s flesh was denser than a man’s, but he pierced it with a full span of metal before his blade stopped. His strange foe seemed unaffected, no blood, no evidence of pain. Had it no organs to pierce, no arteries to slash?

Fending off counterblows with his dagger, Tol tried to work his sword free. The other creature aimed a cut at his neck, swinging its weapon in a wide arc. Tol ducked and iron cleaved the air over his head. He still could not free his sword. Cursing, he endured a rain of blows from the attacker he’d impaled. In between parries, Tol hit the impaled creature with the jeweled pommel of Prince Amaltar’s dagger. It was like punching a bale of leather, causing no real harm.

The sword-swinging monster landed a hit, the tip of its sword piercing the rim of Tol’s right ear. In a fury, he let go his sword and grappled with the creature who’d wounded him. The faceless beast was effortlessly powerful, but Tol gradually forced it back. Without a sound of protest or alarm, it fell on its back, smashing one of Hanira’s delicate side tables and losing its grip on its sword.

Tol snatched up the weapon. With a snarl, he brought the heavy blade down on the prostrate monster’s head, cleaving it in two. The creature quivered like jelly, arms flailing, slit mouth open. Tol leaned back to avoid a slash from the other monster, still carrying his sword in its chest, then planted a foot on the fallen one’s chest and struck again. The good iron blade severed the creature’s right arm at the shoulder.

Tol yelled in triumph and stood back, expecting the wounded monster to succumb. Instead, it rose to its feet, and the severed limb leaped about like a spawning salmon, fingers opening and clenching as though searching for its foe or owner.

Such enemies could not be slain by ordinary means. That being clear, Tol was not ashamed to flee. He ran through a gap in the screens. Clumsily, but with mindless persistence, the two monsters followed him, leaving the syndic behind.

Sweating, panting, and with blood running down his jaw from his injured ear, Tol paused in a corridor made of tall wooden panels to collect his racing thoughts. He’d never fought magical beings before. Too bad he didn’t have a spell-caster with him.

A revelation struck him like a clothyard shaft. Why did he need magic against magical foes? Did he not have the Irda millstone?

Wood splintered around him. The monsters were near.

How could he use the millstone against them? Should he strike them with it somehow?

A loud crash, nearer yet, sounded. Then another, behind Tol. They were encircling him.

Tol slit the stitching around the pocket holding the nullstone. In trying to move quickly, he fumbled it, dropping the artifact. It bounced beneath a table. He cursed under his breath and went to his knees, groping in the shadows.

Suddenly, his right wrist was seized in a painful, bone-crushing grip. Fantastic though it seemed, the monster’s severed limb had him! It must have crawled after him on its own, outdistancing its owner’s ponderous body.

Tol’s hand went numb, and the sword fell from his nerveless fingers. He jabbed at the disembodied arm with his dagger, but it merely tightened its numbing grip. Bone grated on bone in his wrist, and he gasped with pain.

He heaved the severed arm onto a nearby cushioned settee and frantically sawed at its narrowest point, the wrist, with the edge of his knife. The arm fought him back, flailing and twisting like a vengeful snake.

Now the other attackers appeared – two at one end of the corridor and the third, the one that was missing its arm, at the other end. Tol swiftly dropped to his belly, and crawled along the rug, dragging the severed arm awkwardly along. The three monsters advanced with heavy tread, but Tol’s groping hand finally came down on something hard and metallic. The millstone!

He rolled over and slammed the Irda artifact against the severed arm. Instantly, the powerful limb went stiff. Its fingers were still locked savagely around his wrist, but when he struck it with the butt of his dagger, the arm cracked. Elated, he hammered the limb until it was reduced to lifeless pieces.

Jumping to his feet, Tol yanked the lacing from the calf of his smallclothes. He swiftly used the linen strip to lash the millstone to the hilt of his dagger.

A sword streaked at his head, his own ceremonial weapon, now wielded by the one-armed thing. He ducked, and it shattered the oiled wood paneling behind him.

Whirling, Tol smashed the blade of his dagger against the dense blue flesh. The magical creature gave a start and then solidified into immobility, immediately turning to ashy white stone. Tol kicked hard at its leg, knocking out a sizable chunk. The suddenly inert monster toppled, shattering when it hit the floor.

The other two creatures were soon overcome in similar fashion. Parrying their attacks, choosing his openings with care, Tol struck each of the monsters with his millstone-enhanced dagger, and soon enough the fight was over.

Tol slumped in a chair, limp, gasping. His pulse throbbed in his battered ear, and wide bruises were darkening on his right wrist. He cradled his injured limb to his chest, muttering dire curses against whomever had sent the murderous beings.

A pale glow of light appeared around him. Hanira had arrived, bearing a candelabrum. She wore a robe of golden silk and a dazed, confused expression. Her black hair was loose around her shoulders.

Regarding the devastation in her private chambers with admirable aplomb, she asked, “What’s this?”

“Assassins. Magical creatures, sent here to kill.”

Her brow furrowed. “How did they get in? No one has ever penetrated the wards of Shinare which shield Golden House!” She nudged the debris of one shattered monster with the toe of her golden slipper. Shaking her head, she said, “Golems! I’ve not seen the like since I was married to my first husband.”

“Golems?”

“Beings of clay or stone, animated by magic and set to a specific task. They’re mindless and will persist in their duty until destroyed.”

She set the candelabrum on a table and planted her hands on her hips. The gesture parted her loosely tied robe and revealed she wore nothing underneath but a slender golden band encircling her waist. Tucked into the band was a stiletto.

“This is my fault,” she said. “My enemies must have learned of our meeting and fear I will make an alliance with you.” Her honey-colored eyes narrowed. “This isn’t the first attempt on my life. I shall make inquiries, and those responsible will be found.”

Hanira asked how he had bested the powerful golems.

“My dagger is enchanted,” he lied, placing a hand on the hilt. “I tried to fight the things with my court sword. It was no better than a feather duster.”

She put her arm around him soothingly, steering him back toward her bed chamber. At first Tol resisted, thinking he should return to camp, report what had happened here tonight. If truth be told, he was sore and injured, and Hanira was a beautiful woman; the danger seemed over. He let himself be led.

“I suppose Helx may be behind this,” Hanira mused, as they walked together slowly. “I rejected him tonight, and he has the money to hire any mage he wants.”

Hanira doctored his injuries, soaking a cloth in spirits and dabbing away the blood from his ear. From a small aromatic cedar box, she took balm, which she applied to his bruises. Finally, she tore a silk sheet into strips and made a tight bandage for his arm.

When she was done, he held up his wrapped arm, admiring her work.

“As a girl I was apprenticed to a healer,” she explained, “but circumstances led me elsewhere.” She’d become a courtesan at seventeen and had remained one until she married her first husband at twenty-two.

Tol had been nearly lulled into sleep again, when a tumult arose at the chamber door – a mob of servants led by Zae. Armed with kitchen knives and makeshift clubs, they’d rallied to defend Hanira.

“Mistress! Are you well? All the wards are down!” Zae cried, her eyes taking in the wreckage. She was still in her dressing gown, gray hair askew.

Hanira assured her people she was uninjured. A male servant behind Zae relayed terrible news. Six men lay dead in the courtyard. Four of Hanira’s household guards and Tol’s own escort had perished trying to stop mysterious intruders.

Tol was furious with himself. Sarkar and Belath had paid a high price for his dalliance.

Four marks past midnight, Zae reported, the main gate had been battered down by three powerful attackers. Hanira’s guard had tried to stop them but were slain. Sarkar and Belath, sleeping in the guards’ house, heard the noise of battle and rallied to action. The rest of the household, unarmed servants and lackeys, had cowered in their rooms until Zae finally managed to muster them in the entry hall.

Hanira thanked them all profusely, promising rewards to all for their bravery. The servants departed, leaving the syndic and the general alone once more.

“Zae is quite a woman. You’re lucky to have her,” Tol said.

Hanira closed the medicine chest. “I don’t have her. She had me. Zae is my mother.”

*

A strange and fateful night, and by dawn Tol still was not sure what to make of the peculiar events. He saw to the burial of brave Sarkar and Belath, and he was expected at Lord Regobart’s morning council to plan the armistice terms between Ergoth and Tarsis. Hanira saw him off, but since the attack, she’d shed her seductive air and behaved in a more preoccupied, businesslike fashion.

Even as he was about to leave her mansion, a quartet of riders skidded to a stop in the courtyard. They were men of Tol’s Army of the North, led by Frez. The steadfast warrior sprang from the saddle, calling for his commander.

“I’m here,” Tol answered, stepping outside. Briefly he filled Frez in on what had happened last night, about the golems, and the fate of Sarkar and Belath. Frez had important news of his own to impart.

“Couriers arrived this morning, my lord! Couriers from Daltigoth!” Frez replied. “The emperor is dead!”

Pakin III, emperor of Ergoth, had been in poor health for the last dozen years. His eldest son, Amaltar, had ruled as regent for the past decade.

“Has Prince Amaltar ascended to the throne?” Hanira, standing at Tol’s shoulder, asked.

“The warlords have pledged their loyalty to him,” said Frez, “and my lord, we are recalled!”

Tol stiffened as if struck. “Recalled?”

All the highest imperial warlords had been summoned to attend the coronation. Only Lord Regobart was excused, as he must conclude the negotiations with Tarsis.

“We’ll leave at once!” Tol declared. He strode forward a few steps, then halted abruptly. He looked back at Hanira. “I won’t forget you.”

She laughed lightly, and the old, knowing look came back to her face. “No, you won’t.”

They rode hard back to camp.

Chapter 3

THE PATH UNSEEN

For a nation of warriors, a change of monarchs heralded a risky time. Ambitious power-seekers could spring from nowhere and lay claim to the throne, throwing the empire into another dynastic struggle. The Pakin clan had been quiet for years, its last pretender having been shortened by a head almost two decades earlier, but there were still Pakins about. Nor was Amaltar safe from his own family. His younger brother, Prince Nazramin, possessed considerable power and influence. Nazramin was the very ideal of the hard-riding, hard-living warlord of old Ergoth. Indeed, many Riders of the Great Horde preferred him to Amaltar, whom they saw as a pallid, palace-dwelling schemer. Sensing Nazramin’s popularity with some warlords, Amaltar had forbidden his brother to participate in the Tarsis campaign, lest he reap more glory at his elder brother’s expense.

At the moment Tol thought little about such things. He cared only that he was going to Daltigoth at last. After ten years away, he could at last get to the heart of deeply troubling matters. The renegade wizard Mandes, whom Tol had rescued from a band of wild bakali years before, had gone to the capital after Tol’s destruction of the monster XimXim and his defeat of the Tarsan general, Tylocost. Although sent by Tol to carry word of his victories, Mandes had usurped those triumphs. The defeat of Tylocost was credited to Lord Urakan, who had died in the battle. The death of XimXim Mandes claimed for himself.

That was but half the cup of Tol’s bitterness. More painful, and far less explicable, was the complete silence from his beloved Valaran. Ten years had given Tol much time to speculate. Val was only one of Amaltar’s several wives and had assured Tol the prince cared little for her, yet Tol wondered if Amaltar had discovered their relationship. Perhaps Valaran had been compelled to keep silent, had fallen ill, or had found someone else to love, someone not so long gone and so far away.

Tol had long consoled himself with a single thought: Valaran was in Daltigoth, and one day he would return to her. That day had finally come.

The Army of the North would remain at Tarsis under Lord Regobart’s command. Tol and a small escort would travel fast and light to the capital. He chose five to accompany him: Kiya, Miya, Frez, the healer Felryn, and Darpo. Darpo was recovered enough from his wound to ride but not enough to fight. However, he was one of Tol’s longest-serving retainers and Tol did not wish to leave him behind.

The Dom-shu hastily packed the contents of the tent. Conversing at the top of their lungs – their normal tone between themselves – they tossed everything from clothing to cutlery at each other, stowing all in the appropriate containers. In saddlebags went the few things they were taking along; the items they were leaving behind were packed into large, leather-bound chests. The chests would be carted home later.

Tol stood by the center pole of the tent, reluctant to budge from his safe spot. Kiya was flinging knives and spoons past him to her sister, who caught them with casual precision.

“So, husband! You had a rough time in town, eh?” said Miya as she dropped utensils into an open chest.

“It wasn’t all bad,” he replied.

“Spare us the sordid details.”

“’Ware, sister!” Kiya called and tossed a hatchet. Tol flinched as the hand axe whirled through the air toward Miya’s face. Without a blink, Miya snatched the tumbling tool by its handle.

“Did the Tarsan woman make any demands?” asked Kiya, searching for her next projectile.

The question struck Tol as funny, and he laughed. Kiya reddened.

“No, she asked for nothing,” he said.

Both women stopped packing. “Nothing?” said Miya. “No deal, no bribe, no threats?”

Kiya looked positively disappointed. “What in Bran’s name did you talk about?”

“We didn’t talk much – a little about ourselves. She told me of her early life.”

Kiya stooped and picked up some loose clothing. “Clever,” she murmured. “Very clever. She invites an enemy into her home and bed but makes no demands on him.” Wadding the clothes together, she shoved them at Miya. “She didn’t make a conspirator of Tol, she made a friend.”

Even after all their years together, he was still surprised by Kiya’s acumen, and privately he agreed with her assessment. For all Hanira’s ruthlessness, he liked her. She was an amazing woman. He understood why men like Prince Helx made fools of themselves over her. Back in camp now among his own people, he found that Hanira’s allure had faded. The prospect of returning to Daltigoth – and Valaran – had done much to dim her seductive memory.

Felryn arrived, and Tol stepped outside to ask what news he brought.

The cleric of Mishas shook his head. “Little, I fear. Even after two days’ work, I cannot determine who could have sent those golems. There are four or five in Tarsis capable of it, but all are accounted for.”

Felryn had agreed with Tol’s reasoning that he, and not Hanira, must have been the golems’ intended victim. Perhaps a spy tipped them off to his whereabouts, but the creatures would have found Tol no matter where he was that night.

Horsemen galloped by, throwing up sand. Felryn bent to brush off his legs. “A powerful spellcaster was at work,” he said in a low voice. “To create and command three golems at once and break the ancient wards of the Golden House are feats worthy of a magical master. You must be careful, my lord. Whoever did this will try again.”

When he’d first found the Irda nullstone, Tol had shown the artifact to the healer, who dismissed it as a harmless trinket. Once he learned its true nature from the White Robe wizard Yoralyn, Tol had kept it a closely guarded secret. Yoralyn was dead now, and the only others who knew he possessed it, Yoralyn’s colleagues Oropash and Helbin, had vowed to keep his secret, fearful of the chaos that would erupt if the nullstone’s existence became known.

Whoever had tried to kill him in the Golden House had failed. However long it took, Tol vowed to Felryn, he would discover the one responsible and mete out justice for the deaths of his loyal men. It was very possible, he added with a grim smile, that Hanira was right, and his unknown enemy was a Tarsan rival of the guild leader, in which case he felt confident Hanira would do him the favor of finding and punishing the culprit first.

Miya put her head through the tent flaps. “We’re done. The bags are full. Sister has gone to fetch the horses.”

For years the Dom-shu women had resisted riding horseback. Their tribe were forest-dwellers in the vast woodland known as the Great Green, and regarded the use of horses as a weakness. Real men and women walked on their own two feet, the sisters always said. However, on the long campaign from Hylo to Tarsis – a distance of hundreds of leagues – Miya and Kiya had reluctantly learned to ride.

Frez and Darpo appeared, each leading two horses. Darpo was pale and stood slightly hunched, favoring his side, but he saluted his commander with fervor.

When the Dom-shu sisters returned on their own animals, Frez moved to boost his injured comrade into the saddle, but his commander intervened.

“It’s my honor,” Tol said. Darpo put his booted foot in Tol’s cupped hands, and Tol tossed him up into the saddle.

“What way do we take, my lord?” Darpo asked, in a voice shaky with pain.

Tol wanted to get to Daltigoth as quickly as possible. His fellow warlords were riding north to the Great Plains River, to circumvent the mountains and the dangerous, impenetrable Great Green. They would then turn west, entering the empire northwest of Tol’s hometown of Juramona in the province of the Eastern Hundred. That would require more than thirty days of travel. Tol had a different route in mind.

“We’ll cross the Harrow Sky Mountains,” he said, referring to the range on the west side of the Bay of Tarsis. “Then we’ll cross the hill country to the Gulf of Ergoth and take ship to the capital.”

There were raised eyebrows all around. Felryn said, “That’s rough territory, my lord.”

He was putting it mildly. The Harrow Sky hill country was a wild land, infested with bandits, petty independent warlords, and wild tribes. The coast was rife with fierce pirates. Several emperors had launched punitive expeditions to suppress the outlawry there, but none ever managed to conquer it.

“I am Prince Amaltar’s champion,” Tol said firmly. “My place is at his side, and as quickly as possible. We will cross the mountains.” Felryn didn’t like the plan, but he protested no more.

It was midmorning when Tol led his small party to Lord Regobart’s tent. The commander of the Army of the East was surrounded by scribes and clerks, all busily making copies of the proposed peace treaty with Tarsis. At Tol’s approach, Regobart left the murmur of voices and scratching of quills, and greeted his fellow general.

“If luck and the gods are with us, we’ll get to Daltigoth in twelve days,” Tol said, looking down from Shadow’s broad back.

The old warlord’s single gray eye widened. “Twelve days! Do you fly on Silvanesti griffons?”

Tol described his chosen route. Regobart’s reaction was much the same as Felryn’s.

“Prince Amaltar needs his Champion, but he needs him alive!” the old general said tartly.

He squinted at Tol’s small entourage, knowing without asking that this was all the escort the younger general intended to take. With a shake of his gray head, he said good-humoredly, “Well, at least you have the Dom-shu with you. They’re as good as a regiment of horsemen.”

Kiya’s expression didn’t change, but Miya preened slightly under the old warrior’s praise.

Tol handed over the muster rolls of the Army of the North, and passed his baton, symbol of his command, to Regobart.

“Many warlords are leaving. Do you think the Tarsans will make trouble once we’re gone?” he asked.

Regobart waved the question away. “No! When they heard the emperor had died, they became even more docile!” He winked. “They fear that without a supreme lord in command, our troops will run wild and sack the city. The Tarsans are treading very lightly indeed!”

Tol clasped hands with Regobart and turned Shadow away. He and his people rode through the busy camp, passing out of the stockade via the north gate.

The splendid spires of Tarsis were visible over the city’s white walls, but Tol could not make out the Golden House. He faced forward again and saw the others had moved on ahead. Only Felryn lingered behind with him.

“When one door closes,” the healer said, “somewhere another opens.”

*

They skirted the north end of the bay, reaching the Torrent River by sunset. Too wide to be spanned by a bridge and too rough for most small boats, the river usually was traversed by means of an anchored ferry. However, the ferry station was abandoned and several outbuildings had been burned, probably by marauding imperial cavalry.

They decided to operate the ferry themselves. There were two large barges tethered to the shore by heavy cables. One craft lay awash, a casualty of war. The other seemed intact. Thick skeins of woven rope stretched from the east bank to the western side, a quarter league distant. They would cast off on the remaining barge and pull themselves along by means of the ropes.

Dismounting, they led their horses onto the flat-bottomed craft. Frez and Miya untied the mooring lines. The swift current immediately tugged the ferry away from shore. The sudden lurch frightened the horses, who chivvied and pranced until Felryn and Darpo calmed them. Only Shadow remained placid, merely twitching his long tail several times. Tol had once praised his mount’s composure in the face of danger; Kiya had retorted it wasn’t composure but stupidity: the big gray horse was, she opined, dumber than a tree root.

“Everyone but Darpo take told of the rope,” Tol ordered.

The wounded soldier protested his special treatment, but Tol ordered him to mind the horses as well as his aches and pains. The rest of them began to pull.

Bit by bit, the ferry crept away from shore. The sun was setting behind the mountains, from here only a far-off smear of purple on the horizon. As they hauled on the rope, Darpo sang an old seafaring song. In his youth he’d sailed the trade route between Hylo and the lands of the northern coast. The scar he bore was a memento of that former life, earned when a line had snapped and lashed his face.

The sea chantey lent rhythm to their task. As they pulled more in unison, the barge’s pace increased.

By the time they reached the western shore, twilight had come. Buildings on the far shore were intact, but silent and dark. All who were able had fled the advancing Ergothians for the safety of walled Tarsis.

The barge was tied off, the horses led ashore. Tol rode up to the ferrymaster’s house. The door was ajar. He called for a torch.

The interior of the ferry station was a shambles; it had been ransacked in a search for valuables. Miya, Felryn, and Tol kicked through the debris in search of maps.

Tol found what he sought in set of pigeonholes on the inside wall. Handing the torch to Miya, he pulled several documents from their holes, scanning and discarding them one by one. At last, he spread one curling parchment wide. It was a Tar-san map of the Harrow Sky region. The dangerous land west of the mountains was only vaguely rendered, but the passes leading to it through the high mountains were clearly shown. Directions to those passes were what Tol needed.

A sharp call from Kiya, still outside, sent the searchers hurrying out of the wrecked house. The others, still mounted, were all pointing toward the river.

Hovering high in the air over the lapping waves was a shimmering light. Perhaps a handspan wide, it quivered like living flame, but had a most unnatural color – a frosty blue.

Felryn couldn’t identify the sight, but Miya suggested it was only a will-o’-the-wisp.

Her sister sneered. “So high in the air? Over flowing water?” Kiya said. “Don’tbe daft!”

The blue light neither advanced nor retreated. As he stared at it, Tol had the odd feeling he – all of them – were being watched in return. He mentioned this to Felryn, who shrugged.

With no other recourse, they ignored the strange light and rode on. Tol wanted to make the foothills before they camped for the night.

They did so, though not without misgivings. Each time one of them turned to check, the light was still there, following and flickering in the air just behind them.

Before midnight Tol called a halt. They’d left behind the sandy coast and entered a thinly spread pine forest. The ground was rising, and more stone had appeared in the soil. Frez found a small stream, and there they made camp.

Felryn sat cross-legged on the stony ground and closed his eyes. Gripping the engraved silver disk he wore around his neck – the sign of his patron deity Mishas – he tried to identify the silent blue light. Then he tried to banish it. After a time, with sweat trickling down his face, he opened his eyes.

“Powerful,” he muttered. “It is of a different order, far beyond my abilities. It’s a strange manifestation, but I don’t sense any threat from it. It just watches.”

“That’s threat enough for me!” Kiya said.

She braced her bow and pulled an arrow from her quiver. As she nocked it, Felryn placed two fingers on the shaft. His lips moved in silent incantation, then he gestured for her to proceed.

Kiya drew the bowstring to her ear. The dark and the amorphous nature of her target made distance hard to gauge, but she squinted over the broadhead and let fly. The bowstring hummed, and the arrow whistled away. To everyone’s surprise, the glow suddenly vanished. They waited, breath held, but it did not reappear.

Miya clouted her sister on the shoulder. “Well done!”

“Good shot,” put in Darpo, and Tol added his own commendation.

Kiya lowered her bow. “I don’t think I even got near it,” she said, frowning. “The shot was way low.”

Felryn agreed with Kiya’s assessment. “I don’t believe the arrow or even my feeble dispersal spell is responsible. I think whoever sent it recalled it. We’ve halted for the night; there’s no reason to shadow us if we’re not going anywhere.”

His words gave them little pleasure. There was scant conversation the rest of the night, and they took turns standing watch, with Tol taking the first shift.

Clouds obscured most of the stars. As his companions settled down to rest, Tol leaned on his spearshaft and studied the sky.

The college of wizards in Daltigoth kept the sky clear over the imperial palace at all times. When he’d first arrived, Tol had thought this an act of silly luxury, a perquisite of the emperor always to have bright sunshine by day and glittering stars by night. Later, he’d realized the strategic value of clear weather. No lofty spies could float over the palace grounds unseen, if the sky was always free of clouds.

Twelve days to Daltigoth, he reminded himself. Twelve days till he could right the wrong done to him a decade ago. Twelve days until he saw Valaran again.

After ten years, a wait of twelve days should not be difficult, but suddenly it seemed interminable.

*

“I’ll never be a mountaineer!” Miya swore.

Leading his horse along a narrow ledge, his back pressed against the mountain, a drop of a thousand paces before him, Tol agreed wholeheartedly. Wind gusted in his face, whipping his cloak. His companions were strung out behind him, all likewise hugging the rock wall. Darpo, though not fully healed, made the traverse with no more difficulty than the rest of them.

“Are you sure this is the right way?” Miya’s voice was shriller than usual; she was not fond of heights. Tol assured her it was. She’d already asked that same question twice.

The path was clearly marked on the Tarsan map he’d taken from the ferrymaster’s house, but the simple lines on the chart had not prepared them for the narrowness of the ledge or the height of the drop. Wiser than their riders, the horses had balked at crossing the ridge, even the usually stolid Shadow, so they were blinkered. Miya let it be known she’d rather be hooded, too. Adding to everyone’s distress were the still-higher peaks they could spot ahead.

Although the season was late summer, the air was thin and cold. The Harrow Sky was the highest range of mountains known to the Ergothians. Snow still lay thickly on the highest slopes.

The trail had been hacked out over the centuries by traders seeking to avoid the dangerous coastal route. Perilous though the mountains were, they offered at least a chance of survival. The trade monopoly enforced by the Tarsan navy offered none at all.

The wind picked up, howling down the pass. Shadow snorted and jerked at his reins. Eyes tearing against the wind’s icy bite, Tol tightened his grip on the halter, and doggedly ordered them to press ahead.

By late afternoon, they were through the gorge known as H’rar’s Graveyard and on a wide, flat plateau. They’d encountered no other travelers, which was as Tol had expected; the usual flow of trade through the mountains had been choked off by the war between Tarsis and Ergoth.

On boulders, though, they found messages left by previous travelers. “Spit with the wind,” “Make your water downhill,” and other such sage advice was scratched into the rocks. Spotting one he couldn’t read, Tol asked Felryn, the most educated member of the party, if he could translate.

“That’s Dwarvish,” the healer said. “I haven’t read the dwarf tongue in a long time.” He frowned thoughtfully and followed the lines of script with his finger. “‘The Hammer of Reorx opens and closes all doors.’ I think that’s right.”

“Who’s Reorx?” asked Kiya.

“A godling, Corij’s squire, though the dwarves and gnomes revere him as the highest deity of all,” Darpo said.

“So a pithy proverb known only to dwarves,” Miya said dismissively, face red from the ever-present cold wind. “Let’s move on. I’m frozen!”

At the far end of the plateau, the passage into the high pass was flanked by two huge, irregularly shaped columns. From a distance, they seemed to be natural rock formations, but as the party drew closer, they were revealed to be statues, ancient, weathered figures of colossal size. They stood erect, with one foot forward and their arms tight against their side. The southern statue was headless (its head lay broken on the ground). The northern colossus was intact, but its features were so worn as to be unrecognizable.

The group halted, awestruck by the size and obvious age of the monuments. Practical Miya finally broke the spell. “What sort of fools would go to all the trouble to raise such things in this forsaken place?” she said.

“The Irda.”

Felryn looked at Tol, surprised. “You know their ancient history, my lord?”

“Only a little.” He had learned a few things from the well-read Valaran. “Ruins of the Irda are found only in remote places. All other traces of their reign have been plundered away.”

There was no way to know who the great colossi were meant to represent. Gods, kings, or heroes – after such a span of time, it was impossible to say.

The icy wind abruptly died. Darpo, glancing back the way they’d come, called their attention to an odd sight.

Spilling up from the lower pass behind them onto the plateau was a thick white fog. In spite of the stillness of the air, the vapor was slowly spreading across the open ground as though pushed by unseen hands. In moments, as they watched, it bulked up several paces high, then began to twist and writhe. The breeze picked up again, but it had changed direction. It now rushed toward the fog, as though the vapor drew it in.

As they stood transfixed by the peculiar sight, Felryn’s face suddenly took on an expression of alarm.

“We must go!” he cried, seizing his horse’s bridle. “Now, my lord! Run!”

None questioned the healer but immediately sprinted for the gap between the ancient monuments, dragging their horses after them.

What had been a rushing wind quickly became a blasting gale. The white fog had spun itself into a tornado and churned toward them, scoring a ragged line in the stone of the plateau. They were bombarded by flying grit. The wind rose to a deafening roar.

Frez, last in line, was lifted off his feet. Only the weight of his horse and his grip on its reins kept him from being sucked into the thundering white column; Kiya saw him and shouted for help; the big woman was fighting for all she was worth to maintain a grip on her own terrified beast.

Tol hurled himself onto Shadow’s back and rode to his man. So great was Shadow’s fear of the tornado, Tol was forced to dig his spurs into his sleek hide.

When he reached Frez, Tol grabbed him around the waist. Frez let go his reins, and his horse, screaming in panic, galloped straight into the white cyclone. To their horror, the spinning wall of wind and vapor shredded the animal to bits, like a ripe apple thrown against a grinding wheel.

Tol hauled Shadow around as Frez slid onto the saddle behind him. This time no spurs were needed; the gray horse galloped headlong away from the tornado and back toward the rest of the group.

The others had taken shelter behind the headless colossus. As he thundered toward them, Tol shouted for them to get moving.

The passage beyond the statues was exceedingly narrow, no wider than the girth of a single horse. Trying to make haste, yet hampered by the tightness of the passage, Miya went first, leading her mount. Kiya followed, then Darpo. Tol and Frez dismounted, and Tol pushed his comrade ahead of him into the passage.

The tornado had almost reached the statues, yet for some reason Felryn had lingered behind. The healer was hunched by the mountain wall, standing over a square block of stone carved out of the plateau itself.

Tol bellowed at him to follow them, but Felryn turned and shouted back, “This is the hammer! The Hammer of Reorx! Remember the inscription? We must strike the hammer!” Felryn gestured wildly at the loose rocks by Tol’s feet. “Strike the stone!”

Tol didn’t fathom him in the least, but in the face of imminent death, he chose to trust his old friend. Bending, he picked up a stone the size of a loaf of bread.

A surprised cry brought Tol’s head around. The advancing tornado had pulled Felryn off balance. The healer’s feet flew out from under him, and he was drawn backward. His large, strong hands scrabbled vainly for purchase against the side of the mountain.

“Strike the hammer!” he shrieked, before vanishing into the gap between the statues.

Every muscle straining, Tol raised the stone over his head and dashed it onto the carved block. A loud, metallic clang resounded.

The wind yanked him this way and that, and Tol lost his grip on the heavy stone. His hobnailed boots skittered over the ground as he was pulled toward the cyclone. Like Felryn before him, he flailed his arms wildly, seeking a handhold.

Just as he’d given up hope, Tol beheld an amazing sight: the colossi were beginning to move! Pivoting on their bases, the giant statues slowly turned inward to face each other. A tremendous grinding noise, audible even above the thunder of the tornado, reverberated through the canyon.

The giants plowed ahead, closing the distance between themselves. The gap between them had been six or seven paces; soon, it was barely two. Felryn had wisely interpreted the meaning behind the Dwarvish inscription. Striking the carved block – “Reorx’s hammer” – opened and closed the passage. The time-worn Irda statues were not mere monuments: they were an ensorcelled gate.

Danger wasn’t done with Tol yet. The roaring column pressed against the colossi, seeking to squeeze between them, and Tol was held against the statues by its force. Up close (too close!) he could see the white surface of the tornado was made up of tiny, glittering shards. Ice, mostly, with some fragments of loose stone. Where the spinning crystals touched the statues, the surface of the stone was polished away.

The bases of the colossi finally touched, choking off the passage and the wind completely. Tol dropped to the ground. His head pounded from the sudden silence, and his body ached as though he’d fought a battle.

“Husband?”

Kiya crouched by him. Miya was staring in awe at the statues. She asked about Felryn. Tol did not answer. Felryn had saved them all but doomed himself.

Tol’s face was red and raw from the flying dust. Memory of Felryn’s terrible death brought a stinging to his eyes that had nothing to do with dust. Kiya helped him to his feet.

“Felryn —” he began to explain, then had to swallow hard to continue. “Felryn solved the dwarves’ riddle. Striking that stone” — he pointed at the Hammer of Reorx — “causes the statues to move, to open or close the pass.”

Touching the massive stone figures, they discovered the statues were intensely cold. The tornado could still be heard shrieking on the other side.

“It’s trying to grind its way right through the stone!” Kiya said.

Tol had to force himself to take up Shadow’s reins and move on. The suddenness of the healer’s demise had stunned them all, but there was nothing to be gained by remaining.

Frez took Felryn’s horse, a gentle old nag called Stumbler. Single file, they made their way through the narrow canyon. In subdued voices, they discussed the strange events. None of them, not even the widely traveled Darpo, had ever heard of a phenomenon like the ice cyclone, not even in the high, wild mountains.

Tol rode wrapped in silence. He, for one, did not believe the tornado was a freak of nature. The sky had remained clear and blue as lakewater even as the cyclone raged. It had come seemingly from nowhere and made straight for them, as though seeking to devour Tol and his people. The storm had been raised by magic – potent magic – Tol was certain. Twice now someone had tried to kill him with sorcery, and twice he had escaped, though not without cost. Two of his soldiers had died in Tarsis and now Felryn.

Tol jerked the reins, halting Shadow. The others stopped behind him. The setting sun was half hidden by the mountain peaks ahead. Staring straight into the crimson fire, Tol drew his jeweled dagger and held it high. Bloody sunlight flashed off the dagger’s gold-filigreed blade and silver-wrapped brass hilt. In the pommel, the hen’s egg ruby glowed as though afire.

“My lord, what is it?” Frez called.

“Just saying good-bye.”

Still holding his dagger aloft, Tol silently saluted the gallant healer.

Chapter 4

A HARD GIFT

Knuckles white with strain slowly relaxed. Blood rushed in, setting his fingertips ablaze with a thousand pin-pricks. In the phosphor glow of the spirit-orb, the hands did not match. One was pinkish-white and soft, with stubby fingers and blunt nails. The other had long, tapering fingers and was the color of polished teak.

Mandes let out the breath he’d been holding. The strip of rag he’d been wringing in his fists fell into the shallow copper basin, disturbing the shadowy scene there.

The shadows obscured too much. Had it worked? Was the danger over at last?

God’s death, Lord Tolandruth was difficult to kill! This ill-born son of a northland pig farmer must die. Mandes would not allow all he had accomplished, all he had made for himself, vanish simply because Tol of Juramona was coming back to Daltigoth.

Exhaustion made his head reel. There was blood in his mouth. He could taste it, thick and salty. The whirlwind he’d created in the far-off mountains had claimed at least one life. Someone’s blood was on his tongue, he knew that.

Pushing himself to his feet, he cast about for water, wine, anything to cleanse the ugly taste from his mouth. As he stumbled about in his half-lit sanctum, he brushed against a hanging cymbal. Moments later his servant, Yeffrin, appeared in answer to the unintentional summons.

“You called, master?” the elderly servant rasped, squinting into the darkened room.

Mandes whirled, shoving his hands into his deep sleeves. “How dare you enter without my permission! Get out!”

“But, master, you rang —”

“Get out!”

Lightning flared behind the sorcerer’s eyes. A swirl of wind followed, catching up loose scraps of parchment and tangling Yeffrin’s long gray hair around his face.

With a terrified gasp, the servant retreated, blindly grabbing the brass handle and yanking the door shut..

“If you enter unbidden again, I’ll have your eyes plucked out!” Mandes screamed, voice breaking.

He snatched up his gloves and worked the tight-fitting leather onto his hands. He hated for anyone to see his ill-matched limbs and never appeared in public without the gloves. He even slept in a loose-fitting pair.

A cough spasmed in his chest. It escaped his lips explosively, flecking his chin with tiny droplets of blood.

Yeffrin was fleeing down the stairs at his best hobbling pace when he heard the thunderclap resound inside his master’s private chamber.

*

Valaran awoke with a start, not knowing what had interrupted her rest. No dream or nightmare remained in her mind. Clumsy with sleep and sightless in the darkened room, she swept her hand out to see if anyone was lurking nearby. She touched only the golden lamp beside her bed, sending it clattering to the floor.

Anywhere else in the royal apartments such a sound would have brought servants running, but because this was the bedchamber of Princess Valaran, all was silent.

She seldom passed the night with her husband, Crown Prince Amaltar. Their marriage was amiable, but a family alliance rather than a love match. When she was sleeping alone, Valaran wanted no servants hovering about. Only idiots, she was fond of saying, allowed people to wait on their every whim.

Swinging her bare feet to the floor, she made her way to one of the high, narrow windows. Clouds capped the sky, blocking the stars. The only light came from the city below, reflected off the low-hanging ceiling of clouds. No sound reached her through the window glass.

A shiver shook her, and she gripped her arms tightly. It was summer; why was her room so chill? Numb fingers fumbling a bit, she managed to get the lamp lit. The light showed the breath misting from her lips. Her room was freezing cold!

Something had happened – something dangerous and dark, and of such import that the premonition of it had reached out and awakened her from a sound sleep.

A warm liquid trickled from the corner of her mouth. Instinctively, her hand went to her lips. Her fingertips came away smeared with a dark stain. She went quickly to a bronze mirror and studied her reflection. Her nose wasn’t bleeding, and she hadn’t bitten tongue or lip, yet the trace of blood remained on her mouth, almost as though it had dripped there while she slept.

Drawn to the window again, she finished wiping away the blood, then pushed open the window sash. An icy wind rushed in, knifing through her silk nightgown.

Even as she gasped in shock, the frigid blast vanished, and the normal heat of a summer night erased all traces of the unnatural cold.

Tol was coming.

The thought surfaced in her mind, so suddenly, so sharp and clear that she gasped again. The lamp slipped from her fingers. It hit the tile floor and went out, rolling to a stop beneath the window seat.

Tol was coming back after ten years away. Valaran knew it as certainly as she knew the sun would rise tomorrow. Her pulse quickened.

Crickets sang from the palace’s rooftop garden. Far away in the night-shrouded city a dog barked once.

All seemed peaceful, but Valaran’s peace was over. Life – hers and that of a great many more people – was about to get much more complicated. Tol had that effect. Things happened when he was about. Lives changed. Blood was shed. The fate of dynasties hung in the balance. He did not seek such momentous occurrences, but they were his destiny. The gods walked in Tol’s footsteps.

Valaran pulled the sash closed with a sharp bang. If the gods wished to shadow him, let them, but she certainly did not. She was done with him. That part of her life was over. Over and finished. It had to be.

In bed again, she could not sleep for wondering whose blood she had tasted. It couldn’t be Tol’s. He never seemed to get hurt, not seriously.

The princess turned on her side and firmly closed her eyes.

It did not matter who was hurt, as long as it was not her.

*

Tol’s party continued crossing the highest range of the mountains. Progress was slow. Neither man, woman, nor horse could climb in the cold, thin air for more than half a day before bone-numbing exhaustion set in. Even with the knowledge they had an unseen enemy on their heels, they could move no more quickly. At night, a leaping fire was needed to warm them enough for a fitful rest.

They crossed the lofty divide at the lowest notch they could find, a pass known as Ging’s Reach, named for the famous centaur pathfinder. Descending from the heights proved as difficult as ascending. The little-used path was awash in loose gravel, making footing treacherous. Even now, in late summer, the ground was thick with frost until well past dawn. In another two turnings of the moons, Ging’s Reach would be a solid sheet of ice.

All of them wore long woolen scarves wound around their face to keep out the cold. That and the need to conserve breath meant there was little talk. They were alone with their thoughts.

Tol tried to distract himself from thinking about Felryn’s death by pondering who might be the author of the magical attacks. Any number of Tarsans regarded him as an enemy, since he had smashed three of their armies and brought their city to its knees, but in the end he discarded the notion that a Tarsan was behind the attacks. Not even the hot-headed Prince Helx would continue to seek Tol’s death once Tol had left Tarsis and Hanira. Tarsans loved gold too much to waste time and money on pointless revenge.

Another of his old enemies, the elf general Tylocost, was currently being held captive at Juramona. The Silvanesti mercenary had been Tol’s prisoner for eleven years but had neither the means nor the opportunity to stir up trouble. It hardly seemed likely he would wait so long to conspire against Tol.

The only place where Tol’s enemies were rich enough, powerful enough, and single-minded enough to launch two such murderous plans was the imperial capital, Daltigoth. The empire was in turmoil over the succession, making this a perfect time to settle old scores. In Daltigoth, he knew, dwelled his worst enemies.

Prince Nazramin, younger brother of Amaltar, hated Tol for personal reasons. Although of humble birth, Tol had been ennobled by the late emperor, Pakin III. In spite of this, many Ergothian nobles considered him nothing more than a peasant with pretensions above his rightful station. For years Crown Prince Amaltar had used Tol as his foil, to blunt the bold, martial Nazramin’s popularity and undercut his schemes. The younger prince was barely respectful to his brother, but he openly despised Lord Tolandruth. Still, Nazramin’s violent style lent itself more to an assassin’s dagger than to golems or tornadoes of ice.

Unbidden, Valaran’s face appeared in Tol’s mind. What of Val? Could the years have turned her rejection of Tol into something twisted and evil, outright hatred? Almost immediately, he unconsciously shook his head. Not even for the sake of argument could he believe that Val craved his death.

The candidate who emerged as the likeliest instigator was Mandes. Rogue wizard, betrayer, stealer of Tol’s glory, Mandes’s particular expertise in fogs, mists, and weather spells had earned him the nickname “Mist-maker” from the Hylo kender. The ice tornado had all the hallmarks of his handiwork.

Mandes had originally fled Tarsis because he refused to submit to the discipline of High Sorcery, preferring the less structured yet darker life of a renegade spellcaster. Since rescuing him in the wilds and sending him to Daltigoth, Tol had followed the wizard’s career with grim interest. Mandes also hated Tol, less explicably and less openly. Treachery was deep in his blood.

After arriving in Daltigoth, Tol knew, Mandes had quickly established himself as a servant to the wealthy and powerful, performing his art to gratify their whims. The wizards of Daltigoth, led by Mistress Yoralyn (until her death) and now headed by the weak but well-intentioned Oropash, tried to rein in the renegade, but too late. Mandes had grown too powerful for them to touch. He had even found favor with Crown Prince Amaltar, and Amaltar now sat on the throne of Ergoth.

Deep in thought, Tol dropped back in line until he was trailing the others. They were all on foot, leading their horses over the uncertain ground. Up front, Darpo and Kiya suddenly stopped short.

Miya walked into her sister’s horse and grumbled loudly. Kiya silenced her, hissing, “Listen!”

They stood, white clouds of breath pluming around their heads in the bright, cold air. From far away came a recognizable sound: the kiss of metal upon metal, musical but menacing.

“Swordplay,” breathed Frez.

The ravine they were descending boasted high peaks on both sides. A few scraggly trees clung to the mountainside, dwarf pine and buntram, still green despite the cold. The air was as still as glass. Kiya, the best tracker among them, slowly turned her head, seeking the source of the sound. She pointed to her left, southwest.

Tol flipped back his heavy cloak, exposing the hilt of his saber. Frez and Darpo did likewise, and Kiya strung her bow. Although not trained as a fighter, Miya was handy with her bronze-capped staff. She was also a mean stone-thrower.

Bunched together, the group continued warily down the ravine. At bottom, the passage divided. One path went due west, the other bore southwest. They halted.

“We don’t always have to go looking for trouble,” Miya said, looking somewhat longingly at the western path.

Kiya spat on a stone. Her spittle froze even as she was speaking. “It would be dishonorable to ignore those in distress,” she said, giving her sister a narrow-eyed look. Miya glared right back.

“Warriors of the empire must defend its citizens.” Frez’s words caused Miya to sigh. Appeals to duty were irresistible to Tol. There was no question now which way they’d be going.

They mounted, and with Tol leading, entered the southwest passage. The going was steep, but the rock was weathered and eroded, the ruts and grooves providing better footing for the horses than they’d had for days.

As the little band wound through the ravine, the sounds of conflict waxed and waned. At times they heard nothing, then they’d round a curve and the noise became so distinct they could almost make out voices. After another league passed, Kiya moved to Tol’s side.

“Let me go ahead.”

He nodded. Kiya dismounted, tossing her reins to Tol. She climbed the rocky slope on the north side of the ravine and disappeared among the boulders perched precariously on the mountainside.

A shrill, bleating note echoed through the canyons. It was not an Ergothian horn. The Harrow Sky hill country was rife with robber bands and small armies of marauders serving self-styled lords. The sounds could represent a battle between one petty princeling and another. If so, it was none of their business and Tol would withdraw with a clear conscience.

Kiya came back, moving quickly.

“It’s a caravan,” she said, panting in the thin air. “Ambushed!”

“How many brigands?” asked Tol.

“Forty or fifty, on foot. Humans, centaurs, and I think I saw an ogre among them. Their prey is a caravan of ten wagons. The caravan is drawn up in a ring around an outcropping of stone, but ten little men are too few to hold off the robbers.”

“Little men – you mean kender?” Tol asked.

Kiya shook her head. “No, stout little men – dwarves. They will not survive without help.”

Tol drew his saber. Miya sighed again.

“Cheer up, sister,” Kiya told her. “Exercise will warm your blood!” Miya muttered darkly.

They rode down the draw, pausing where the ravine opened onto a broader valley. Screened by trees, they surveyed the situation.

Ten large, ox-drawn wagons were circled around a broken spire of stone. Two of the wagons had been burned, and bodies littered the ground. The dwarves were putting up a valiant fight.

A roar of voices and the clatter of arms announced the return of the bandits. They were a motley crew, as Kiya had said, and forty-three in number, men mostly, and a handful of centaurs. A towering figure in rust-streaked armor stood on a ledge overlooking the battle. His remarkable size marked him as an ogre.

Tol explained his plan of attack. “We’ll let the robbers get deeply engaged with the dwarves again, then we’ll surprise them. Make as much noise as you can – whoop and shout like we’re five hundred instead of five.” To Kiya he said, “Put a few arrows in that big fellow, won’t you?” She promised she would.

After bellowing and brandishing their arms awhile to intimidate the defenders, the bandits rushed forward again. They attacked with no order, no discipline. Each robber ran screaming at the wagons, waving a sword, axe, or spear. Centaurs galloped in with a club in each hand.

The dwarves, bearing short swords and axes, appeared on the sides of their wagons. They were pitiably few.

Miya’s horse, a nimble black creature she’d named Pitch, stamped and snorted, catching its rider’s tense mood. Frez’s and Darpo’s mounts likewise shifted.

“Steady,” Tol said, Shadow standing placidly beneath him. The robbers were nearly to the wagons. “Steady.”

Blades clanged loudly in the crisp mountain air. Screams of pain shortly followed as sword, axe, spear, and club struck home. It was bloody business, shocking even to seasoned warriors like Tol and his men. They were professionals, accustomed to fighting other professionals. The fracas below was nothing more than a brutal melee.

A dwarf, impaled on a long spear, was hoisted off his feet and hurled in a wide arc by two men. Robbers, trying to climb aboard the wagons, fell back without arms or hands or heads.

Tol drew his sword. “Forward, at the gallop!”

They burst through the thin line of trees with a concerted shout of “Juramona!”

If their battle cry was lost in the noise of combat, the rumble of their horses’ hooves was not. Brigands furthest from the wagons faced about, uncertain what to do. Ambushing merchant caravans was their livelihood, but there was no profit in fighting Ergothian cavalry. Some bolted. By the time Tol’s people reached the fight, half the bandits had fled.

Tol aimed for the nearest, biggest foe, a centaur. He sabered the man-horse across the back, blade slashing through the creature’s fur vest. The centaur twisted his torso around and swung a huge spiked club at Tol’s face. Dodging, Tol thrust under the brawny centaur’s arm, piercing him in the ribs. Momentum carried Tol into the falling centaur, who collapsed under Shadow’s hooves.

Pivoting, Tol sabered left and right, wounding a bandit with every stroke. He knew that men who lived on the edge of life – vicious and violent as they were – feared mutilation worse than death; death in battle was usually quick, but a gravely injured man could suffer long agonies before finally succumbing. With deep sword cuts on their backs and shoulders, the thieves abandoned the fight and scrambled for safety. Frez would’ve ridden after them, but Tol called him back.

Miya whacked one fleeing robber on the head with her staff, stunning him. Seizing him by his dirty blond topknot, she dragged him across her saddle and brought him to Tol.

“Want a prize?” she said, grinning.

She let go of the man’s hair, and he fell to his knees. Tol presented his sword tip to the brigand’s face.

“Heed this, churl,” he said in his most menacing voice. “The army of Lord Tolandruth has claimed these mountains for Ergoth. Disperse, and your lives shall be spared. Continue to plunder, and every brigand caught in the hill country will be tied to a stake and burned alive.”

Miya chuckled appreciatively, brown eyes glittering, and her merriment unnerved the robber even more.

“Answer, do you understand?” Tol demanded. The fellow nodded furiously. “Then go – and spread the word!”

All the brigands who could run were fleeing now. The ogre, obviously the chief of this pack of wolves, never entered the fight. Tol drew his little band up between the ogre and the wagons, and waited for the frightened thief to deliver his message to the ogre chief. Cowering before his leader, he relayed Tol’s threat with suitable arm waving and eye-rolling. The ogre clashed his upper and lower tusks together and gave In inarticulate roar. He started down the ledge toward them, but Kiya put an arrow in the turf at his feet.

The hulking ogre halted and made an obscene gesture at the Dom-shu woman. Unperturbed, she fitted another arrow and drew her bowstring taut. The ogre clashed his tusks again, then stalked away after his vanishing followers. In moments the valley was peaceful again.

Eight haggard, blood-spattered dwarves emerged from the tethered wagons.

“The blessings of the Maker God on you all!” called a white-bearded dwarf. He wore a long brigandine studded with brass plates and carried a well-used battle-axe on his shoulder. “Tell me your names, strangers, so I may honor your memories for the rest of my days!”

Introductions were performed, with Tol naming himself simply as “Tol.” No need to clutter matters with titles and reputations.

“Men of Ergoth, are you not?” Tol said this was so, and the dwarf added, “I am Mundur Embermore, of the clan Hylar, and these are my retainers.”

“Hylar?” said Darpo. “The high clan of Thoradin? You’re a long way from home, Master Embermore.”

“Aye,’tis true, and well I wish I were in the halls of the mountain king again!”

He explained that the dwarves had been sending out mining expeditions to different mountain regions, and they’d found rich diggings in the Harrow Sky range. Gold, and better still, iron.

“There are veins of red ore in these peaks that make the mines of Thoradin look like Aghar holes,” he proclaimed.

“Master Embermore, these mountains are no healthy place to work,” Tol cautioned.

It was true enough, but Tol also knew the new emperor would not be pleased to learn that dwarves were exploiting the riches of a land so close to the empire’s border. He urged the dwarves to depart quickly. The bandits might recover their nerve at any time, especially if they realized Tol’s “army” was only five strong. Mundur saw the wisdom of this and ordered his thanes to work with an impressive, booming voice.

Two wagons had been destroyed, and three of the ox teams slain, but from the remnants Mundur Embermore reorganized his caravan. However, the dwarves could not move on until their fallen comrades were solemnly interred. Tol understood their sentiment, and he and his people stood a nervous watch while the dwarves honored their dead.

When the last stone was placed on the last cairn, Mundur approached Tol, still mounted on Shadow.

“Our brothers will sleep in peace, thanks be to you and the Maker God,” he said. His deep-set blue eyes were rimmed with tears. “A thousand blessings on your noble brow, Ergothian!”

“We can’t let thieves run free,” Tol replied, embarrassed by the dwarf’s continued gratitude.

“No, indeed!” Mundur smiled, showing broad yellow teeth. “Allow me to repay your gallantry in my own small way. May I see your sword?”

The rest of Tol’s party collected around him as he drew his saber and offered the hilt to the dwarf.

Mundur ran a thick thumb over the flat side of the blade, then licked it. “That’s good iron. Mined in the west of your country, no more than five winters past I’d say.”

He summoned one of his thanes, and the two of them measured the saber with great care.

“You favor a curved blade, soldier?” Mundur asked, and Tol admitted he did. To his helper, Mundur said, “Bring Number Six.”

The thane retrieved a long wooden box from one of the wagons. When this was presented to Mundur, the elderly dwarf opened it and removed a finished sword with a long, curved Made and a cup hilt made to enclose the wielder’s hand completely. He presented the weapon to Tol.

“Try this, Ergoth.”

The cup hilt was somewhat snug, as the grip had been sized for a dwarf, but Tol’s own hands weren’t overly large. The weapon’s length was right and its balance excellent. Sweeping out from the oil-finished hilt, the blade was quite thin, and displayed an intricate pattern of whorls in its surface.

“We made up a number of sample weapons at the mine,” Mundur explained. “To show the folks back home what can be done with the metal we found here. What think you of the blade?”

Tol swung the saber. It was fast and light, but he doubted the thin blade would stand up long in close combat. As politely as he could, he said so.

Mundur’s eyes gleamed. “It will serve you well, a very long time. The sword is yours, warrior. A small gift from Mundur Embermore to his benefactor. Use it in good health!”

Chuckling deep in his chest, Mundur departed. With much waving, shouts of gratitude, and whip-cracking, the dwarves formed their caravan and went on their way.

Kiya took the sword from Tol’s hand and brandished it a few times. “I feel no magic in it,” she said, handing it back.

“I doubt there is any.” He slipped his old, much-used saber back in its scabbard and regarded the new weapon with a practiced eye. “Mundur’s a miner and a smith, not a spell-caster.”

“A handsome blade, though,” Frez noted. Miya commented sourly that gold would’ve been a better reward than another sword, no matter how well wrought.

Tol hung the new weapon from a thong behind his saddle bags. As Shadow jounced along, the cutting edge wore against the end of a saddlebag. No one noticed until the contents of the bag spilled out on the stony ground.

Darpo rode up from behind and pulled the dwarf blade free. With no more force than its own weight, it had sliced through the thick leather bag.

“Some edge!” Darpo declared, handing the weapon to Tol.

Miya picked up Tol’s scattered belongings. When she saw his tin drinking cup, she whistled loudly between her teeth. The cup was also deeply scored by the blade.

Tol dismounted. Sword in hand, he tossed the ruined cup in the air and slashed at it with Mundur’s blade. The cup flew into two halves, bisected.

“It is enchanted!” Miya exclaimed.

Kiya gave Tol a quick look, lifting her eyebrows. He shook his head and casually rested a hand at his waist where he wore the millstone. He had touched the blade to the Irda artifact, with no result. The sword’s power lay not in magic but in superb craftsmanship.

“Try something harder, my lord!” Darpo urged.

Tol pulled a silver coin from his belt pouch. Holding the saber edge up, he balanced the coin on it. With a single, sharp heave, he brought the saber over in a wide arc. Two silver semicircles landed on the ground. Kiya offered a brass spoon, and Mundur’s blade sliced it just as easily.

Miya stooped and retrieved a black iron horseshoe from Tol’s fallen gear. Wordlessly she held it out. This would be the supreme test. Horseshoes were forged from the toughest iron. A common saber could be ruined by hacking a horseshoe; it might even snap in two.

Tol tossed the horseshoe into the air and swung the blade hard. He felt only a slight resistance, heard a snap, and the horseshoe hit the ground in two pieces. The edge of Mundur’s sword wasn’t even nicked.

Frez whooped, Darpo laughed, and the Dom-shu sisters clapped each other heartily on the back. Tol slipped the dwarf blade into his empty scabbard.

“A good sword,” he said, calmly. Unable to maintain his façade, he grinned suddenly. “I think I’ll keep it!”

Miya, the inveterate haggler, was all for going after the dwarves to see whether more blades could be bought. Kiya finally had to take Fitch’s reins and lead her sister away from temptation.

*

The sun was high. Since they’d descended from the heights, the day had turned sultry indeed, with white haze rising up to obscure the once brilliantly blue sky. Trees became common again as the land flattened. Behind them, the silent gray mountains they’d conquered looked like a forbidding fortress. Miya marveled that they’d managed to cross such lofty peaks.

Spread below them, the Harrow Sky hill country resembled a quilt, a patchwork of green vales and brown hills. With Tarsis four days behind them, Tol expected to reach the sea in another four.

At his order they shed their distinctive Ergothian clothing, trading scarves, hoods, and cloaks, until each of them looked appropriately anonymous. No sense announcing themselves as imperial warriors, Tol said. A small band of wanderers – perhaps robbers themselves – would invite much less attention than Ergothian soldiers.

A few leagues farther on, signs of habitation grew more and more common. Smoke was on the wind, from hearths and campfires. Here and there crude vegetable patches appeared, gouged out of the flinty hillsides. The hardscrabble gardens reminded Tol of his childhood. He’d spent many a morning hoeing in such fields alongside his father, mother, and two sisters.

As always, thoughts of his family brought a pang to Tol’s heart. Not having seen them for years, he had searched out their farm as he led the Army of the North southward on its long trek to Tarsis. He’d found the tiny homestead, tucked in the hills south of Juramona, but it was abandoned. The pens had fallen down, and the house in which he’d been born was roofless and derelict. No trace of his family remained. Caught up as he was in a war, Tol could not take time to look for them.

The first person they encountered since the dwarves’ departure was a little girl. With only a willow switch, she was herding a trio of pigs, each as large as herself. She shied away from the five riders, driving her charges off the path. Although only about twelve years old, she had hard eyes and a long dagger tucked in the rope knotted around her waist. She gripped its wooden handle as they passed.

“The natives are so friendly here,” Miya snorted.

“You grew up free in the forest,” Tol said quietly, as they gave the wary child a wide berth. “A farmer is surrounded by enemies: the weather, insects, thieves, overlords. Life makes you hard – or you die.”

They came to a village nestled between three hills. An open town, with no wall to defend it, it was a cluster of stoutly built log houses centered on a common well. One of the larger homes had a porch. As they passed the open door, Kiya sniffed.

“Beer,” she said.

Darpo added, “Someone’s roasting a joint of beef.”

“A tavern!” Miya reined up. “Civilization at last!”

Tol would have preferred to ride straight through, but his own stomach growled in response to the smells of cooking. He turned Shadow toward the porch. A rangy, barefoot boy in dirty hide trews came out and tied their mounts’ reins to a hitching post. Tol gave him a few coppers to watch their animals.

Dismounted, they stretched knotted limbs. Tol warned them to say nothing about who they were or where they were going.

This early, the hostel’s only inhabitant was the innkeeper. She was a sharp-eyed old woman with a face like a hatchet. Tol and his companions affected an air of laconic indifference and seated themselves around a rude trestle table. Once they were settled, the innkeeper came over.

“Well?” she said, raising thin gray eyebrows.

“Beer. Bread. Meat,” Tol intoned. She gave a twitchy nod and headed off to the rear of the house.

The common room was dark and low ceilinged, and smelled strongly of smoke and spilled brew. Shafts of daylight slanted in through chinks in the ill-fitting plank walls and dust motes tumbled lazily in the light. The floor was dirt, covered by a layer of crumbled pine bark. The surface of the table was crisscrossed by knife cuts.

The old lady returned, laden with food and drink. She fairly staggered under her load, and Frez would’ve gotten up to help her. Tol tapped his arm to halt him. Soldiers of Ergoth might assist a burdened old woman, but stray wanderers would not be so polite.

Despite her gaunt appearance, the innkeeper was strong. She made it to the table without spilling a drop or losing a single loaf. She doled out the victuals with practiced ease. Every diner received a flat loaf of hearth bread and a wooden mug of dark beer. In the center of the table, the woman placed a steaming rib roast, sliding the hot meat from her platter directly onto the none too clean tabletop. Food dispensed, she held out a red, work-worn claw.

Still maintaining his tight-lipped pose, Tol put what he thought was a stingy amount in the old woman’s hand, two silver pieces. She took the money readily, testing each coin between the only two molars in her head, then left them.

Darpo and Frez, accustomed to more civilized ways, were a bit nonplussed, but the Dom-shu sisters overcame any reticence they felt and began slicing off slabs of beef.

“Not bad,” Kiya declared of the food.

Miya agreed through a mouthful of bread.

Tol took a sip of beer. The brew was young and raw, no older than his last haircut, but the flavor was surprisingly good. He drained the mug quickly.

Just then a stranger entered the rough tavern. Silhouetted in the open doorway, he surveyed the room with hands on hips. As he sauntered their way, Tol’s party continued eating but kept wary eyes on the fellow.

“Greetings,” he said, halting in the shadows three paces from their table. “Do you belong to those horses outside?”

Miya swallowed beer and said, “Yes, what of it?”

“We don’t see horses much around here, that’s all. Passing through?”

He stepped into a shaft of sunlight. He had a pleasant face, round cheeked and swarthy, with dark hair cut in a bowl shape, and narrow, gray-green eyes. His chin was clean of whiskers and his ears upswept into points, but his solid build proclaimed his mixed parentage.

When Tol said they were indeed only passing through, the half-elf came closer. Clad all in dark brown leather, he had twin daggers in his sash belt, pommels out for quick drawing. Tol tensed and knew Kiya, Darpo, and Frez were likewise on guard.

The stranger smiled, lifting his arms slightly away from his sides, as though to reassure them. “I see you are obviously prosperous folk, but would you be interested in a fair-paying job?” he asked.

“What sort of job?”

“A simple one, excellent sir. Escorting a few wagonloads of goods to the coast.”

Tol would’ve smiled, but he realized the gesture could be misunderstood. This slippery fellow had taken them for mercenaries – a reasonable error – and wanted to hire them to go just where they intended to go anyway!

“How much?” asked Miya, rising to her feet. She was a head taller than the half-elf, and her eyes were alight with interest. She could reduce even the hardened street merchants of Daltigoth to tears with her relentless bargaining.

Unlike most men, the half-elf seemed unperturbed by the Dom-shu’s size. Looking up at her calmly, he replied, “Since you’re mounted, one gold piece per day.”

It was a respectable offer, but Miya barely even considered it. By the time she was done, the stranger had agreed to one gold and one silver per rider per day, plus two meals per rider. After a glance at Tol, Miya sealed the deal.

“My name is Orlien,” their new employer told them. “I’m a merchant hereabouts, and I need to get four wagons to the coast in four days. Is that well with you?”

The deadline would require fast moving, but that suited Tol, and he agreed. Smiling broadly, Orlien bade them come to the corral on the west side of the village when they were done with their meal.

Once the half-elf was gone, Darpo said, “If he’s a merchant, I’m the empress of Ergoth.”

Kiya was nodding. “Those knives he wears are assassin’s tools!”

Her words had triggered a bitter memory for Tol. His boyhood friend Crake had left Juramona to seek his fortune in Daltigoth. Instead of wealth, Crake had found a career as a hired assassin and spy. He’d carried knives much like Orlien’s. Crake had learned of the nullstone and tried to take it, and Tol had been forced to fight his former friend to the death. Although more than a decade had passed, he’d never told anyone the identity of the assassin he’d killed.

Ironically, it was that victory that had helped bring him to the attention of Prince Amaltar and the emperor. It also had further strengthened his resolve not to reveal the millstone’s existence.

As these thoughts were flashing quickly through Tol’s mind, he said, “Well, whatever he is, this ‘job’ suits our needs very well. We’ll need a ship to take us across the gulf to Ergoth. Orlien must have a ship waiting if he’s on such an urgent schedule. One way or another, the ship’ll take us to Ergoth.”

Careful to avoid the appearance of haste, Tol’s party finished their meal then ambled outside. The corral Orlien spoke of wasn’t hard to locate in so small a village. By a single barn and pen four wagons were drawn up. Rather than the usual oxen, two sturdy draft horses were hitched to each wagon. Horses were rare and expensive in the hill country, as Orlien himself had noted when he greeted them. If he owned eight of the animals, he was not a poor man.

The first two wagons were loaded, their freight covered by thick tarpaulins and secured by crisscrossing ropes. Each of the last pair was framed with wooden hoops supporting a canvas roof that hid their cargoes.

Orlien emerged from the barn, followed by a fearsome henchman. Hugely muscled and scarred, the fellow had tufts of curly white hair sticking out all over his enormous body. One eye was gone, the socket covered by a leather patch. He wore furs and rested a dwarven battle-axe on his meaty shoulder.

“Greetings, noble friends!” Orlien called, spreading his arms wide. “Time is short. Shall we get underway?”

“What are we carrying?” asked Tol with feigned indifference.

“Goods I acquired locally: rough gems, medicinal plants and mushrooms, honey of the mountain bees, and other such. My trade. My life.” Orlien smiled again.

Miya had moved toward the last pair of wagons. As she reached a hand out to touch one, the axe came off the big man’s shoulder and he took a step in her direction.

“Lady, please!” Orlien said, raising his voice, but quelling his henchman with a sidelong glare. “Those contain delicate goods. Things that would be damaged by the sun.”

Shrugging, Miya moved away from the covered wagon. The other one – the last in line – suddenly rocked a little, and a muffled thumping was heard.

Orlien’s ready smile slid from his face. “That one’s not delicate. That’s Faranu, a notorious mountain bandit,” he explained. “The good people of this village captured him during a raid not ten days past. There’s a price on his head, to be paid by the Marshal of the Southern Hundred in Ergoth. He’s wanted there for murder and a host of other foul crimes.”

Surprise changed to understanding. “Well, why didn’t you say so?” Kiya said. “We’ll see he gets there.”

“We hate bandits,” agreed Miya, nodding.

Tol said, “This Faranu – does he have followers who might try to rescue him?”

Orlien looked away for a moment. “Well, yes.”

“How many followers?” asked Frez quickly.

The half-elf hemmed and hawed but finally replied, “No more than twenty, certainly. Mountain trash. No match for professionals like yourselves.”

Miya looked to Tol, a hopeful expression on her face, and he nodded. Fists on hips, she said, “You just raised our pay, friend Orlien. Taking such risks is going to cost you.”

He wriggled and resisted like a hooked trout, but Miya was relentless. As shadows lengthened in the street, Orlien finally cracked.

“All right!” he said, sweat dripping from his chin. “Two gold pieces each, plus a silver for every bandit you kill.” He glared. “But I won’t pay for wounded ones!”

“Done,” said Tol, anxious to get underway.

Each wagon had a driver and a hired guard riding on its bench. Orlien’s axe-wielding henchman (whose name was Yull) rode on the wagon that carried the villain Faranu.

Orlien walked down the line of horses, doling out single gold coins to each member of Tol’s party. “Yull will pay you the balance when you deliver my goods to the ship’s owner. Good luck, and make haste!”

The caravan rolled out of the village just as the sun began to dip beneath the western hills. Tol assigned one of his people to each wagon, giving Kiya the plum task of watching the one containing the captive bandit. He himself rode ahead of the lead wagon.

Following the winding trail around the foot of the many hills, they soon lost sight of the village. The sun slowly vanished, painting the undersides of the towering columns of cloud a brilliant pink. Tol set a brisk pace. They had four days to reach the coast or they would miss their ship, Orlien had warned.

Four days to the sea, two days to cross the gulf if the winds were fair, and then Tol would be in Ergoth once more.

Chapter 5

NUMBER SIX

The journey was not a pleasant one. The road they followed was no Ackal Path, wide and paved and well tended. Instead, rutted and rugged, the dirt track wound this way and that around the foot of every hill, never remaining straight for more than a few dozen paces. With the view so limited, it was a perfect place for an ambush. Everyone stayed tense and watchful, but the first day passed without incident.

The first night in camp, before his people dropped wearily onto their bedrolls, Tol worked out new dispositions for the next day’s ride. Two scouts would ride a goodly way ahead of the wagons, looking for any signs of trouble. A third rider would precede the caravan but stay in sight of it, and the last two would trail behind the wagons so as not to seem a part of the company. In this fashion Tol hoped to keep a wider eye over the territory they had to traverse.

Darpo had the first watch, but before they settled down to sleep, Miya quietly related what she’d observed earlier in the evening.

She had lingered by Faranu’s wagon, hoping to catch a glimpse of the famous bandit. She was about to sneak a peek inside when Yull appeared, axe in hand. She had withdrawn, but not before she saw the wagon driver enter the canvas enclosure carrying a bucket of ripe apples.

Kiya scoffed at her sister’s tale. “They feed their prisoner only apples? No bread? No meat?” Miya stubbornly repeated what she’d seen.

“I’m surprised they feed him at all,” Tol said sleepily.

Quiet descended, broken only by the low whirring of insects. Tol’s rest was troubled, however. He dreamt he was lying on cold, hard ground (which was true) and a silent figure stood a few steps away in the dark, watching him. The sensation was so vivid he woke, hand reaching for his saber hilt.

It was very late, when even the night birds are still. Prop-ping himself on one elbow, Tol surveyed the camp. The wagons were arrayed in a semicircle, with the Ergothians in the middle. Each wagoner and guard slept in their conveyance.

Tol spotted motion. Kiya had relieved Darpo, and was walking outside the ring of wagons. Darpo snored softly behind Tol.

All seemed peaceful, so Tol lay down again, but when he fell asleep, the dream returned. This time his dream self got up, sword in hand, and challenged the phantom watcher. Without a word, the silent figure vanished into the greater darkness of the night. For an instant, Tol saw the figure’s profile by starlight.

Felryn!

Tol lurched awake. Kiya was shaking him hard.

“Husband!” she hissed. “Be quiet, or you’ll wake everyone!”

“Too late,” groaned Darpo.

It took Tol a moment to shake off the confusion of his vivid nightmare. He told Kiya what he had dreamed. In the telling, it all sounded very ordinary, not frightening at all, but Kiya did not sneer.

“Felryn’s spirit continues to watch over you,” she suggested. “If you dream of him again, don’t challenge him. Be friendly. Welcome him. He may have a message to impart.”

Orlien’s drivers and guards were rising. Only Miya, a notoriously heavy sleeper, hadn’t stirred. To wake her, Tol resorted to a trick he’d invented, and which Kiya had adopted as well: he bent down and kissed Miya on the forehead.

“If you’re not my husband or sister, prepare to die,” the Dom-shu woman murmured.

“Husband,” said Tol, grinning. “Dawn breaks. Arise!” Grimacing, Miya complied.

The caravan resumed its journey as the eastern horizon warmed from indigo to rose. Crows squawked from the hilltops, and deer darted out of sight as the wagons drew near. Kiya watched them wistfully. Fresh venison would be a welcome change from their campaign rations.

The winding trail they followed merged into a larger path that ran more westerly. The wagoners steered their ponderous carts onto this new track, jouncing hard over tree roots and deep ruts.

For the first time since leaving Orlien’s village they encountered other travelers, all on foot. They had the look of itinerant laborers not averse to part-time banditry. Rangy men, neither old nor young, their faces were hard and eyes sharp. Horses and laden wagons drew their gazes. Word would get around quickly; they hoped none of Faranu’s men were among the wanderers they passed.

The wagoners paused at midday to water the horses at a spring. A rude wall of fieldstone surrounded the waterhole. Tol and Darpo had been riding in the vanguard position; they sat on the wall watching the drivers tend to their animals. The black-haired wagoner who drove Faranu’s prison carried two buckets. One was shared by his team, the other he passed to Yull, who took it into the back of the wagon. A short time later he emerged; the bucket was empty.

“Thirsty fellow,” Darpo remarked curiously, and Tol nodded.

Yull went to the front of the wagon and hauled a heavy burlap bag out from behind the driver’s seat. He filled the bucket from it, spilling part of the contents on the ground. Then he went inside again with the laden pail.

Tol inspected the spill. Grain – oats, to be precise – trickled through his gloved fingers. The wagon jounced as Yull stepped down from its rear, and Tol dusted his hands and sauntered back to the spring.

Darpo queried him with a look. “What do apples, water, and oats suggest to you?” Tol asked.

“Horses,” the scarred warrior replied immediately.

Tol agreed. “Something odd is going on,” he said but had no firm idea yet of what.

They moved on. Nothing untoward happened until midafternoon. Tol and Darpo were trailing in the rearguard position, and Kiya was riding in front of the wagons. Frez and Miya were scouting ahead when a man on horseback approached, the first rider they’d seen.

A slight fellow wearing a leather jerkin, he cantered by Frez and Miya without appearing to notice them. As he drew near Kiya, however, he veered slightly toward her. Without warning, the Dom-shu woman nocked an arrow, drew, and shot the man from his horse.

The lead wagoner hauled back on his reins. The caravan lurched to a stop, beasts stamping and wagoners cursing the abrupt halt. Tol and Darpo galloped forward, ignoring the cries of the lead wagoner that Tol’s “savage” had shot an unarmed traveler.

Kiya dismounted and rolled the dead man over. She yanked back his hood, revealing the shock of braided hair and pointed ears of a woodland elf. When Kiya parted his jerkin, they saw he wore a ring mail shirt. Strapped to his back, its pommel only barely visible above the neck of his jerkin, was a concealed sword.

A warrior skilled in such a method of carry could wait until he was abreast of his target, then draw and stab in one lightning-fast motion. Kiya had acted to save her own life.

“How did you know he was armed?” Frez asked.

“I saw the shoulders of his jerkin rise each time his horse put a foot down. Something under his jerkin was bouncing slightly. A sword, a mace, something.”

Yull appeared, gesturing angrily at them to move along. Not knowing whether the dead elf was a lone warrior or someone’s scout, they rolled him off the road and tied his horse to the back of a wagon. The caravan continued on its way.

Around the next big hill, the road straightened, and they could see ahead almost half a league. Not another soul was insight.

Frez and Miya pulled their mounts to a halt. The Ergothian drew his saber.

“Woman,” he said, “tell Lord Tolandruth we’re in trouble.”

Miya wasted no time questioning the veteran soldier but wheeled Pitch in a tight circle. The wagons rolled slowly up behind Frez and stopped. Miya cantered down the line. As she passed her sister, Kiya nocked another arrow.

Before Miya reached Tol, the air around them flashed as bright as a sun. Pitch balked and reared, but Miya held on. The draft animals neighed in fright and yanked against their heavy traces. The wagons were suddenly burning!

Drivers and guards leaped for their lives. Pitch shied away, nimbly climbing the hillside sideways to escape the billowing flames. Miya held on for dear life and shouted, “Husband! We’re attacked! The wagons burn!”

From their place forty paces back, Tol and Darpo had seen the caravan halt. With a cry of “Fire!” Darpo pulled his sword and galloped ahead.

Tol drew his new dwarf-forged saber and followed quickly. In spite of the cries from his people and the wagoners, he saw no flames. The rearmost wagon, slightly askew on the road, looked the same as always. The driver was crawling away in the dust, beating at his pants legs. Yull emerged from the canvas enclosure yowling and slapping at his head and face with meaty hands. Neither man was on fire, though they obviously thought they were.

“It’s a trick!” Tol shouted, as Shadow galloped toward the beleaguered caravan. “There’s no fire! Watch out for an ambush!”

He left Darpo to guard the rear wagon. Ignoring the screeches of Yull and the driver, Tol spurred Shadow up the hillside and caught the reins of Miya’s terrified horse. Fumbling for the millstone, he clapped a hand to Pitch’s neck, and the horse calmed. Grasping Miya’s wrist, Tol broke the illusion for her as well.

“It’s an illusion,” he said. “There’s no fire! Are you all right?”

She was and very angry at being tricked. “I’m going to crack some skulls for this!”

“Fine! Follow me!”

Tol also broke the spell for Kiya and her horse. Likewise furious at being deceived, Kiya joined Tol and her sister as they rode to relieve Frez. They found him beset, surrounded by eight attackers on foot. He was keeping them off with sweeps of his saber. Her horse at full gallop, Kiya rose in the stirrups and loosed an arrow, taking down an opponent armed with a billhook.

A shower of stones fell on Tol and the Dom-shu. On the crest of the facing hill stood foes with slings whirling. Leaving Kiya to drive the attackers back with swiftly loosed, well-placed arrows, Tol and Miya rode to Frez’s aid.

Their opponents were nothing more than a rabble, armed with whatever arms they had gleaned from earlier victims. Tol’s dwarf blade – “Number Six,” as Mundur Embermore had called it – split iron and bronze with equal ease. He struck down two robbers with only two blows, cleaving a helmet (and skull) in twain and piercing a brazen buckler.

Having lost the element of surprise, the raiding party fled, leaving three of their number lifeless on the road. Kiya got another, a sling-wielder on the hillside, at a range of two hundred paces. Frez had a few cuts, as did his horse, but those were the only injuries among Tol’s party.

They rode slowly down the line of wagons, which had been abandoned by drivers and guards alike. Frantic to escape the phantom flames, the draft horses had torn free of their traces and run away into the distance.

Darpo was waiting by the last wagon. His eyes were wide as he hailed Tol and gestured to the wagon he guarded.

“My lord,” he said, “you must see this!”

Tol peered through the parted canvas. Lying in the bed of the wagon was what appeared to be a young horse, a colt, with a coat the color of clover honey. That made sense, given the rations Yull had been feeding their prisoner. Then the colt lifted its head and all such prosaic thoughts fled.

A single horn, white as cream, protruded from the animal’s forehead.

“Mishas save us!” breathed Frez. “A unicorn!”

The men stared in open-mouthed shock, but the Dom-shu women fell to their knees, gasping. Among their forest-dwelling people, the unicorn was revered as a demigod, the living embodiment of the wild.

“Sacrilege!” Kiya said, her voice choked with fury. “The young Forestmaster must be released!”

Tol did not share the Dom-shu’s reverence for the rare animal, but he pitied the hobbled beast and was angry at Orlien for lying to them. He climbed inside the wagon and drew his dagger. The unicorn watched him with soft, sad eyes, fringed with golden lashes.

“Easy, there,” Tol said soothingly. “I’ll not hurt you. Let me cut those bonds —”

As soon as the thongs holding the colt’s legs parted, the creature exploded into action, driving its horn at Tol’s chest. The Ergothian dodged clumsily, hampered by the close confines of the wagon. The cool ivory horn instead slid along his neck. Then small golden hooves smacked into Tol’s chest. He fell backward against the canvas. It split, and he tumbled out of the wagon to land on the dusty road.

Angry shouts greeted his abrupt appearance. Yull and the wagon guards had returned.

Realizing the secret was out, Yull unlimbered his single-edged axe and led the hired men against their ostensible escort. They were five against five, but having the mighty Yull on their side seemed to offer the attackers an edge.

Tol had lost his dagger when the unicorn kicked him, but he still had Number Six. With the cry, “Juramona!” he rallied his comrades.

Yull’s men charged. Although not soldiers, they were well-versed in this sort of brawl. With spears and round brass bucklers, they drove the Ergothians away from the wagon and backward up the sloping hill. Yull urged them on, waving his ugly axe and growling. He paused at the rear of the wagon to glance in at the captive.

With a loud thock, a pair of tiny, unshod hooves hit Yull directly between his leather eyepatch and good eye. He staggered back, knees wobbling. The unicorn colt sailed out of the wagon. As soon as his front hooves touched ground, his back legs lashed out.

Yull’s cry caused his men to turn. Immediately, Tol charged. He and his people surged down the hill, slashing at their distracted foes.

Ignoring the resurgent Ergothians, Yull stalked toward the unicorn. Kiya raised her bow, but it was struck from her hands by a skillfully thrown spear.

“Tol!” she yelled. “Save the young Master!”

Tol, dueling with a guard, heard her plea. He lopped off his opponent’s spearhead. The guard brought up his buckler to ward off another blow, and Number Six’s point penetrated the brass shield and stopped a hair’s breadth from the fellow’s right eye. Yelping, the guard abandoned his shield and took to his heels.

Tol freed his blade and closed on Yull. The big man was trying to snag the unicorn’s trailing bonds. He planted one foot on the leather thongs. The unicorn stumbled as its hind legs were caught. Yull raised his heavy axe —

“Stop!” Tol bellowed. “What will your master Orlien do to you when he finds out you killed such a prize?”

The idea was enough to give the angry brute pause. Torn between fear of Orlien’s retribution and the desire to slaughter the insolent beast who’d hurt him, Yull hesitated. For the first time in the entire journey, he spoke.

“You not steal!” he said, pointing from Tol to the trapped unicorn.

“I’ve no intention of stealing anything,” Tol replied, continuing to close the distance between them. “I intend to set him free.”

“No! Valuable! Bring much gold!”

Tol didn’t doubt that. The horn alone had medicinal and magical qualities that would fetch awesome prices in the markets of Daltigoth or Tarsis.

Glaring at the hulking man before him, Tol said, “You’ve no right to hold such a rare creature. Yield now, and I’ll spare your life.”

Yull’s face split in a gap-toothed grin. “Many try to kill Yull. All dead now. You, too, little man.”

Tol jerked his head over his shoulder. “You’re alone.”

One by one, the wagon guards had been slain or had given up. Kiya had a bad gash on her forearm, earned when the bow had been struck from her grasp, but she’d wrapped a strip of cloth tightly around the wound. She and the rest of Tol’s party stood behind him, ready for further combat.

“Let the unicorn go,” Tol urged. “Be free of Orlien, and make your own life.”

Yull’s answer was a powerful sideways slash with his axe. Tol felt the wind from it as he leaped back. Regret flashed through his mind. He would have to kill Yull to free the unicorn.

Before battle could he joined, a chorus of shrill, keening whistles filled the air. Frez, Darpo, and the Dom-shu sisters found themselves engulfed by at least a hundred painted woodland elves. The elves swarmed over them, tearing swords from their hands and immobilizing them with the sheer press of their bodies. Tol, Yull, and the unicorn were likewise surrounded, but the elves did not assault them, merely trapped them inside a living wall of half-naked, painted flesh. More than two score short bows, arrows nocked, were aimed at the two antagonists.

Tol raised his hands slowly. “Peace,” he said loudly. “I mean no harm to you or the young Forestmaster!”

A pair of elves darted forward and freed the unicorn. Yull started to resist, but the collective creak of drawn bowstrings halted him.

A female emerged from the crowd. Her short, spiky black hair was painted with streaks of blue and yellow. She wore a heavy collar of hammered silver beads and carried a tall staff with a forked silver head. From the way her comrades parted for her, Tol took her to be their leader. She barked a few short phrases in her native tongue.

“Miya,” Tol said, “tell her we’re hired fighters, and we mean no harm to the unicorn. Tell her we meant to free it.”

“That’s asking a lot of my poor Elvish,” Miya muttered, then spoke haltingly in the elf tongue.

The female elf studied Tol with a cold, calculating eye, then replied.

“I think she called you a liar,” Miya said. “She says we’re thieves, trying to steal the young Master from Orlien’s men.”

The elf woman spoke again, angrily, and Miya struggled to understand and relay the words to Tol.

Hunters had stolen the unicorn from the forest where the elves dwelt, far to the north of the hill country. They’d sold the rare creature to Orlien for gold. Practically the entire tribe had come south to find the unicorn, which they regarded as their personal godling.

Miya’s command of the language was not up to the task of persuading the elves of her party’s benevolent intentions. The unicorn was led away, and the elves continued to hold the Ergothians and Yull.

Tol thought fast. The elf woman was in command, but she was unarmed; perhaps she was not a chief, but the tribe’s shaman. Her silver adornment and staff lent credence to this theory. With that in mind, he told Miya to propose the elves test him to learn whether he was telling the truth.

The elf woman waved the idea aside. Two score bowstrings tightened.

“Do you care nothing about justice?” Tol cried, and Miya translated as quickly as she could. “I’ve always heard the woodlanders esteemed truth and justice above all other virtues!”

That caused some murmuring in the ranks of elves. Miya told him, “They say, ‘The grasslander is right. Evil will follow us if we slay the just along with the guilty.’”

The elf woman lifted a hand, and the murmurs ceased. She stood nose to nose with Tol – they were of a height – and repeated a short phrase four times. He felt a faint flicker of heat across his face, as he did when encountering magic, but the Irda artifact he carried shielded him completely.

The shaman drew back, startled at her failure.

Seeking to press this advantage, Tol said, “Tell her, because I speak the truth, the gods protect me from her spells. None of her magic can hurt me. She can cast any spell she wants, and it won’t effect me.”

Miya only stared at him, and he snapped, “Tell her!” Miya did so.

The elf woman threw back her feather-lined cloak, revealing a close-fitting suit of green-dyed deerskin. Planting her fists on her hips and looking Tol up and down, she laughed and rattled off several comments.

Miya translated: “She says she is Casmarell, the fourteenth descendant of the great Casmarell, first shaman of her people in the time of the Awakening, in the Age of Dreams. She calls you ‘Creekstone.’”

“What?” Tol demanded.

“Her exact words were ‘one as smooth and slippery as a flat stone in a flowing creek.’”

“Never mind the insults. What about my challenge?”

In answer, the shaman snapped an order to her followers. They seized Tol, plucking the saber from his hand. Kiya, Frez, and Darpo tried to intervene, but Tol ordered them back.

The elves propelled him to an alder tree by the edge of the road and lashed his hands around the trunk behind his back. The elf shaman stalked toward him, parting the ranks of her followers like a plowshare turning turf. Yull and Tol’s companions had no choice but to follow along behind her.

She gestured broadly with her staff, waving its forked silver head in a circle above her. Miya translated her words.

“She will, um, test you with all the spirit power of the woodland race and, um, if you are telling the truth, the gods will protect you.”

Darpo said, “My lord, be of stout heart! We’ll get you out of this —”

“There is no reason to fear,” Tol replied quickly. “Be still.”

Casmarell pointed her staff at Tol, and commenced a low, guttural chant. Again, he felt a weak flicker of heat on his exposed skin but nothing more. She lowered her staff.

Tol smiled cheerfully. Casmarell frowned.

Hazel eyes never leaving his face, she backed away five paces. Throwing her arms wide, she let out a terrifying shriek.

The elves nearest her shrank back, averting their eyes and covering their ears with painted hands. Kiya, Miya, Frez, and Darpo blinked rapidly as their vision blurred, then winced as pain flared in their heads.

This was the Death Shout. According to legend, the greatest shamans among the wild elves could literally scream an enemy to death. Tol did not look away and bore Casmarell’s fury with his eyes wide open.

Beneath her tribal paint, the shaman’s face darkened from the strain of the Shout. Slowly, she brought her hands together, raising the pitch of her scream as her fingers touched. The air itself rang with the concussion, and Casmarell bent forward against the thrust of her own spell. Dust and dry leaves took to the air.

Tol lifted his chin. Although it took effort, he managed to smile.

Finally the shriek died. Staggering from her effort, Casmarell reeled backward, to be caught by her followers. She shook off their help, snapping a peevish phrase Miya did not need to translate.

Awed mutterings circulated among the elves. Not only had the human escaped an agonizing death, he was smiling insolently at their shaman. Was he truly protected by the gods?

Casmarell smote the ground with the butt of her staff. A tremor echoed through the earth, and a clap of thunder rolled through the cloudless blue sky. She spoke a terse incantation and rushed at Tol.

The Dom-shu sisters and Frez surged vainly against the arms restraining them. Darpo got a hand free and downed one of his captors with a punch. Yull watched Tol’s imminent demise with a wide, gap-toothed grin.

Tol awaited Casmarell’s rush as calmly as he could. The millstone would be little help if she meant to bash his skull. His legs were free, so he tensed, ready to lash out when she came within reach.

The forked silver tip of Casmarell’s staff drove at Tol’s face. One of his knees twitched upward, but the shaman halted suddenly, still out of reach. The staff wavered over the bridge of his nose for a moment then she touched it to his forehead. A prickling sensation passed down through his heels and up through his head, but otherwise he was unaffected.

Trembling, Casmarell opened her eyes. They were shot through with blood from the strain of her efforts. Seeing Tol still utterly unmoved, her strength failed. The staff dropped from her hands. Her legs buckled, and the elf woman slumped to her knees.

The hands holding Kiya, Miya, Darpo, and Frez slowly slackened, then were withdrawn. One by one, the hundreds of Wildrunner elves faced Tol and went down on one knee, their heads bowed. Frez hurried to untie his commander.

Tol picked up the shaman’s staff. It was a dark stave of vallenwood, worn smooth as brass by years of handling.

Casmarell rose up suddenly, a flint knife in her hand. She did not attack Tol, however, but was trying to pierce her own heart. Kiya caught her wrist from behind and twisted the stone blade from her hand.

The elves also had released Yull. The hulking mercenary took to his heels at once, and the elves ignored him. They began to chant a single word, softly, over and over.

“‘Creekstone,’” Miya translated. “They mean you, Husband.” This time the epithet was said with respect.

An elf with a brass circlet on his head came forward and prostrated himself before Tol. He spoke then looked to Miya.

The Dom-shu woman was startled. “He says he is Robisart, war chief of their tribe. He hails you as the new shaman of his people.”

Kiya laughed briefly, but Tol hushed her with a glance. “Tell the chief he honors me, but I cannot accept. Besides, he has a shaman.” He helped the miserable Casmarell to stand. She trembled in his grip. “Tell them to take the unicorn and go in peace,” he added.

Tol turned away. He located the dwarf-made sword and returned it to his scabbard. The mob of painted woodland elves followed him, watching his every movement raptly.

Casmarell knelt at his feet and spoke quietly. Miya looked very uncomfortable, and Tol had to prompt her twice to translate the shaman’s words.

“She offers herself to you,” Miya said. “She thinks she can, um, partake of your powers if she becomes your mate.”

There was no laughter from the Ergothians or Kiya this time. Casmarell’s distress was too plain.

Tol took the shaman by the shoulders and lifted her again to her feet. Looking her in the eyes, he said, “Go home, Casmarell. Minister to your people.”

Miya translated as he put the staff back in Casmarell’s hands. She took it, but her expression showed plainly that the ancient wood no longer held any power. The nullstone had apparently swallowed it all.

The Ergothians recovered their horses and gear, abandoning the rest of the caravan. Darpo suggested giving the contents to the elves. Tol agreed, and Miya relayed the news. With whoops, the elves fell upon the wagons and carried off Orlien’s ill-gotten goods.

Tol’s party rode away. They hadn’t gone fifty paces before Kiya spotted Casmarell trailing after them on foot.

The Dom-shu woman’s face held an unaccustomed look of sadness. “Maybe I shouldn’t have stayed her knife,” she murmured.

Tol frowned. “She’ll get over it,” he said. “She has her Forestmaster back. Miya, tell her again she must go and take care of her people.”

Miya did so, but added, “Husband, you have a way of sticking in people’s heads. I doubt she’ll forget you.”

They turned away again, riding on for a moment in silence, and then Darpo asked, “How did you withstand the elf’s magic, my lord?”

He did not answer but urged Shadow to a trot, eager to put distance between himself, Darpo’s question, and the lonely figure of Casmarell still standing in the road.

*

They smelled the sea long before they saw it. Salt flavored the wind that tossed the juniper trees so common in the hills above the Gulf of Ergoth. Brown soil changed to white sand.

It was late afternoon, six days out of Tarsis. The clash with the elves had cost them an extra day, as had a running encounter with a dozen bandits the day after they freed the unicorn. Six of the bandits had perished and the rest dispersed, leaving Tol’s party free to make the final dash to the coast.

Frez was scouting ahead. From atop a high dune, he spotted the sea and waved to his companions to hurry and join him. Soon all of them were looking down upon the windy bay.

Although there was no proper port for many leagues, three ships lay offshore. The three were “in irons,” as Darpo phrased it. Prows pointing directly into the wind, sails furled, they remained in place, bobbing slowly atop the low swells.

Unscrupulous captains would draw up to any likely spot on the eastern coast, hang a lantern from their tallest mast, and wait. Eventually, thieves would turn up, eager to unload their swag. Later the smugglers would sail to Ergoth, Sancrist, or Tarsis, peddling stolen property in shady seaside markets. Nevertheless, the three ships were a welcome sight. One of them was their way home.

They rode down the dune, the horses’ hooves slinging up gouts of loose sand. Whistles and shouts from the shore showed they’d been spotted. Ox-drawn carts stood on the beach near several mounds of goods, no doubt ill-gotten. Sailors in baggy pants and stocking caps prowled the scene with pikes on their shoulders. The thieves and sailors watched the newcomers with cold calculation.

Tol skirted the crew busy with the ox carts. With such a full cargo on their hands, they’d be less interested in passengers. Further down the beach four longboats were drawn up on the sand, their crews waiting idly for more purloined goods to come their way. Tol led his people to them.

“Greetings,” he called. “What ship are you?”

The mate – so marked by the gray tassel on his black cap – pointed to a blue-hulled roundship rolling in the surf behind him. “The Blue Gull. Captain Torwalder is her master. Who be you?”

“Soldiers, out of work. We seek passage to Thorngoth.” This was the port at the mouth of Greenthorn River, across the gulf.

The mate pushed the cap back on his sunburned head. “Imperial territory? Why would you want to go there?”

“It’s a big port,” said Tol, shrugging. “A good place to get lost.”

“Cost ya.”

Miya couldn’t resist. “How much?”

The mate spat on the sand. “Fifty gold for the five o’ you and the horses.”

“Fifty!” Miya exploded. “For fifty gold pieces we could buy our own ship and hire a better crew than you!”

The mate countered with a cheerfully obscene suggestion, and Miya plunged into the negotiations with enthusiasm. They at last agreed on a price of sixteen gold for their passage and the conveyance of the horses. The mate was red-faced and grumbling by the time the deal was struck, as were most who tried to out-bargain Miya.

A freshening wind stirred the waves, making the trip out to the Blue Gull rather hair-raising. The longboats rose and fell like hatchets, cleaving the sea with great foaming splashes. Tethered behind the boats, the horses swam against the tide, eyes rolling with anxiety.

Drawing alongside Blue Gull’s flaking hull, the Ergothians had to call upon all their agility to make the leap from the heaving longboats and grab the rope ladder hanging down the ship’s side. Former sailor Darpo managed handily enough, but as soon as Tol jumped for the ladder the longboat dropped out from under him, and he was thrown back among the rowers. Only his pride was hurt, and he eventually made it aboard.

The Blue Gull was a tubby vessel, only slightly longer from stem to stern than it was broad in the beam. The roundship rode in the water like a great boot, high at the stern and low at the bow. It had a single flush deck, with timber hoardings built over each end – sterncastle and forecastle. Darpo noted the ship’s rig, although well worn, was in good repair and the crew seemed to know their vessel well.

Captain Torwalder proved to be a young man, with a neatly trimmed, pointed blond beard and very heavy eyebrows. In a resonant voice, he ordered a boom rigged out to lift the horses on board. One by the one the animals were hoisted from the waves. Most rolled their eyes in alarm at the unfamiliar form of transportation. Miya’s Pitch neighed shrilly and kicked his slender legs, and even Shadow balked at first.

The horses were soon safe in the hold, but the ship could not yet weigh anchor. Blue Gull was empty save for Tol and his party; the smugglers needed to take on more cargo.

They lingered offshore the rest of the day but no more goods arrived, and Tol pressed the captain to depart. When the tide turned before sundown, Torwalder finally agreed. His men fell to the capstan, winching the anchor up from the shallow water.

The great buff-colored sail unfurled and Blue Gull wallowed out to sea. Once clear of the surf, the ungainly vessel came into its own and rode the sea with dignity, if not speed.

“Slow passage,” Darpo remarked. He scanned a sky painted scarlet by the sunset. “Fair weather, though. If the wind holds, we should make Thorngoth in two days.”

“Barring pirates, storms, or the whims of the Blue Phoenix,” Frez muttered. He was not a good sailor and clutched the windward rail, his face the color of chalk.

The Dom-shu sisters, on the other hand, were delighted with their first taste of the sea. They went from port rail to starboard, talking excitedly about everything they saw. Kiya was enchanted by the ship and its working, while Miya raved about the sea. When a section of water roiled just off the starboard bow, she cornered a busy sailor and demanded to know what caused the disturbance.

“Dolphins,” said the fellow dismissively.

He’d seen such sights thousands of times, but Miya crowed gleefully. She hung over the railing, watching the capering creatures.

As dusk closed in, Torwalder hung a hooded lantern on the binnacle for the steersman to see by. Kiya asked why the lantern was so small.

Torwalder rested his hands on the buckle of his sword belt. “Light carries far over the ocean at night,” he replied. “It don’t pay to be seen too well too far.”

“Pirates?”

The captain let the word hang in the air, answering by not answering.

They ate bread, and shellfish soup served from a common iron pot below deck. Whether it was the rocking motion of the ship, the hearty fare, or the busy time they’d had with various bandit groups, the entire party was ready for sleep soon after supper. As the’tween decks was stuffy and smelled strongly of tar and fish oil, they opted to sleep on deck.

They spread their bedrolls on the sterncastle, out of the way of the working sailors, and settled down. Since none of them had passed a full night in sleep since leaving the camp at Tarsis, Tol decided not to bother posting a watch. Torwalder’s men seemed to have things well in hand.

Tol unbuckled his sword belt and lay down between Miya and Kiya. Number Six, Mundur’s wonderful blade, curved neatly up against him. By starlight he noticed a single glyph engraved unobtrusively on the sword’s brass pommel. He couldn’t read Dwarvish, but knew the symbols for numbers; the glyph was the numeral six.

Overhead, the rigging seemed to rake the starry sky, creaking and groaning with every roll of the beamy hull. Only two days to Thorngoth, Tol thought, as slumber settled over him like a thick quilt. The journey upriver to Daltigoth would seem a pleasure jaunt after what they’d been through already.

He dreamed once more of Felryn. This time he kept his nerve and did not accost the shade or let it disturb his rest, and the shadow of the slain priest of Mishas stood by Blue Gull’s steersman all through the night.

Chapter 6

THE KING OF THE SEA

Bare feet thumped loudly on the plank deck. Kiya rolled over and awakened Tol.

“Something’s happening,” she whispered, and sat up. He followed suit, sheathed saber in his hand.

Torwalder’s crew was scrambling up the rigging while the master of the Blue Gull bellowed orders. Normally the roundship had a single thick mast, stepped in the belly of the ship. This morning a light pole mast had been erected on the forecastle, and a triangular sail billowed out from it. Men aloft on the main yard were lashing spars in place. Soon winglike trysails blossomed from the spars. All this new canvas sent Blue Gull galloping hard through the waves, an inelegant pace that threw up huge gouts of water from the blunt bow.

Tol went to the rail and called to Torwalder in the ship’s waist. “Captain! What’s wrong?” The young seafarer pointed astern. Beyond Blue Gull’s foaming wake were four vessels, two galleys and two lesser, oared ships known as galleots. All four had gray-green hulls, making them hard to distinguish from the sea or the dull, predawn western horizon behind them. The Tarsan Navy was still held impotently in the bay before their fallen city. Legitimate traders did not sail in galleys. These could only be pirates.

Miya, Frez, and Darpo had awakened and were staring aft as well. Quickly, the entire party buckled on their weapons.

Tol hurried down the ladder and approached Torwalder.

The captain waved him away, but Tol would not be put off.

“When did we pick them up?” he asked.

“When the stars set. Been on our stern ever since, keeping the same station.”

A line pulled free and the port trysail flapped uselessly in the wind. Torwalder bawled curses at the foolish sailor whose knots had failed, and the fellow scrambled to make them fast again. Tol returned to his comrades and shared the captain’s news.

“Can we outrun them?” Kiya wanted to know.

Darpo shook his head, looking grave. “A lean lugger in a morning gale might, but this tub will never outspeed that pair of quinquiremes. Ships that size have crews of forty not counting rowers. The galleots’ll have a dozen each.” Including Torwalder’s crew, there were only seventeen souls on the Blue Gull.

When the galleys were first spotted, Captain Torwalder had turned Blue Gull away from her northwest course; he was now running before the wind north by east. The gulf narrowed ahead. They could see tantalizing hints of land off the port side. By the time the sun rose out of the eastern sea, the coast of Ergoth was plainly visible, though still leagues away.

“Why don’t we just run for shore?” asked Miya, eyeing the distant coast wistfully.

“The pirates would overtake us long before we reached it,” Darpo said. “They’d box us in, cut off our room to maneuver, and have us in their hands like a ripe plum!”

Torwalder had no intention of being trapped. The cunning young captain steered for shallow water. His lightly laden roundship drew far less than the heavy galleys. The galleots could pursue them in even shallower waters, but the odds for Blue Gull would be much improved if she could shed the two powerful quinquiremes.

The sea chase settled into a protracted affair. Whenever the pirates crowded Torwalder, he zigzagged toward shore; the deep-draft galleys fell back, and Torwalder would dash out to sea again. After a time, the Dom-shu sisters grew frustrated with the tiresome chase.

“Let’s have at them!” Miya declared loudly. “Enough running away!”

Torwalder had climbed the ladder to the sterncastle to see their pursuers more clearly. Her words carried easily to him, as they were meant to.

“You don’t want to fight them,” he said, once he was back on the deck again. “Them they don’t kill outright end up chained to an oar, where you row until you die. You womenfolk they might sell ashore as slaves – after they tired of you.”

Pulling his curly brimmed hat down to shade his eyes, Torwalder studied the pirate squadron. “Can’t make out the ensign at this distance,” he grunted. “Don’t know who they are.”

Among the numerous freebooters haunting the gulf, some were especially notorious. These included Morojin, a vicious, one-eyed pirate; Xanka, self-styled King of the Sea; the brothers Hagy and Drom, known as the Firebrands from their habit of burning captured vessels – usually with the hapless crews still on board; the female pirate, Hexylle, who commanded an all-woman crew; and Hagbor, the fearsome sea ogre, who was said to eat his prisoners.

Around noon, the wind died. Blue Gull, which had been churning along at a decent rate, slowed to crawl. They were on the outward leg of one of Torwalder’s zigzags, in deep water near the center of the gulf. At the captain’s command, sailors dragged buckets of seawater up the masts and drenched the limp sails.

“Painting the sails,” Darpo told his comrades. Wet canvas caught even the tiniest breath of breeze.

It didn’t help. Slowly the two gray galleys closed in. The galleots dashed ahead of their bigger brothers, steering on either side of the roundship. Torwalder ordered his men to arms. Pikes and cutlasses were distributed. Four sailors armed with bows took to the rigging.

“Where would you like us?” Tol asked.

“Choose your own ground,” the captain replied stonily. “One part of the deck is as good as another to die on.”

Tol chose to defend the sterncastle. Frez and Darpo pried loose the ladders leading up from the lower deck and hauled them up. Blue Gull sat much higher in the water than the galleots, so at least the defenders would have the advantage of height.

“Two points port,” Torwalder cried. The man on the steering board bent to his task. A freshening breeze caught the sails, and the roundship surged ahead, bearing hard for the galleot on their left. The captain of the pirate craft either misread Torwalder’s intentions or simply failed to grasp his desperate purpose. The pirate ship held to its straight course. When the other captain finally woke to Torwalder’s plan, it Was too late.

“He means to ram!” Frez shouted.

Tol barked, “Hold on!”

In the last moment the galleot tried to sheer off, pivoting on its own length to elude the roundship. Sails swelling, Blue Gull drove on, snapping the pirate’s starboard oars like kindling. The oaken cutwater hit the galleot’s light planking. Although braced for the impact, Tol and his people were thrown to the deck. A deafening cracking sound filled the air.

Torwalder roared orders even as Blue Gull ground the enemy under its prow. The port side of the galleot rolled out of the water, oars flailing helplessly in the air. Screams rang out. With irresistible momentum, the roundship tore the pirate vessel in two.

Kiya got to her knees and crawled to the rail in time to see the stern half of the galleot rise high in the air before it sank. The slave rowers, chained to their benches, shrieked for help as the water rose around them. Heavily armed pirates scrambled over the side, but they were in little better shape. They couldn’t swim long or far weighed down by armor.

“The slaves are dying!” Kiya cried, seizing Tol’s arm.

“There’s nothing we can do!” he shouted over the grinding crunch of shattering wood.

Blue Gull tore free of the galleot. Torwalder turned his ship smartly on a reverse tack and sped away. Sailors lined the rails, jeering their drowning foes.

Tol and his people crowded the rail as well, mesmerized by the spectacle. The rear half of the galleot slipped beneath the waves, and they saw only a few heads still bobbing on the surface. Blue Gull’s archers sniped at the survivors from the rigging.

Torwalder had no time to enjoy his success. The other galleot had turned away to avoid the fate of its sister, but the big quinquiremes had put on speed and were bearing down on Blue Gull. Pennants fluttered from pole masts. Largest of these flags was a forked banner in red and white.

“The flag of Xanka,” said Torwalder grimly. Their pursuer was the so-called King of the Sea.

White water curled from the heavy bronze ram on the snout of each quinquireme. Just as Blue Gull had smashed the galleot, so too could the pirates’ rams pierce the roundship.

The galleys drew apart, coming up on either side of Torwalder’s ship. Pirates were massed on the foredecks. Sunlight glittered off their naked blades. The ships were close enough that Tol could see the leers on the pirates’ faces as they caught sight of Miya and Kiya.

Torwalder commanded his men to erect a boom from the mainmast as they had when the horses were hauled aboard. A spare anchor was winched up from this yard. When a pirate ship came alongside, Torwalder would swing the boom over their deck and drop the anchor. It might not smash all the way through the galley’s hull, but the weighty hook was bound to wreak havoc among the pirates crowded together on deck.

The battle-god Corij and the Blue Phoenix, god of the sea, favored them. The wind improved, and Blue Gull crept ahead. On the leeward side, quinquireme pirates were manhandling a catapult forward to the bow. Tol told Kiya to aim her arrows at the catapult’s crew when the time came. The Dom-shu woman swore that any who approached the machine would die.

The chase continued for half the afternoon. Even Torwalder became anxious. Why didn’t Xanka close in? The galleys could overtake them any time they chose, but they seemed content merely to stalk the roundship. Once the sun began sinking in the west, the truth became clear.

A lookout on Blue Gull’s masthead sang out. “Ships off the starboard bow!” A heartbeat later he added, “More ships to port!”

From horizon to horizon, a vast arc of ships spread across the gray sea. Oars foamed the water at their sides. Every ship bore the red and white pennant of Xanka.

Sailors abandoned their posts and swarmed around Captain Torwalder, all shouting at once. Threats were made.

Blows were exchanged. The young master of the Blue Gull struck down a man with the pommel of his cutlass.

Tol led his people to the main deck. They cleaved through the rebellious sailors, making their way to Torwalder. Cries of “We’re done for!” and “Time to abandon ship!” rang out all around them.

“No one leaves my ship!” the captain thundered. “This is mutiny!”

“We’ll be slaughtered or slaved if we stay!” roared a sailor behind Torwalder as he raised a hatchet high.

Tol caught the weapon with his saber and turned it aside. Torwalder whirled and ran the man through with his cutlass. The mutineer was dead when he hit the deck.

That was enough for the crew. Throwing down their weapons, they ran to the rail. Torwalder chased them, slashing the nearest with his sword and bellowing commands. They paid him no heed, scrambling madly over the rail. In moments, the deck was empty save for Tol’s party, and the furious captain.

“My regrets you have to die on my ship!” Torwalder growled.

“We’re not dead yet,” Tol said staunchly, but neither he nor his people looked very confident.

Without steady hands on the steering board or trimming the sails, Blue Gull soon lost its way, luffing and turning beam-on to the following sea. The rhythmic thump of massed oarlocks grew louder as the skulking galleys closed in.

Grapnels whistled through the air, biting into Blue Gull’s port bulwark. Darpo stepped up to hack off the connecting lines, but Tol stopped him.

“This is one predicament we can’t fight our way out of,” Tol said evenly. “Put down your weapons and stand by.”

More grapnels snagged Blue Gull, and the ship was hauled in tight against the long hull of one of the biggest ships any of them had ever seen. Torwalder identified it as Xanka’s flagship, Thunderer, an “elevener” – so called because each oar was manned by eleven rowers.

Two boarding bridges crashed down to the roundship’s deck. A swarm of heavily armed pirates rushed across and quickly surrounded those remaining on Blue Gull.

Swords and other weapons were stripped away, hands shackled roughly behind their backs. The buccaneers struck their legs from behind, forcing them to their knees.

Across the gangplank came an enormous, broadchested man wearing fancy damascened armor inlaid with gold and silver, and a sword on each hip. Five daggers were visible, poked here and there in his wide red leather belt. On his head was a high, crested helm, likewise intricately damascened, which hid all of his face except his heavy, curled brown beard.

Once this gaudy apparition stood firmly on Blue Gull’s deck, he removed his helmet and tossed it to a nearby pirate. His face was deeply browned by the sun, his brown eyes wide-set, and his nose crisscrossed by broken veins.

“Who commands this vessel?” he demanded in a rough, nasal voice.

No one answered, so the pirate chief nodded at one of his men. The fellow hit the captive nearest him in the center of his back. Frez pitched onto his face, bloodying his nose.

The pirate chief ignored the snickering of his men. He eyed Torwalder up and down, taking in his obviously nautical attire. “You,” he said. “Are you this ship’s master?” Denial seemed pointless, so Torwalder grunted an affirmative.

With no further preamble, the pirate chief drew a sword with his left hand and severed Torwalder’s head from his body, all in a single motion. The pirates laughed and kicked the captain’s head around the deck until their master’s rumbling voice called them to order again.

Torwalder’s body was tossed over the side. His head was saved to grace the bowsprit of the Thunderer.

All the Ergothians, though battle veterans, were shocked by the suddenness of the captain’s demise. Face set in a grim mask, body tensed to defend Miya and Kiya, Tol waited to see who the pirate chief would approach next.

“Landlubbers,” the chief said, regarding them thoughtfully. He sheathed his sword. “Well, you look sturdy enough, and I need good rowers on my ship. You are now the property of Xanka, King of the Sea!”

The pirates set up a loud cheer and fell to looting the luckless Blue Gull. Cursing, trying to resist, Tol, Frez, and Darpo were dragged aboard the galley. Kiya and Miya were held back under Xanka’s pitiless gaze. Miya’s face was pale but calm; Kiya’s showed only contempt for her captor.

Halfway across the boarding ramp, Tol lashed out, butting one pirate in the back and kicking another in the stomach. The first man toppled off the ramp and sank beneath the waves. Darpo dropped on his haunches and rolled backward, bowling over three pirates. Frez put his back to Tol’s and used his heavy infantry boots to kick down a foe who tried to draw a sword on him.

Their revolt was short lived. The pirates soon had the Ergothians under control, and the men were dragged the rest of the way to Thunderer. There, they were thoroughly beaten with sword pommels and pike butts. All three were left lying on the galley’s deck, gasping and bleeding.

A prodding toe roused Tol from his stupor. Xanka loomed over him. The chief ordered him to stand. When Tol could not, he was hauled to his feet by two buccaneers.

“You have some skill,” said Xanka. “Who are you?”

“Soldiers. Warriors,” Tol grunted.

A pirate handed Xanka Tol’s saber. “This is a good blade,” the chief said, turning Number Six so it caught the orange light of the lowering sun. “Where’d you get it?”

“From a dwarf metal merchant. We saved his caravan from a band of stinking thieves —”

Xanka shucked the scabbard and put the blade’s keen edge to Tol’s throat. “How about I remove your head with this fine dwarf blade, eh?”

“Bold words from a fat coward to an unarmed man in chains!”

Pirates in earshot gasped at this insolence. Xanka pressed the blade, drawing a thin line of blood on Tol’s neck.

“You can take all day to die, lubber!” Xanka hissed. His breath stank of fish and garlic.

Tol looked him straight in the eye. As loudly as he could, he declared, “You can kill me any time, craven. If you were a warrior and not a grubby, loud-mouthed sea bandit, you’d free my hands and fight me, man to man!”

Xanka laughed, casually hitting Tol in the jaw with the sword hilt. “You’re destined for carrion. String him up, men! Let’s see if he can spew his insults without a tongue!”

Four pirates seized Tol and started dragging him backward to one of the galley’s pole masts. Enjoying every word, Xanka explained Tol would be hung head down from the mast and his tongue cut out – and that would be only the beginning.

A noose was thrown around Tol’s feet, but before they hauled him up, he tried another thrust. Not usually given to boasting, he judged this particular audience might be impressed by martial success.

“Listen to me, savage!” he growled. “I’m no ordinary soldier! I am Lord Tolandruth, Rider of the Great Horde of Ergoth and General of the Army of the North!”

Darpo and Frez were horrified he had revealed himself. Their shocked expressions only added weight to Tol’s claim, and Xanka lifted a hand to halt the proceedings. His face lost some of its gloating expression and showed curiosity.

“You’re Tolandruth of Juramona?” he asked. With great dignity, Tol affirmed this. “The one who bested the beast XimXim?”

“The same. I am the conqueror of Hylo, and I personally defeated both Spannuth Grane and Tylocost of Tarsis in single combat!”

From the crowd behind Xanka, a pirate demanded, “If you’re this great lord, why’re you traveling with just two men?”

“The old emperor has died. All warlords of the empire have been summoned to pledge fealty to the new monarch. I left Tarsis with a small band so I could move fast.”

Xanka regarded him in silence, and Tol held his breath for a frozen moment. With a shrug of his meaty shoulders, the pirate chief finally said, “Lords die same as anybody else. String him up.”

He turned away, but his men did not move to carry out his command. He repeated his order more loudly and with obscene emphasis. Still the pirates hesitated.

“What ails you?” the King of the Sea bellowed, spittle flying from his lips. “Do as I say!”

“We ain’t never disobeyed you, Captain,” said a lean, bald buccaneer, “but if he’s truly Lord Tolandruth —”

“He bleeds the same as any man, don’t he, Faerlac? His neck will snap if I twist it, won’t it?” Xanka raged. He backhanded the bald pirate, and another man within reach.

“Your men have more honor than you,” Tol said haughtily. “Give me my sword – or are you afraid to meet me in fair combat?”

Blood suffused Xanka’s face and he charged, ready to trample Tol into the wooden deck. Darpo and Frez started to move to shield Tol but found it wasn’t necessary. A wall of pirates intervened, keeping the enraged Xanka off the shackled Tol.

“Fight him, Captain!” urged Faerlac, the bald sailor. His split lip dribbled blood. “Slay him fairly, and your name will resound beyond the narrow gulf. The great Lord Tolandruth, cut down in single combat by the mighty Xanka, King of the Sea!”

The vision of future glory he painted slowly soothed his angry commander. The purple veins in Xanka’s bulging neck lost their virulence and his high color lessened. Tol first thought the appeal of fame had caught the pirate chieftain’s attention, but he suddenly realized it was something else.

Xanka was afraid.

Of Tol? Perhaps, but as Xanka’s dark eyes flickered left and right, Tol realized he feared something else even more: his own men. Pirate chiefs ruled by intimidation, and their reigns lasted only so long as they were successful. If Xanka faltered in the face of Tol’s challenge, his men might abandon him. Or worse, Xanka’s heavy body might be the one swinging from a rope tied to Thunderer’s mast.

The pirate chief broke the tense silence with loud laughter and declared he would hang Tol’s head from the bowsprit, next to Torwalder’s and the dozen other moldering specimens already there. The fleet, he said, would sail to the Turbidus Sands, a shoal near the north end of the gulf. There, he and Tol would fight to the death on Thunderer’s deck.

The pirates raised a loud and lusty cheer. Tol felt like shouting himself. His plan to buy more time had worked.

When the cheering subsided, the shackles were removed from Tol’s wrists. Darpo and Frez remained bound. Unable to do more for them, Tol asked for Kiya and Miya.

“They’re my wives,” he told Faerlac. “While I live, I will not see them abused.”

The bosun saw the simple justice in this and sent for the Dom-shu. A long time passed before they finally arrived, and the four sailors bringing them looked rather battered. The women’s arms were pinioned with cloth straps, their ankles hobbled, and gags covered their mouths.

One sailor, sporting a darkening bruise under one eye, told Faerlac that Kiya was the fiercer fighter but Miya’s sharp tongue was lethal. She had, he said, all but flayed the skin off their backs with her curses. At Tol’s request, Faerlac agreed to remove Kiya’s gag.

“Husband!” she said. “I rejoice to see you living!”

Tol quickly explained the situation. The merest ghost of a smile crossed Kiya’s lips.

“May Bran protect you, Husband. We’re in the gods’ hands now!”

The captives were herded to the mast and left under guard. Tol was unfettered, but the pirates freed the others only long enough to bind their hands before them rather than behind their backs; at least they’d be able to balance more easily. Gongs sounded, and the great galley slowly got under way. The pirate fleet sorted itself into serried squadrons, with Thunderer front and center.

Xanka had one last chore before departing. Drawing away from the rest of the fleet, Thunderer turned ponderously in a half-circle. Below, the tempo of the rowing master’s drum increased. The great elevener plowed ahead, straight for the looted roundship, which rolled in the swell, her sails down, her helm unmanned.

Foaming green water curled back from the pirate’s saw-toothed ram. Xanka mounted to the forecastle and ordered ramming speed.

Thirty-two enormous oars rose and fell in perfect rhythm, the last light of day flashing off each blade as it plunged into the sea again. Although the ship was huge, Thunderer’s three hundred fifty-two rowers gave it considerable speed. Wind whipped the captives on deck.

Blue Gull awaited its destruction blindly, like a calf poised for the butcher’s blow. The pirates had no interest in horses, so Shadow, Pitch, and the rest were still in Blue Gull’s hold. There was nothing Tol’s party could do but watch helplessly as the pirate ship drove straight at the smaller vessel.

Cornets blared, warning of the collision. Darpo grabbed onto Frez, who held onto Miya’s waist. The Dom-shu clutched Tol.

Xanka laughed uproariously. “See, lubbers, what fate awaits the enemies of the King of the Sea!”

The bronze-covered ram hit the little roundship at the waterline. With a loud crash, it burst through the heavy planking. On Thunderer’s deck, the shock was surprisingly light. Splinters flew as Blue Gull was thrown up on the galley’s downswept stem, timbers snapping like reeds. A few fragments fell on deck as Thunderer swept through the debris unhindered, turned sharply on its own length, and returned to the waiting pirate fleet.

His point made, Xanka retired below, a broad grin on his fleshy face.

*

When the pirates tired of guard duty, they fettered Tol’s feet and left him with his shackled comrades. The Ergothians sat in a circle, their backs against the galley’s main mast. Their supper was brackish water and biscuits so hard Kiya vowed an ogre’s tusks couldn’t gnaw through them.

Thunderer was brightly lit by night, lamps glowing every few steps along the rail. As the hold was crowded with slave rowers and whatever booty had been garnered this trip, the pirates spent most of their time on deck. Eating and drinking were pastimes with them, not just necessities, and they gamed constantly, casting dice against the forecastle bulkhead.

Behind Thunderer, the pirate fleet spread out as far as Tol could see. Yellow lanterns winked from every mast. Kiya said Xanka commanded two hundred nine ships.

“How did you get such exact information?” Tol wanted to know.

She shrugged. “I asked.”

The ships ranged from the mighty Thunderer down to light galleots such as Torwalder had destroyed. Xanka’s was just one of several pirate fleets in the gulf.

The empire had nothing fit to oppose so many crafty pirates. Egrin, Tol’s former mentor, had been sent south after the defeat of Tylocost in Hylo to organize defenses against pirate raids. A dedicated warrior, Egrin had established flying patrols along the coast, to oppose any landing the pirates made. He tried to set up a squadron of fighting ships, but Ergothians weren’t sailors and their ships were usually swiftly destroyed. A stalemate had existed for ten years. Egrin’s troops foiled the pirates’ attempts to raid the rich coastal districts, but the swarms of pirates completely choked off the Ergothians’ sea trade.

With only his four companions, Tol couldn’t hope to destroy an entire pirate fleet, but he could try to unman the pirates by defeating Xanka. Although ruthless and powerful and half again Tol’s size, Xanka seemed too far gone in the pleasures of the table and bottle to be much of an opponent. The fleshy pirate reminded Tol of Lord Odovar in his later years, changed from a vigorous, hearty warrior to an overfed martinet because peace bored him.

The captives dozed, sitting with their backs against the mast, until early in the morning, when a change in the cadence of Thunderer’s oars roused them. The ship was slowing. Men stood at the bow, sounding the depths with lead lines.

As the galley crawled through the Turbidus Sands, the leadsmen sang, “Six fathoms, an eighth!” then, “Full fathoms five!” The ship’s keel scraped. “Three fathoms, a fourth! “The oarmaster stilled his drums, raising all oars, and Thunderer slowly glided to a stop.

The sea was flat calm. They were at the extreme north tip of the Gulf of Ergoth, only two leagues from shore. Pulling himself to his feet, Tol peered over the bulwark. A fantastic scene greeted his eyes.

Many more than just Xanka’s two hundred ships were gathered here. Hundreds of vessels, most much smaller than Thunderer, crawled through narrow channels in the shoals. This was the pirates’ lair, their hideout from the potent Tarsan Navy. Only an experienced pilot, familiar with the shoals, could navigate safely through the maze of sandbars.

Faerlac appeared. Accompanying him were two sailors bearing a short pole from which hung a steaming iron pot. The pot contained nothing more exotic than white bean porridge, but Tol and his companions fell upon it hungrily.

Faerlac squatted by Tol. “We’ve come to the Sands,” he said. “Two bells after sunrise, you and Xanka will fight.”

“May I have my sword, the one taken from me?”

“When the time comes.” The bosun gestured to the congregation of vessels around them. “Most every free chieftain is here. Word will be sent round to all the flagships. You’ll have a mighty audience for your duel.”

So it proved. The day waxed hot. In the clear air, the reflection off the water was intense. Pirates smeared black grease below their eyes to cut the painful glare.

Boats arrived from other ships, bearing pirate captains of every stripe. Many were obviously petty thugs, but a few arrived with more panache. Among the early arrivals were two striking young men in identical outfits – billowing trousers, high boots, and studded leather vests – identical but for one important detail: one’s garb was all black, the other’s pure white. These were the brothers Hagy and Drom, hailed as the Firebrands for their habit of burning looted ships.

A squat, swarthy figure with a drooping mustache reaching halfway down his chest proved to be Morojin. His left eye was gone, gouged out in a fight long ago. In its place Morojin wore a carved ivory ball. Watching the pirate climb aboard with cat-like grace, Tol was grateful he wasn’t dueling Morojin.

Hagbor, the notorious ogre pirate, was not present. His squadron was cruising the Cape of Khar. However, the lone female pirate, Hexylle, did come, with her female crew. Thick-armed and stout, Hexylle had skin brown and leathery as an old boot and deeply wrinkled from years of sun and wind. Her eyes were a brilliant blue, but she was as coarse and brutal as success in her chosen trade demanded.

The chieftains took up places of honor along the sterncastle rail. Crowded behind them were assorted first and second mates, bosuns, and other officers. The long waist of the galley was kept clear, although the rigging was black with clinging crewmen. Frez, Darpo, and the Dom-shu sisters were held under guard on Thunderer’s forecastle overlooking the scene of the duel.

In the sweltering heat, Tol had stripped off his cloak, tunic, and shirt. Bare to the waist, he looked pale among the sun-baked pirates. Sailors in the rigging hooted when he appeared, led up from below by Faerlac.

Thunderer’s bosun gestured fore and aft. “Here is your battlefield. You may not leave it unless your opponent leads you away.” He bade Tol look up. “There are archers in the crow’s nest. If you try to escape, they have orders to shoot you and your friends.”

“I’ll not run,” Tol said.

Faerlac cupped a hand to his mouth and called through the open hatch. Two pirates climbed out, arms laden with weapons. They scattered daggers, pikes, swords, axes, and billhooks around. Tol’s sword and dagger were returned to him. He shoved the ornate dagger into the waist of his pants and rested the flat of Number Six’s blade on his shoulder. He was ready.

Xanka did not appear. A long interval passed. Tol and the spectators sweated under the remorseless sun.

Just as the crowd began to murmur and stir impatiently, the doors of the sterncastle cabin were flung open. Four dirty, barefoot pirates, got up in fancy stolen livery, strode out and put cornets to their lips.

Faerlac announced, “His Excellency, Xanka, master of the Thunderer and all squadrons of the Blood Fleet, the King of the Sea!”

The horns blared. The pirate lord stalked out of the cabin into the bright light, clanking as he walked. He was clad from head to toe in elaborate armor.

At some point in his career, Xanka had taken a warlord’s parade armor and altered it to fit himself. Every surface was embossed with fantastic details: panthers roared at his shoulder joints, bears and bison snarled along his arms and legs. The helm was a fantastic rampant dragon, fanged mouth gaping at the crown. Tol had never seen such bizarre decorative armor, not even on the extravagant nobles of Daltigoth.

Xanka’s men cheered as he advanced between the rows of heralds. Tol looked beyond his opponent and saw that unlike the mass of sailors, the other pirate captains were not impressed by Xanka’s show. They sat along the rail, watching impassively and drinking from heavy, stemmed goblets.

Xanka halted a few steps from Tol. He carried four swords, one on each hip and two crosswise on his back. The greaves on his legs had special sockets to hold daggers. The spiked tail of the dragon on his helm was detachable. It was a mace.

From her place on the forecastle, Miya shouted, “Not fair! He wears armor, and our husband has none!”

“Tol doesn’t need it,” her sister replied.

The pirate chief drew the swords on his hips and waved them furiously over his head. His men roared approval, but Tol had to bite back a laugh. To his practiced eye, Xanka’s display was ludicrous. He had to be sweating like a war-horse in that armor, which, for all its glitter, was nearly useless as protection. Embossing stretched metal thin, making such fancy armor less sturdy than ordinary flat plates would have been. There was a lot of brass on Xanka, too, and brass was vulnerable to an iron blade.

Faerlac held up his hands. Once the cheering quieted somewhat, he intoned, “This is a fight to the death. There are no other rules.”

Hardly were the words spoken than Xanka came slashing at Tol with both blades. Tol leaped back, dodging awkwardly. Faerlac was not so lucky. The tip of one sword raked over his thigh. The bosun went down, bleeding. The startled heralds grabbed his arms and dragged him out of the way.

Xanka bulled on. Tol contented himself with parrying the swinging cutlasses. The bulky captain was surprisingly fast, and with two full-length swords, he made quite a threshing machine. Tol circled backward, avoiding an open hatch. He drew his dagger to provide some defense on his left side.

Thunderer’s deck, which had seemed so open, now resembled a trapper’s field. Everywhere were potential hazards. Coils of rope and raised coamings waited to snag Tol’s feet. Open hatches were also perils. He had to step lively to avoid these pitfalls.

He let Xanka push him back amidships. Beneath a canopy of screaming sailors, Tol wiped sweat and long hair from his eyes and wished he’d asked for a headband. Retreating into the shadow of the mast, he continued to size up his foe..

His earlier appraisal of Xanka was being confirmed; the pirate chief was no match for him. A dozen years older and twice as heavy, Xanka had probably been a formidable fighter once. Now he was weighed down by years of over-indulgence. He had killer instincts, but his movements and reactions were predictable. A few more circles around the galley’s deck and the heat would work its will on the man in the stifling armor, so Tol let Xanka put on a show for a while.

Xanka made a wild sideways cut with his left sword. Tol sprang into the air, high enough that the blade passed under his feet. The pirate followed with a savage downward sweep of his right blade, which Tol caught on his sword’s guard. This was the first close blow he’d taken, and it surprised him. Despite everything, Xanka was strong. Backed by all his weight, the blow drove Tol to his knees. The pirates went wild.

Tol kept his composure, and Xanka did exactly what Tol thought he would: he thrust with his left sword, while bearing down on Tol with the right. Tol turned Xanka’s attack with his stout dagger then drove the jeweled pommel into the pirate’s throat. There was no plate there, just a hanging screen of scale-mail. Gagging from the blow, Xanka staggered back.

Tol got up, spun his saber around in a furious disengage, and brought the keen edge down on Xanka’s left wrist. He pulled the blow, so the dwarf blade cut through the articulated gauntlet but not the flesh and bone beneath. Brass and iron rained on the deck.

Grunting with shock, Xanka backed away. The cheering faded. Some of the sailors could see their captain’s left hand was bare, but they couldn’t fathom what had happened.

Tol swiftly attacked again. Rather than waste energy slashing at armor, he thrust at Xanka’s face and throat. The stout captain parried heavily, breath puffing with every swing of his swords. Tol caught the right sword in a binding parry and spun it out of Xanka’s grasp. The cutlass flashed through the air and stuck point-first in the deck. Xanka promptly drew one of the swords on his back, but he was shocked at being disarmed.

Confident now, Tol toyed with his foe. He easily turned aside Xanka’s cuts, taking care not to let the bigger man close in where he could use his strength and bulk to advantage. Sweat flowed down Xanka’s face like a miniature waterfall, drenching the fancy plate armor. His breath came in audible gasps.

Tol drove him back to the sterncastle and spared a glance up at the watching pirate captains. The Firebrand brothers were pounding the rail with their fists and howling for blood. Hexylle, ignoring the battle, conversed with some of her crew. Morojin watched the contest keenly.

Xanka took advantage of Tol’s brief moment of inattention. He lashed out with his foot, driving his spiked sabatons into Tol’s leg. Bleeding, Tol fell. Xanka laughed and rained vicious cuts over him.

Although his right calf was covered in blood and the five wounds stung ferociously, Tol knew they weren’t deep. He rolled away from Xanka’s wild attack, vaulted to his feet and caught both of the pirate’s blades in a stunning cross-parry. Kiya, Miya, and Tol’s men jumped to their feet, shouting, and even the pirates cheered this bold move.

Tol drew back, swiftly sheathed his dagger, and took the hilt of Number Six in both hands. He bored in, straight at the pirate’s broad chest. Xanka tried to bind Tol’s blade and spin him away, but the hard dwarf metal would not be denied. First one then the other of Xanka’s cutlasses snapped close to the hilt. The point of Tol’s sword drove into the captain’s cuirass, where the raised image of a snarling bear caught the tip. Grunting with effort, Tol drove his sword point straight through the thin plate.

The roaring crowd fell instantly silent. Tol held his position, gazing implacably at Xanka’s closed helm. Slowly, the hulking pirate reached a hand up over his shoulder and drew his last sword. Frankly amazed at the man’s stamina, Tol recovered as the new blade whistled past his nose.

Gasping like a beached whale, Xanka tore off his helm. His hair was molded to his head with sweat. Blood ran down his breastplate.

“You’ll pay for this!” he rasped.

“Come, fat man. We haven’t got all day!” Tol retorted.

Boiling with rage, Xanka threw down his sword and seized a battle-axe, one of the weapons distributed around the ship. It outreached Tol’s saber. Xanka swung the long-handled axe in a circle around his head, forcing Tol to duck.

On the next circuit, Tol held up his sword. His blade cut through the axe handle without pause. Sailors ducked frantically as the wicked head went spinning by and sailed over the rail into the sea. Xanka wasted no breath or time. He simply grabbed the nearest weapon, a billhook.

It was a fortuitous choice. Tol had no experience fighting a bill and soon found himself caught. Xanka hooked him and jerked him off his feet, the bill tearing open Tol’s right shoulder. His saber skittered away. Tol scrambled after it, but Xanka grabbed his ankle and dragged him back. Wheezing with laughter, the pirate drew a wickedly curved dagger from the sheath in his right greave.

Tol suddenly changed direction and dived between Xanka’s legs. Emerging behind the ponderous buccaneer, he snatched up a stray cutlass from the deck and swung. The crude iron blade rang harmlessly off Xanka’s armor three times.

Frustrated, Tol threw the weapon at the pirate’s head. He needed Number Six!

It lay in the scupper on the port side. Tol ran around Xanka to reach it. Pirates in the rigging thought he was trying to escape and jeered. An archer put an arrow in the deck at his feet. Over the pirates’ hoots and catcalls, he could hear Xanka pounding after him. He fingers closed around Number Six’s grip just as Xanka barreled up behind him, billhook reaching for his limbs.

Bleeding from shoulder and calf, Tol had had enough. He swung once, lopping off the head of the bill, then struck again, slicing through a section of the hardwood shaft. Reversing direction and closing both hands on the hilt, he swung a third time. Number Six punched through the fancy brass pauldron and into the thick flesh of Xanka’s right arm.

The pirate screamed. His cry of pain silenced the crowd once more. Tol freed his sword and stood back, ready to strike again.

Xanka fell to his knees. “No more!”

“This is a death match!” Tol snarled.

“No! Please! Don’t kill me!”

His enemy was a braggart and a vicious, brutal thief, but Tol hadn’t expected him to cry craven.

Blood coursed down Xanka’s arm. Number Six had cut him to the bone, leaving his right hand useless. Tears streamed from his puffy eyes.

“On your feet!” Tol shouted.

“No more!” Xanka waved his left hand feebly.

Faerlac stepped out of the crowd. Standing over his wounded captain, he said into the awesome silence, “Rise and fight, if you can!”

“I cannot!” Xanka sobbed, clutching his wound. “My arm —!”

Tol had no illusions. If their roles were reversed, the pirate chief would slay him cheerfully and boast ever afterward about besting the great Tolandruth. Frez and Darpo would rot their lives away as slave rowers, while Miya and Kiya faced even worse fates.

As a boy Tol had watched the captured Pakin rebel Vakka Zan lose his head. Ever since, he’d had a horror of executions, felt only disgust at the killing of helpless prisoners. He’d risked his life to spare Makaralonga, chief of the Dom-shu and father of Kiya and Miya, after capturing him in battle. Ergothian tradition demanded that a conquered leader forfeit his head, but Tol could not kill a man who had yielded to him honorably He and Felryn had concocted a phony execution and delivered another man’s head to the emperor as Makaralonga’s.

Tylocost he had spared, too, for no other reason than he found the elf general an intriguing opponent. By that time Tol’s prestige was so high he could ignore calls for the mercenary’s death. So Tylocost lived as a paroled prisoner in Juramona.

Hundreds of other Tarsan officers had passed through Tol’s hands as the war went on. He spared them all, for they were fellow warriors, and honorable foes.

Xanka was neither.

All this flashed through Tol’s mind in only moments, and he looked to Faerlac. The bosun was regarding his captain with contempt. Lip curling, Faerlac turned away.

Tol walked slowly around the kneeling pirate. He paused, sweaty fingers flexing around the sharkskin grip of his sword. The only sound on Thunderer was Xanka’s hoarse weeping.

Tol raised Number Six high. With a single stroke, he cut off the King of the Sea’s head.

Chapter 7

DOORWAY TO EMPIRE

Xanka’s headless body slumped to the deck with a clatter of ornate armor. His head, rolling with the motion of the ship, ended in the scupper.

Tol straightened his back, both hands on his saber. The King of the Sea was dead. What would his subjects do now? Hundreds of eyes watched Tol, but no one spoke. He carefully wiped the blood from his blade and flung the dark crimson droplets on the deck, then met the stares of Xanka’s pirate crew with a cold glare of his own. Although he had schemed to have Xanka fight him man to man rather than face a slow death by torture, he was unsure what would happen next. Perhaps he should treat this situation as he had the Battle of Three Rose Creek. At battle’s end, the defeated General Tylocost had admonished him to raise his sword high and accept the fruits of victory.

Faerlac stepped forward and covered Xanka’s body with a rough blanket. His action seemed to free the rest from their immobility. A scraping noise and the sound of footsteps, caused Tol to turn.

The pirate chiefs were descending from the sterncastle. The Firebrand brothers, faces rosy from drink, leaned on each other for support. Hexylle and her officers chatted in low voices among themselves. Tailing the rest, one-eyed Morojin surveyed the scene calmly. The brothers reached Tol first.

Drom, all in white, squatted by the corpse and lifted the covering for a better look.

“Neater than the headsman of Thorngoth. Look, Hagy!” he said, tapping the leg of his black-clad sibling. There was no anger in his words, only excitement.

Hexylle snapped her fingers, and one of her crew stepped forward bearing a stoneware jug. At the pirate’s nod, a cup was filled and offered to Tol.

“It’s hotter than a dragon’s gut out here. Drink!” Hexylle said, her voice as coarse as her looks.

Tol took the cup and drained it gratefully. It wasn’t wine or beer, but a clear fiery liquor he’d never tasted before. Heat flushed his face, but any liquid was balm to his parched throat.

“Thank you, lady,” he said. Hexylle grinned broadly at that, blue eyes nearly vanishing in the leathery wrinkles of her skin.

Morojin, shortest of them all, stepped around Hexylle. “That blade of yours. May I see it?” he asked.

With studied calm, Tol handed it over. Morojin hefted the saber, swung it, even sniffed the blade. To Tol’s relief, he returned it at once.

“That’s a rare blade. Dwarf work, yes?” Tol admitted it was. Morojin stroked his long mustache thoughtfully, then tapped the hilt of a dagger in his belt. “This is of the same metal. It’s said the dwarves hammer the very essence of fire into the iron. They call it ‘steel.’”

The metal of Mundur’s sword had a name. Tol turned the unfamiliar word over in his mind.

Morojin added, “Xanka was a fool. Got what he deserved.”

The pirate ordered his yawl brought alongside so he could return to his flagship. When it arrived, he paused by Thunderer’s rail.

“Fine fight,” he said, regarding Tol with a glitter in his good eye. “You’re a wicked hand with a sword, lubber. Some day maybe I’ll find out how good you are.”

With a casual wave, Morojin departed. Hexylle and her women likewise gave a breezy farewell and left for their longboat. The Firebrands delayed a bit, making mock thrusts in the air as they refought the duel, black besting white, then white holding sway. Faerlac steered them to the rail and their own boat.

The idle crew of Thunderer broke up then, each man going about his business. Before Tol knew it, the oarmaster had resumed his beat, and the sweeps were rising and falling again, propelling the mighty elevener toward open water.

Kiya, Miya, and Tol’s men worked their way down from the forecastle. Embracing Tol, Miya said in a low tone, “They cut us loose!”

“Are we free, do you think?” Frez muttered. None of the pirates seemed to be paying them the slightest heed.

Tol knew no more than they. “Stay close,” he said. “We may get out of this yet.”

At Faerlac’s order, four sailors removed Xanka’s body, dropping it over the side. The head Faerlac offered to Tol.

“It’s customary for the new captain to hang the defeated foe’s head from the bowsprit. Tells the fleet who’s boss now,” the bosun explained.

The Ergothians were thunderstruck. Kiya stuttered, “Husband is now your chief?”

“Of course. It’s our law, written in the articles of the Blood Fleet. Anyone deemed equal in stature to the captain can challenge him for his position. Lord Tolandruth was certainly Captain Xanka’s equal. He slew Xanka. Now he’s out leader. What are your orders, Lord Captain?”

Miya and Darpo were grinning broadly; Kiya and Frez were stunned. Tol was as shocked as they, but had been too long a warrior to let his consternation show.

He said, “Make for Thorngoth. At your best speed.” When Faerlac held up the dripping head, Tol added tersely, “Observe your law.”

Xanka’s severed head was duly hung from the bowsprit of his former flagship. One by one the other ships in the Blood Fleet dipped their pennants in acknowledgment of their new commander.

Tol and his people were escorted to the captain’s cabin in the sterncastle. The outer room was crowded with Xanka’s personal booty, the choice pickings of years of freebooting. Thick carpets covered the deck, and heavy tapestries in cloth-of-gold and burgundy brocade hung on the walls. So much fine furniture was jammed into the space one could hardly use it. Several leather-bound chests, sealed with stout iron locks, were scattered about. Faerlac handed Tol the key that fit the locks.

Exhausted, feeling his composure waning, Tol dismissed the bosun then sank onto one of the chests, mopping his brow. His wounds burned.

Miya plucked the key from his unresisting fingers. She opened a nearby chest. Tol heard her gasp.

“By Bran’s beard! Husband, look at this!”

He expected treasure, and treasure it was. The box, knee-high to Miya, was filled to the brim with raw gemstones, chiefly rubies. The Dom-shu woman dug her hand into the heap of precious stones, letting them cascade from her fingers.

“What can the others hold?” Frez wondered aloud.

Miya stared at him for only an instant before rushing to throw open the other chests. One held silver coins, another gold. A fourth contained gilded and jeweled trinkets – rings, bracelets, torques, earrings. Each chest held a warlord’s ransom, and there were nine in the room.

While his companions pored over the late Sea King’s loot, Tol went through the door into the aftmost cabin.

Xanka’s personal quarters were even more extravagantly decorated than the anteroom. Golden statuettes and gilded temple lamps lined the walls. The carpet was so thick, Tol’s booted feet sank into its softness and his footsteps made scarcely any sound. Sweet vapors wafted up from a golden censer, swaying with the motion of the waves.

The rear wall of the cabin was the ship’s curving stern. It was set with glass panes, giving a splendid panorama of the sea behind Thunderer. The glare of the midday sun off the water filled the space with light.

Squinting against the brightness, Tol took a moment to realize he was not alone. Two women rose from the couches on which they’d been lying. One was tall, bronze-haired, with hazel eyes. Her gauzy costume emphasized rather than concealed her voluptuous figure. The other woman was much younger, little more than a girl, with ebony skin and the largest, darkest eyes Tol had ever seen. She was dressed as a sailor, but neither her outfit nor her close-cropped curly hair disguised her sex.

“So Xanka is dead,” said the older woman. She folded her long fingers together. “The Dragonqueen will have his black soul.”

Tol did not doubt that. “I am Tolandruth of Juramona,” he said.

She bowed her head, sunlight playing across her smooth hair. “I am Dralie. This is Inika. We are – were – Xanka’s consorts.”

“How did he die?” asked Inika.

“He fought hard,” Tol replied generously.

Inika’s dark brows lifted. “Really? I’m surprised. He was a terrible coward.”

Dralie took Tol’s hand and led him past the couches. A table was set with heavy golden dishes, and laden with grilled squab, roast beef, four kinds of fish, and a tall amphora of wine. This was supposed to be Xanka’s victory meal. A few steps further on, by the wide stern windows, sat an oblong box of brass and leather. Steam rose from the water it contained. S “What’s that?” Tol asked.

“The captain ordered us to prepare his bath. It was a hot morning and he expected to work up a sweat.”

Tol was fascinated. As a child on the farm and a warlord of Ergoth, he bathed by pouring buckets of water over his head. During the cold Daltigoth winters, the water would be warmed, but he’d never been in a bathtub in his life.

Dralie pulled out a chair for him. “Eat, master.”

Hungry, he complied, but told her, “Don’t call me that. I’m not your master.”

When the women tried to feed him, he put a stop to that as well. It was no wonder Xanka had grown soft. Being waited on hand and foot was no life for an honorable man.

While he ate, Inika played a sweetly melancholy air on a reed flute, and Dralie sang. She had a rich, mature voice. When she finished, Tol asked the women how they had come to be here.

Inika came from a village on the north coast of the empire. It had been raided by a squadron of Xanka’s ships. The pirates carried off two things: women and cattle. She was kept by the captain of the galley Terror until she caught Xanka’s eye. She’d been with him a year.

Tol apologized, saying the empire should have protected her. She shrugged. “Myduties here were not too great. I eat well, and I have a roof over my head.”

“Well, you’re free now. When we reach Thorngoth, you can go ashore with my comrades and me.”

Inika said nothing, merely turned her dark eyes to Dralie.

The older woman had been born in Tarsis and apprenticed to the temple of Mishas as a priestess and healer. On a voyage to Hylo to found a new sanctuary to the goddess, her ship was taken by Xanka’s fleet. He wasn’t King of the Sea then, just leader of a flotilla of six ships. She healed the wounds he’d received in battle, and not long after became his consort.

She’d recounted her story calmly but now looked out the windows at the galley’s foaming wake, her face shadowed. “That was seventeen years ago.”

For the first time Tol felt a twinge of regret for what had happened. Xanka was a murderous bandit who deserved to be shortened by a head, but Dralie seemed to care for him. He began to apologize for her loss.

Dralie turned and looked at him as though he’d grown a second head. Then she spoke, and he finally understood.

“One who was a disciple of the goddess should not feel joy at the passing of a fellow being,” she said.

Her cold, even tone sent a chill down his spine. Finished with his meal, Tol got up to go. Inika caught his arm.

“Stay,” she said, “else the water will grow cold.”

“I don’t need —”

“You bear the dust of a long journey, my lord,” Dralie said. “It is your right to take your ease.”

They began undressing him. Tol resisted only half-heartedly. He was bruised, battered, and dirty. The two women disrobed him with detached efficiency and ushered him into the bath. It had lost some of its heat but was still pleasantly warm. Dralie poured scented oil into the water while Inika took up a soft brush and applied it to Tol’s back.

The cabin door opened and Kiya entered. Her eyes widened as she took in the scene.

“I wondered what kept you in here so long!” she said.

The others peered in around her, and Miya uttered a shocked oath.

“Who are these louts?” asked Dralie. “My wives,” Tol said.

“Who are these hussies?” demanded Miya. Tol considered carefully. “Xanka’s treasures.”

*

With Faerlac’s help, Tol summoned the masters of every ship in the Blood Fleet to Thunderer that night for a council. Quite an assortment of characters crowded the afterdeck of the galley. Gray-bearded salts with lined faces rubbed elbows with dashing youths in extravagant costumes of sashes, plumes, and kilts.

Tol’s party had lost not only their horses, but all their baggage when Blue Gull was sunk, so they raided Xanka’s bountiful wardrobe. Dralie helped find what they wanted and gave advice as necessary on how to wear their choices. After their initially chilly introduction, the Dom-shu sisters and Xanka’s consorts got along well.

They spruced up according to their natures, with Tol settling for a reasonably sober jerkin of wine-colored leather, an Ergothian helmet, and a white mantle, and Miya going all-out in a robe of emerald green silk, topped by a turban in the North Seas fashion. Tol was pleased the gaudy clothing cheered her. She’d been fond of Pitch and had been grieving for the loss of her horse.

It was night, and the galley rode the gentle swells of the gulf. Lanterns lined the rail. The mob of pirate captains talked among themselves until Tol appeared on the sterncastle above them. He was flanked by his two men, Faerlac, the Dom-shu, Dralie, and Inika. A hush fell over the crowd.

“Men of the Blood Fleet! I am Tolandruth of Juramona, General of the Army of the North, Champion of the Regent of Ergoth, and Rider of the Great Horde!” He hoped the list of titles would give weight to his words. “By right of combat, I have become master of this fleet. If anyone cares to dispute my claim, let him do so now!”

The pirates eyed each other, muttering. Finally, a veteran captain with black hair and the features of a half-elf said, “What is your will, my lord?”

Tol folded his arms. “I intend to take the fleet to Thorngoth.”

That set off a rumble of surprised conversation. A young captain with a potbelly and a shaven pate yelled, “You mean to sack the port?”

“No. The town will not be molested. I will walk ashore and greet the imperial governor.”

More consternation. The pot-bellied captain shouted, “The garrison will attack us without mercy!”

“Not if we fly the flag of Ergoth.”

Silence fell. Tol let it stretch for a few moments, then explained.

“For years you have preyed upon the ships of every nation with skill and success.” Brutal skill and ugly success, he thought, but wisely did not say. “Your number has grown from a handful of independent vessels into a mighty fleet. Now I offer you a chance to become even greater. Submit to the authority of the empire, and I guarantee all of you will receive amnesty.”

Some greeted this offer with harsh laughter. Others did not. The half-elf captain shouted down those around him, then asked, “If we are pardoned, my lord, then what? How do we live?”

“As captains in the Imperial Navy of Ergoth.”

This caused even more harsh laughter followed by wrangling. A few pirates came to blows, and one band of hotheads charged the ladders leading to the sterncastle. Tol’s companions, supported by Faerlac, drew swords and prepared to stand them off. Tol contented himself with glaring fiercely at the charging pirates.

“Stand down!” he barked. “By your own law, I am commander of this fleet!”

His words, backed by a quintet of naked blades, cooled the rebels’ ardor. Grumbling, the attackers backed down.

The bald, pot-bellied captain called out, “What if we don’t want your pardon? Will you force us?”

“I haven’t the time or the power to force anyone. I’ve been summoned to attend upon the new emperor, and I want to reach Daltigoth in two days. Any ship and crew that wishes to take advantage of my offer is welcome. The rest may go and consider themselves absolved of their oath to the Blood Fleet.”

Fifty captains left immediately. The remaining one hundred fifty-eight argued loudly among themselves about the merits of Tol’s plan.

Stepping back to let them hammer it out, Tol said, “What do you say, Faerlac?”

The bosun sheathed his cutlass. “I go where this ship goes,” he said firmly.

The half-elf captain stepped forward, and the rest quieted. “My lord,” he said, “what about our property? What will become of it?”

Their loot, he meant. Tol had no time to dispute every coin and trinket the pirates had purloined. He said as much, and most of the remaining captains looked relieved.

“And the galley slaves?” the half-elf asked.

The wretched captives chained to the oars of the pirate ships were not criminals or prisoners of war, but unfortunates taken on the high seas by the Blood Fleet, even as Tol’s party had been. That he could not countenance.

“All slaves must be freed,” Tol stated flatly. “If you accept the emperor’s charge and become officers in his navy, new rowers will be supplied from the prisons of Ergoth.”

On this point he would not bend, and another thirty-odd captains departed. More disputations on various points saw another two dozen pirates leave Thunderer.

To the one hundred or so remaining, Tol declared, “Welcome captains! You’ve made a wise decision.”

They would make landfall at Thorngoth just before dawn. Tol thanked the loyal masters and dismissed them – all but the half-elf.

The half-elf pirate was called to the sterncastle. He had a thin mustache and his black hair was cut short. Light gray eyes watched Tol warily. Tol asked his name.

“Wandervere, my lord, of the galleot Quarrel.”

After questioning the captain further about Quarrel’s capabilities, Tol revealed he wanted to ascend the Greenthorn River at Thorngoth and proceed inland via the canal that joined the river to the capital. A journey over water would be far swifter than galloping on horseback the thirty-eight leagues from the coast to Daltigoth. Amused by Tol’s bold suggestion, Wandervere agreed.

Thunderer got under way again, oars rising and dipping in time to the great drumbeat. Before turning in for the night, Tol went below for the first time and addressed the rowers. As soon as they reached imperial territory, he told them, all slaves would be freed. Hundreds of gaunt, haggard faces stared at him without reaction, unable to believe his words. The rhythm of rowing was lost, and the galley wallowed to a stop. Tol repeated his promise.

From a rear bench a hoarse voice cried, “May the gods bless Lord Tolandruth!” A surprisingly strong cheer rose from the exhausted slaves.

Tol ordered water and extra rations for the slaves and returned to the deck. On the stair, he met Wandervere.

“You’re not just a good man with a sword, I see,” the half-elf commented, and there was no mockery in his gray eyes. “You know how to lead men. Those rowers will need no lash to spur them tonight. They’re rowing to freedom.”

The last of the loyal captains departed. From Thunderer’s stern windows Tol watched the lamps on the bows of the pirate ships turn away. He passed the night alone in Xanka’s broad bed. Dralie and Inika slept in the outer cabin with his comrades.

Some of the captains had a change of heart during the night. By the next morning, only sixty-six ships still followed in Thunderer’s wake.

*

Before dawn, squalls of rain lashed the bay. The heavy elevener pitched and rolled in the shallow waters off Thorngoth’s guardian fortress. Makeshift imperial banners whipped from the masthead, but in the swirling rain, Tol wasn’t sure anyone on shore could see them.

Thunderer crept ahead. The rest of the pirate fleet trailed behind in a wedge formation. High and dark, the stone walls of the fortress were forbidding in the grayish light.

“Steady,” Tol said. “Let them see our flags.”

“Oarmaster, eight beats!” Faerlac called out. The tempo of the rowing slowed.

The thin sound of a brass trumpet carried across the water – the call to assemble for battle.

“’Ware off!” Tol said, voice taut.

Even as he spoke, there was a thump, and a flaming missile arced up from the dark battlements. Frez scoffed. No catapult in the world could reach them this far.

A blazing javelin two paces long hit the water amidships and sizzled out, putting the lie to Frez’s confidence.

“They can’t see our colors,” Tol said. “I’ll have to go ashore. Prepare a small boat.”

“In this weather, my lord?” Darpo protested, holding a rail to keep his balance.

“No one need go with me.”

“Someone has to man the boat,” Faerlac said. “I’ll go.”

Stung by the bosun’s courage, Darpo and Frez volunteered immediately. Fortunately, the Dom-shu sisters were still sleeping; Tol knew they would have volunteered to go as well, and there wasn’t room for everyone.

As a yawl was prepared, more catapult shots whizzed toward them. Tol ordered the fleet to draw off out of range and await his signal, once he’d apprised the garrison of the true situation.

No sooner had Darpo and Faerlac raised the yawl’s single sail than a torrent of rain lashed over them. The small boat drove away from the towering side of Thunderer, and the galley was quickly obscured by mist and rain.

“Make for the quay below the sally port!” Tol shouted to Faerlac, at the tiller. Eyes slitted against the driving rain, the bosun nodded.

The wind shifted several times, buffeting the small craft mercilessly. The yawl was pushed toward the sandbar that shielded the mouth of the river then driven back out to sea again.

“Crazy wind!” Frez exclaimed.

Faerlac and Darpo, who both knew the sea, agreed. Could it be more of the evil magic that was stalking Tol? Nervously, he touched the concealed millstone.

Although Faerlac worked the tiller back and forth like an oar, trying to hold a course for shore, they could make no headway. The yawl spun, throwing everyone to the sides. Like a leaf in a whirlpool, the small boat flew out of control.

With a loud crack, the mast snapped and fell across the port side. The canvas sheet and lines closed over Frez. Trailing in the foaming sea, the sail dragged the boat to a stop. Water began pouring in over the side.

Darpo and Tol attacked the snarl of lines with their knives. In the stern, Faerlac held on grimly to the tiller, trying in vain to counteract the drag of the fallen mast. Frez flailed beneath the sail.

The yawl lurched suddenly, starboard side rising. Darpo lost his footing and pitched headfirst into the sea. Tol was tossed over the boat’s ribs into the tangle of sail and rigging. A strong wave hit the high side of the yawl and rolled it completely over. The last thing Tol saw before they capsized was Faerlac, now lifted high above his head and still clinging to the tiller.

All was green-black seawater and rushing bubbles. Tol’s right hand and foot were caught in the battered rigging. As the boat settled, he could feel himself being dragged down. He still had his dagger, so he hacked at the clinging lines.

He managed to free his hand, but his ankle was still trapped. Flickers of lightning briefly highlighted his underwater struggle, then even that light was lost as he continued to sink. Heart hammering, lungs burning, he felt the water grow colder and colder. His numb fingers lost their grip on the dagger. The ornate blade, gift of Crown Prince Amaltar, vanished into the depths. Hope seemed to drain away with the sinking weapon. The darkness was absolute.

Darpo had nearly given up hope when his questing hands closed around Tol’s leg. The former sailor swiftly felt his way down to the snarl of lines and sawed through them with his knife. Looping an arm around Tol’s chest, Darpo kicked hard for the surface.

When they broke through, both men gasped for air.

“My lord! My lord, are you all right?”

The white scar on the other man’s face stood out in the gloom and Tol recognized his rescuer. He was coughing so hard he could not reply, so Darpo headed for shore, towing him behind.

Their toes touched bottom. His breathing easier at last, Tol pulled free of Darpo’s arm. The two of them slogged ashore and fell, exhausted and gasping, on the mud.

They could see the pirate fleet rising and falling with the onshore swell. Between the ships and shore, however, was a distinct and separate squall, hovering off the mouth of the river. Lightning flashed in a circle of clouds above the swirling, lashing veils of rain. Outside the squall it was not raining at all, though the wind was up. As Tol had suspected, this was no natural storm.

The sharp prow of a ship drove through the wall of rain. A galleot, bow ablaze with half a dozen lanterns, emerged into the clear. Sailors lined the rails. They threw a line to a swimming figure. Backing oars on one side, the galleot swung round, presenting its starboard side to shore. A voice, amplified by a megaphone, shouted, “Aloo! Aloo! Can anyone hear me? Lord Tolandruth?”

Tol and Darpo scrambled to their feet, waving and shouting. The galleot swung toward them, oars churning. The light craft drove straight onto the mud, beaching itself. Unlike other sharp-hulled craft, the galleot’s bottom was flat and shallow.

Once aground, sailors dropped over the side and carried lines from ship to shore. They drove large stakes into the mud and tied the galleot fast. The oars were run in. Rope ladders clattered over the side.

Wandervere strode through the surf. He was backed by armed pirates, swords drawn. For an instant Tol thought Wandervere meant to slay him and claim control of the remnants of the Blood Fleet, but as the half-elf pirate reached Tol, he sheathed his cutlass.

“My lord! I am pleased to see you!”

Wearily Tol offered his arm. Wandervere clasped it.

“Queer business, eh?” said the pirate captain, looking back at the squall, now gradually dissipating. “Never saw a blow like that stay in one spot so long.”

“Neither have I. Did you find Frez and Faerlac?”

“We pulled the bosun from the sea, but no one else.”

Horrified, Tol pushed past him and ran to the water’s edge. He called Frez’s name over and over, but received no answer except wind and waves. He started forward into the surf, but strong hands restrained him.

“No, my lord!” Wandervere said, as two sailors held Tol. “He is lost! You can’t save him now!”

Tol jerked free but made no move toward the waves. Instead, he stared out at the sea, shaking with sorrow and guilt. Frez’s death was his fault. It was a fool notion to go ashore in a small boat. He’d hoped to save lives by preventing a battle between the imperial garrison and the loyal pirates, and the effort had cost the life of one of his best, bravest men.

Sorrow melted into rage. No, Frez’s death was not his fault, not any more than Felryn’s had been or the deaths of the two soldiers at Golden House. The hand of an unseen enemy bore the stain of his comrades’ blood. It was on that shadowy figure that all the guilt lay.

“You’ll pay for this, I swear it!” Tol shouted into the sky.

Before Wandervere could ask what he meant, the thunder of approaching hoofbeats caught their attention. A troop of riders was galloping over the mudflats with sabers drawn.

The pirates formed a tight circle around Wandervere and Tol, facing the mounted men. They were soon surrounded by riders.

Mastering his anger, Tol said to the pirates, “Now is the time to be calm. Make no sudden moves!”

He stepped through the ranks of anxious sailors. Surveying the imperial horsemen, he said in a loud, commanding voice, “Who leads this troop? Where is your officer?”

A rider in a rain-slicked mantle broke out of line, and rode to Tol. “You brigands wish to surrender?” he said haughtily.

Tol announced who he was and why he had come, adding, “These men, and all the men in the ships you see offshore, have volunteered to serve the empire. For this I have offered them a pardon in the emperor’s name. Who is governor here?”

The young officer, Vanjian, was over his head. He knew the name of Lord Tolandruth – everyone in Ergoth did – but couldn’t equate the illustrious general of legend with the sodden, rag-clad man before him. Still, the question was easy enough to answer.

“Lord Tremond is Marshal of the Coastal Hundred,” he replied.

“Good! I know Tremond well. Take us to him at once!”

Vanjian was torn. Pirates would hardly tell such a fantastic story – it must he a ruse to introduce armed men into the citadel, yet, if this man was indeed Lord Tolandruth —

Backing his horse in a tight half-circle, Vanjian said, “I will take you to Lord Tremond, but you must lay down your arms first.”

Grumbling among Wandervere’s men boded ill until their captain stepped forward, unbuckled his sword belt, and handed it to the Ergothian commander. One by one, unhappy but compliant, his sailors followed suit.

“You have faith,” Tol said in a low voice when Wandervere took his place at his side.

The half-elf gave him a sidelong look. “The word of Lord Tolandruth must be worth something,” he replied, gray eyes amused.

With Darpo on one side and Wandervere on the other, Tol led the former pirates into Thorngoth. Lord Tremond met them in the outer bailey of his fortress.

Life in the fortress agreed with Tremond; he had gained weight since Tol had seen him last in Daltigoth. Blond, clean-shaven, and now in his forty-first year, he once more deserved his reputation as the handsomest man in the empire. When he recognized the muddy, bedraggled figure before him, he burst out laughing.

“Oh, for a portrait of this scene, that I could preserve your look forever!” he said, guffawing.

“Still plucking your beard, I see, Tremond,” Tol replied. It was his usual jab. Women plucked hairs from their faces; priests shaved. Most warriors sported full beards.

Good-natured jibes exchanged, Tol explained about the pirates. The marshal’s mirth vanished. Astonishment bloomed on his face.

“You captured the entire Blood Fleet single-handed?” he exclaimed.

Tol denied it and repeated what he’d said, about besting Xanka in a duel, but his words were lost in a welter of exclamations from the assembled soldiers: Lord Tolandruth had captured an entire fleet of pirates! The heads of half a dozen pirate chiefs decorated the bow of his ship!

“Tremond, will you stand by the terms I offered these men?” Tol said loudly, over the tumult. He gestured toward Wandervere and his crew.

“How could I break the word of Lord Tolandruth?” Tremond raised his dagger in salute. “Welcome, men of the Imperial Ergothian Navy!”

Dazed by the success of Tol’s gambit, the pirates stared at each other and at the crowd around them. Tol 4aluted them with an empty hand since his dagger was at the bottom of the bay.

“Welcome to the empire!” he said. “Serve it well, and you shall always have a home.”

Chapter 8

WHAT VISIONS COME

When the weather cleared, the pirate ships passed by the fort and anchored in the estuary of the Thorn River. Freshly bathed and barbered, Tol stood on the battlements of the citadel and watched the ships nose in to shore and drop anchor.

Flanking Tol were enormous throwing machines, the likes of which he’d never seen before. Tremond said they were the work of an engineer named Elicarno, who’d come down from Daltigoth to install them. Two stout spars, each thrust into its own skein of cords, were mounted horizontally on a frame like a bow laid on its side. A windlass drew back a bowstring as thick as Tol’s wrist, on a sliding wooden tray. The bowstring was secured by an iron ratchet. The ratchet was released by a simple trigger, a length of lanyard. Once the bowstring was drawn back, a huge arrow – some six feet in length and half as thick as the bowstring – was placed in the tray to launch. The whole contraption was mounted on a timber pedestal, heavy but so precisely balanced two men could swing the device from side to side or up and down to aim it. Impressed, Tol asked, “How far can it throw?” Tremond shrugged. He cared little for anything but women, food, and face-to-face combat from horseback. “Ignoble devices, if you ask me,” he said. “Not worthy of a warrior at all. Still, they’re useful for dealing with hostile ships, I suppose.”

Before leaving the citadel, Tol met the maker of the remarkable catapults. Elicarno was dressed in a very plain, short-sleeved tunic of tan canvas. He had a shock of curly Mack hair and smudges of soot on his face. A pair of long scrolls were tucked under one arm. Earnestly, he lectured a member of Tremond’s garrison.

“The skeins have to be tightened daily – daily, do you understand? The sea air will slacken them in no time. You won’t be able to hit the ocean with a hambone if the skeins are slack!”

The gray-haired Ergothian listening to him rolled his eyes but nodded.

When Tol was introduced, Elicarno barely acknowledged him as he finished his instructions. Alone among the inhabitants of Thorngoth he did not seem to know or care who Lord Tolandruth was. To the busy engineer, Tolandruth of Juramona was merely yet another arrogant, ignorant warlord. When Elicarno finished speaking, Tol repeated his greeting. The engineer only grunted hello and walked away, studying the scroll spread wide in his hands.

The last pirate vessel, the great Thunderer, crept up the channel past the fortress. From this height, Tol could see crew members moving on deck. The beat of the oarmaster’s drum reached his ears.

Tol made ready to depart. Tremond had assured him he would carry out Tol’s plans regarding the pirate fleet. The Marshal of the Coastal Hundred, though not the brightest ember on the hearth, was honest and reliable.

“Don’t worry, Tolandruth,” Tremond had said. “I won’t have any trouble with these rogues. They’ll obey, or I’ll hang the lot of them.”

Tol suggested he take it easy on the pirates at first. “They’re not used to discipline, so don’t expect them to behave like imperial soldiers,” he said. “If this scheme works, we’ll have the beginnings of a real navy, and the Tarsans will think twice about raiding our shores again.”

In the courtyard below the battlements Darpo and the half-elf captain, Wandervere, were waiting for Tol.

“The fleet is anchored,” Tol reported, as he and Tremond entered the courtyard. “Before we bring the men ashore, there are some dispositions to be made.” He looked his old comrade in the eye. “Darpo, you will remain in Thorngoth after I depart.”

“But, my lord —!”

Tol held up a hand. “You must. You are now in command of the first fleet of the Imperial Navy.”

Darpo was thunderstruck. He struggled for words, finally exclaiming, “My lord, I’m not worthy of such a high command!”

“Nonsense. You’ve been a warrior for twenty years, and before that you were a sailor.”

“I’m not a Rider of the Great Horde —”

“What does a horseman know of ships?” Tol scoffed, and clapped his scar-faced friend on the shoulder. “You’re the man for the job, Darpo. We need an Ergothian in command. When I see the emperor, I’ll ask him to confirm your appointment. As for rank —” He thought a moment. “A fleet commander is an admiral, like Anovenax of Tarsis. You are now Admiral Darpo!”

Tol saluted. His friend returned the gesture, embarrassed but visibly pleased.

More than military expediency motivated Tol’s actions. Since leaving Tarsis, he had lost two old and valued friends to murderous magical attacks. He had no intention of losing any more. Making Darpo admiral of the new Ergothian fleet was a wise and proper decision – it was also a way to steer him out of harm’s way. The more difficult task would be trying to do likewise with the Dom-shu sisters,;

The waterfront was jammed with onlookers. Idle fishermen, boatmen, carpenters, sailmakers, sutlers, and merchants crowded the narrow streets of Thorngoth, curious and expectant. Word of the approaching pirate ships had first frightened the town. When the news spread that Lord Tolandruth had tamed the Blood Fleet, the crowd gathered to see the famous warlord as well as the fearsome pirates.

With an escort of forty spearmen, Tol, Darpo, and Wandervere marched down to the quay. The pirates had not come off their ships yet. The crowd on the waterfront spooked them. None of them was eager to step off a gangplank into what might prove to be a lynch mob.

Wandervere’s crew from the galleot Quarrel stood on the quay, awaiting their captain’s return. Seeing him with the Ergothians, they lined up on the dock in rough but regular order. Tol halted the escort and signaled to the carter who had been trailing them since they left the fortress.

“Captain, here are your men’s swords. Take them and the imperial cloaks that go with them.”

Quarrel’s crew broke ranks and helped themselves to the cutlasses piled in the dray. The scarlet cloaks around their necks didn’t make them look any more soldierly, but they did help reassure the former pirates that the promised amnesty was truly happening.

Aboard Thunderer, Tol, Darpo, and Wandervere were greeted by Faerlac. Behind the bosun stood Kiya and Miya, plainly unhappy they’d been left behind that morning. Dralie and Inika, dressed in their best finery, were present as well and eager to be off the galley.

Tol faced the former pirates. “Welcome to Ergoth! I have conferred With Marshal Tremond, and he will honor our agreement. No punishment will fall on you, so long as you don’t commit any fresh offenses. All officers will remain in command of their respective vessels.”

“Who will command Thunderer?” asked Faerlac.

“Darpo has been appointed admiral of the fleet. You will take your orders from him. Now take the crew ashore, Faerlac. Give them the liberty of the town.”

The sailors raised a happy shout and rushed forward, engulfing their commanders. After a few moments of joyous mayhem, Darpo shouted for order. The ex-pirates quieted a little and filed down the gangplanks, dirty and ragged, but delighted with the sudden change in their fortunes. Many had spent years aboard ship, haunting random islands in the gulf, never daring to set foot in any civilized port. To them, the outpost of Thorngoth beckoned with all the glamour of the imperial capital.

Inika and Dralie sought out Tol. The younger woman was dressed in unrelieved white – low boots, leggings, and doublet. Dralie wore another gauzy creation, this one the color of old gold coins but shot through with metallic threads in a rainbow of colors. Both women moved in an invisible cloud of perfume.

Inika said, “My lord, what’s to become of us?”

“Only the gods know, lady,” Tol replied, smiling. “You have your freedom. Make of it what you will.”

Inika’s eyes were troubled, but Dralie’s expression was serene as she swept past, the hem of her sparkly gown scraping the deck.

“I would ask the gods to bless you, Tolandruth of Juramona, but I perceive they already have,” she said. “Farewell.”

Tol bowed. To Inika, still lingering, he said, “If you have trouble, lady, you may apply to Lord Tremond. He’s Marshal of the Coastal Hundred, and my comrade in arms. He will do right by you.”

Somewhat reassured, Inika departed.

The vast deck of the elevener was empty now, save for Darpo, Wandervere, Tol, and the Dom-shu sisters. Tol charged the new admiral of the fleet with freeing the slave rowers and dividing Xanka’s treasure among them. The sixty-odd ships held close to a thousand slaves, but there was booty enough for all of them.

Darpo went down the gangplank. On the quay, he mustered the waiting spearmen and led them back aboard. Soon Tol could hear the sound of chisels cutting chains belowdeck on Thunderer.

Wandervere had watched these events with a bemused expression. “You have a marked habit for making things happen,” he said wryly. “I shall miss your company, my lord.”

“No need to miss me yet. You’re taking me upriver to Daltigoth.”

Quarrel’s draft would permit it to ascend the Thorn River and ply the canal to the capital, but Wandervere raised a salient point. They no longer had any rowers.

Tol shrugged. “Hire some. There are enough strong, willing, and idle arms in this town to man your oars.”

Wandervere left to make ready for the journey, and Tol was alone with Kiya and Miya.

Their frustration was palpable in the extended silence. “Speak, before you burst!” he finally said.

“How could you leave us behind?” Miya erupted. “There we were, sleeping in that stifling hole of a cabin while you nearly got yourself drowned!”

In a quieter tone, but no less angry, Kiya agreed. “It wasn’t right, husband. Our place is by your side, wherever you go.”

“No longer.”

His calm words brought forth strong objections from both women. Tol let them vent their feelings, then related his concern about an assassin with magical powers.

“Pah! You do not fear magic,” said Miya. “The gods protect you from sorcery. We know it!”

He frowned and told her to lower her voice. “It’s not myself I fear for,” he added. “I lost two old friends on the trail here. I won’t lose any more – especially not you two.”

At that, Miya did something Tol had never seen her do: she began to cry. Seeing her brown eyes fill with tears, he was moved, but Kiya, regarding him sourly, snorted.

“We are your given wives,” Kiya said, folding her strong arms. “That we do not act as wives has been best for all of us. We’re also hostages to the good behavior of our tribe. We’ve long known that. Our lawful place is with you. We have given up much to live with our bargain.” That was true enough, he knew. Kiya continued. “We faced the beast XimXim with you. For nigh on sixteen years and countless battles, Miya and I have never left your side for more than a few marks, and we’ll not leave you now.”

Her declaration made Tol realize anew how much he valued his sisterly forester companions? With his parents and sisters gone the gods knew where, Kiya and Miya were his family. That realization only hardened his resolve not to be the cause of their deaths.

Sternly he said, “This is not a debate! We’ve always granted each other the liberty to speak and do as each of us wills, but not this time! Though we are good …” He groped for an appropriate word. “… comrades, the time has come for you to obey me. You will both remain in Thorngoth, even if I have to ask Tremond to hold you in the fortress!”

The volume of this forceful declaration temporarily quieted the quay around them. He regarded them with a ferocious scowl as the usual noises slowly resumed.

Miya said, “No, we’ll follow you.”

Only his discipline as a soldier kept Tol from stomping a foot in frustration. “You will not!” he repeated. “Get this through your thick forester skulls! I forbid you to accompany me to Daltigoth! Once I’ve settled this business of the assassin, I’ll send for you, but not before!”

The air fairly crackled with tension. Miya looked miserably at her sister, tears still trailing down her cheeks. Kiya glared at Tol. He glared hack.

At last the blonde warrior woman unfolded her arms and said, “Come, Sister.” She brushed past Tol and started down the gangplank. When Miya didn’t move, Kiya repeated her words sharply.

“But —!” Miya began.

Kiya whirled and stalked away. Tol turned a shoulder to Miya’s accusing, unhappy eyes, and the younger Dom-shu finally followed her sister to the quay.

The unaccustomed harshness left a bitter taste in Tol’s mouth. Far more bitter would it be if he were the agent of their deaths.

*

Quarrel was to sail at sunset that very day. A single cask of treasure was transferred from Xanka’s store to the galleot. Life in the imperial capital was expensive. To make an appearance required gold and plenty of it. Tremond provided two horses, armor, and provisions for the journey. He offered a contingent of troops, but Tol declined. Quarrel was a small craft, and such a heavy load would slow her greatly.

The lowering sun was painting the broad, sea-bound sky in shades of scarlet when Tol sprinted up the gangplank to the galleot’s foredeck. Wandervere, newly scrubbed and wearing fine raiment, greeted him.

“We’ve two rowers per oar, plus reliefs,” the half-elf reported, “and I had to turn away a dozen others who wanted to sign on.”

He bawled commands to his crew, and they cast off. Sailors poled the galleot away from the quay. The pointed prow caught the current.

The order was given to run out oars. Ten long sweeps protruded from each side of the boat. They hung, poised in the air, until Wandervere cried, “Drop oars! Make twenty beats!”

The oarmaster set the rhythm as ordered, and Quarrel pulled smoothly away from shore. Brown water curled back from the galleot’s ram. Fishing boats and other small craft scurried out of the way.

Lanterns at the bow and stern were lit. The sun was setting upriver. Thorngoth, lying low on the muddy banks of the river, seemed all brass and fire, painted by the dying light of day. Tol had said farewell to Darpo at the citadel, but hadn’t seen Kiya or Miya since they’d stormed off Thunderer. He imagined they were sulking somewhere.

Although small compared to Thunderer, among the river craft Quarrel seemed a giant. The sight of the long, rakish galleot sweeping past was enough to send lesser boats scurrying for the banks, their boatmen gaping in astonishment. Tol had borrowed an imperial banner from Tremond. The oversized flag, meant to wave from the battlements of the citadel, hung halfway down Quarrel’s mast and flopped in the slight breeze.

The country above Thorngoth was quite different from other parts of the empire. Tol’s homeland – the hills and plains around Juramona – was wild and largely unsettled. The north country, up to the borders of Hylo, was famed for its timber and cattle. The belt between Caergoth and the capital was covered by rich farmland and walled towns, and Tol had passed through the forests of Ropunt and the Great Green.

The Thorn River delta was low and damp, riddled with tributaries large and small which splintered off the main channel, seeking the sea. Quarrel kept to the deepest part of the river. As daylight waned and the stars winked into sight overhead, the river country came to life. Clouds of water birds whirled into the air, screeching. A mighty chorus of frogs sang in the shadows, their bass voices harmonizing with the high-pitched whirring of cicadas in the trees. The darker it got, the noisier the river grew.

Wandervere, too, was a stranger to the area. In fact, he reported, he’d never been more than a league inland in his life.

They dined on the quarterdeck under a canopy of stars. Quarrel maintained a steady pace of twenty beats, even during the changeover when the first rowers were relieved by a second set. At this rate, they would reach the fork in the river around daybreak. The eastern branch was navigable only to the foothills of the Aegis Mountains, the narrow range of peaks that shielded Daltigoth on the west. Ordinarily, Tol would have disembarked there and ridden the rest of the way to the capital, but a canal had been cut through the mountains. It connected the upper Thorn to the Dalti River. If the maps from Lord Tremond’s library were accurate, Quarrel should be able to drop anchor in the heart of Daltigoth’s canal district.

Before turning in, Tol warned Wandervere of the possibility of attack from his nameless enemy. He explained briefly the unnatural perils his party had faced on the journey from Tarsis.

To his credit, Wandervere remained unmoved, merely remarking, “I thought that squall before the river mouth was strange.”

“This enemy of mine may strike again at any time. We must be on constant watch.”

Wandervere showed his neat white teeth. “Vigilance will be maintained, my lord. We’re pirates, after all. Our lives and livelihood have long depended on sharp eyes and keen senses.”

Reassured, Tol went below to the small stern cabin and slept better than he had in days. The only thing that disturbed his rest was an odd dream; he thought he heard Miya’s voice, bargaining hard for a jug of cider. It seemed so real he got up and checked the passage outside the cabin. All he saw were the rowers, bending their backs to the oars.

He went back into the cabin and lay down again. He obviously missed his Dom-shu companions even more than he’d realized.

*

Barely a hint of dawn was showing in the eastern sky when Tol woke. He dressed and went up on deck. Wandervere was there, one arm draped over the tiller, a floppy hat on his head. The galleot plowed along, still at a steady twenty beats per measure.

The half-elf pushed his hat back and hailed his august passenger. Tol asked if he’d been on duty all night.

“Many sailors boast they can guide a ship in their sleep,” Wandervere replied. “I actually can.”

Tol couldn’t decide whether he was joking or not; the half-elf’s expression seemed serious enough.

They had left the swampy delta country behind. On both sides of the smooth, silver river was a great forest, the trees beginning at the very shoreline. This was the wilderness of Hardtree, in ancient times a haven for dragons, centaurs, and other non-humans. The wars of Ackal Ergot and his successors had purged the forest of most of these inhabitants, but rumor had it some still lingered. Peering into the dark ranks of trees, Tol found it easy to imagine all sorts of creatures lurking within those shadows.

The river was broad and slow here. The galleot had the water to itself. River boatmen habitually tied up for the night, and none were stirring yet. Aside from a few sailors dozing, Quarrel’s deck was as quiet as a farmyard in the gray predawn light.

Tol had been surveying the eastern shore, off their starboard rail. When he turned toward the bow, he saw something that brought his hand to the hilt of his sword.

“Who is that?” he hissed. “There, on the bowsprit!”

Wandervere straightened and looked where he pointed. Sure enough, a gray-wrapped figure stood far out on the bowsprit, although the spar was a simple pole no thicker than the calf of a man’s leg.

The half-elf whispered, “No hand of mine could stand on the’sprit like that!”

Drawing his saber, Tol rushed to the bow. Quarrel was flush-decked, so there were no steps to climb. A few paces from the bowsprit he halted.

“Come down from there!”

The apparition did not respond. Tol had an impression of two shining eyes staring out at him from under a loose-fitting gray cowl. He repeated his demand, but still the stranger did not comply.

Gould this be yet another attempt on his life by his unknown foe? The thought filled Tol with fury and he rushed at the phantom.

“My lord, take care!” Wandervere called.

At the foot of the bowsprit Tol sheathed his sword. Turning, he made his way out along the narrow spar, sliding his hare feet sideways. The closer he got, the stronger grew the sensation the apparition was watching him, waiting for him.

The river was calm enough, but the forward motion of the galleot caused the bow to dip and rise in time with each stroke of the oars. It took a great deal of concentration for Tol to keep his balance. The stranger seemed to hold his place effortlessly.

A pace away from the figure, Tol halted. “Who are you? Why do you plague me?” Silence was his only answer. The slight breeze that dried the sweat on his neck did not ruffle the watcher’s dark cloak.

Tol’s temper snapped. “Very well! I have an answer for you!”

He drew his saber, managing to maintain his wobbly equilibrium. The flash of naked metal stirred the apparition at last. It raised its hands in a very ordinary way, as if to ward off the blade. The growing light of dawn showed Tol a strange detail: the phantom’s hands were different colors. One was pale, the other dark.

“Trouble me no more!” Tol cried and thrust Number Six at the stranger.

When the tip of his saber touched the apparition, the gray-cloaked figure vanished, completely and instantly. Off balance now, Tol lost his footing and pitched forward.

The bowsprit hit him in the chest and he rolled off one side. Clutching his sword in his right hand and the spar with his left arm and leg, Tol dangled above the galleot’s streaming bow wave. If he fell, the ship would plow him under, its ram cleaving him like a soft clod of earth.

He was wondering whether he’d have to drop Number Six when a voice called out, “Hold on! I’m coming!”

Someone shinnied out onto the bowsprit. Strong hands grasped his left thigh, then his sword belt, and Tol was dragged along the spar toward the ship.

“Give me the sword!”

He held his arm back, and the dwarf-forged blade was taken from him. Several pairs of hands grasped his jerkin and hauled him roughly to safety. Sprawled on his back on the damp deck, Tol finally saw the faces of his rescuers.

Miya was breathing hard from her exertions. Standing beside her, still holding Miya’s belt, was Kiya.

“How did you get here?” Tol demanded.

“There’s gratitude for you,” said Miya, giving her sister a disgusted look.

“We’ve been aboard the whole time,” Kiya told him. “We signed on as rowers.”

Wandervere joined them, and Tol got to his feet. Ignoring the captain, Tol glared at the Dom-shu. “You disobeyed me!”

“Aren’t you glad we did?” Miya grinned and slapped him on the back, staggering him.

There was no denying it, and trying to maintain his outrage was pointless. He hooked a hand behind each sister’s neck (having to reach up to do so) and gave them a hearty shake.

“Next time you disobey me, I’ll have you bound in irons,” he growled.

Miya laughed. Kiya did not. She knew he meant it.

“My lord,” Wandervere said. “The apparition – did you see its face?”

Tol hadn’t. He did not mention the mismatched hands. An odd detail like that might prove important, if the phantom crossed his path again.

*

Quarrel reached the Dalti Canal as the sun cleared the horizon. A hodgepodge of small craft was queued up to enter the waterway from the river. The canal was closed at night by a massive boom of timbers anchored on either shore. A stone roundhouse, manned by a contingent of territorial soldiers, guarded the boom. Tol was surprised to see the boom still blocking the way. The canal usually was opened promptly at dawn.

The galleot moved like a dragon among the barges and flat-boats. Boatmen frantically poled their craft out of the way. Wandervere backed oars, stopping the galleot’s ram just short of the boom. Trumpets blared, and the small garrison filled the battlements of the roundhouse.

Wandervere watched the Ergothians’ reaction with amusement. Had he wished, he could have charged the boom and broken it asunder. As it bobbed peacefully in the slight current, Quarrel’s friendly intentions should’ve seemed obvious.

Kiya was below, rowing, when they reached the canal. Miya, who was on a different rotation, was on deck with Tol.

Cupping hands to his mouth, Tol called, “Halloo! Captain of the guard!”

After some scrambling, an officer with a crest on his helmet appeared on the roundhouse parapet.

“Who are you?” he shouted. “What are your intentions?”

“This is Tolandruth of Juramona! I am summoned to the capital to attend upon the new emperor! Open the boom!”

The officer visibly started. “Lord. Tolandruth? Draco Paladin! Stand fast, my lord!”

Tol had little choice, short of ramming imperial property. With the blare of more horns, the garrison turned out on the stone quay below the little fort. The officer, followed by two aides, walked out on the catwalk that ran along the top of the boom. He halted below the prow of the ship and saluted briskly.

“It is you, my lord!” he exclaimed.

“Of course it is!” Miya said. “Who were you expecting? Pirates?”

The officer ignored her. “If my lord would come ashore, I shall explain!”

Though he chafed at any delay, Tol nodded. Wandervere’s sailors dropped a rope ladder over the bow and he climbed down to the catwalk on the boom. Miya followed.

The officer bowed. “My lord, my name is Nazik. You won’t remember me, but I served under Lord Urakan in Hylo. I was with you when we beat the Tarsans at Three Rose Creek.”

Tol did not recall him, but he extended a hand and clasped Nazik’s forearm. “Why is the canal still closed?” he said, bringing his host back to the matter at hand.

“Orders, my lord. All traffic heading for Daltigoth is to be thoroughly checked.”

“Checked for what?” asked Miya.

Nazik blinked. “Anything treacherous or seditious.”

Tol and Miya exchanged a quick glance. “There’s no cargo on Quarrel but my party,” Tol said. He gave a rapid account of his journey from Tarsis to Thorngoth, omitting completely the incident with the Blood Fleet, then asked, “May we proceed?”

Nazik snapped his ironclad feet together with a clank. “Certainly, my lord! My apologies for detaining you!”

“Never apologize for doing your duty.”

Tol returned to the galleot. Behind him, Nazik bawled for the boom to be opened.

The heavy timber structure moved slowly back. Great oiled ropes, as thick as a man’s thigh, slid over wooden tackle as the boom swung away from the ship. Wandervere called for a speed of eight beats, and Quarrel ghosted ahead. Its wake sent waves surging back among the waiting river craft.

While the half-elf tended to shipboard duties, Tol and Miya stood alone at the bow, watching the rich farmland of central Ergoth glide past them.

“Sounds like the new emperor is afraid of something,” Miya said.

“Amaltar was always afraid,” Tol replied in a low voice. “Assassins, poisoners, plotters – he kept me in Daltigoth for years to ward off imagined dangers.”

“Only imagined?” Miya had lived in Daltigoth long enough to know how full of intrigue were the lives of Ergoth’s rulers. Plots and counterplots were like meat and drink to them.

“A change of rulers is an especially dangerous time,” Tol admitted.

“Well, they can keep their crowns and palaces. Someday I will put this all behind me and live like a real human should, in the woodland of my ancestors.”

Her words surprised him. Sixteen years the Dom-shu sisters had been by his side, and not once had either of them expressed any desire to return to the Great Green. Miya was two years older than Tol, and Kiya three, and they always seemed to take each new experience in stride. Wonders that left Tol speechless barely turned their heads. To the tribes-women, everything outside their verdant home was equally strange and unnatural – whether it be the glories of Daltigoth, the splendors of wealthy Tarsis, or the terrors of the battlefield.

“Leaving any time soon?” he teased.

“Once you marry a real wife, you won’t need Sister and me around any more.”

“What real wife?”

“The one you truly love. Valaran.”

Hearing her name, and in such a matter-of-fact tone, was like a blow to the face. Tol turned away, pretending to stare at the passing scenery.

The vagaries of fate had made the Dom-shu sisters partners in his romance with Valaran, after she had married the crown prince. For the three years Tol had lived in the imperial capital, Kiya and Miya helped him keep his secret trysts with Valaran.

After a long pause, he said, “Valaran is an imperial wife. She is beyond my reach now.”

“Could she be the next empress?”

It wasn’t likely. Valaran wasn’t the highest born of Amaltar’s eight wives, nor was she his first wife. Tradition dictated the new emperor choose his first wife to be his empress. Failing that, he would designate the mother of his chosen successor.

That thought gave Tol a pang, equal parts pain and curiosity. He didn’t even know whether Valaran had children with Amaltar.

Being empress was certainly the highest of honors but not a pleasant life. The Empress of Ergoth lived in total seclusion. No one was allowed to see her save the Consorts’ Circle, some servants, and the emperor. Anyone else caught in her company could be arrested and executed.

This total seclusion had its roots in the time of the first emperor, Ackal Ergot. His empress, Balalana, had been the wife of one of his chief enemies, the Lord of the Western Hundred. Ackal killed his rival and took Balalana for himself. To insure his successor would be of his own blood, and to prevent her first husband’s supporters from using her to foment insurrection, he kept his empress in the heart of his ancient fortress, where she saw no man but him. Later, the isolation of the Empress of Ergoth became entwined with the worship of the goddess Mishas. The empress was titular high priestess of the important and popular cult of the goddess of healing, and her purity and honor were held to be sacred.

It seemed ridiculously complicated to Miya, but she approved of Ackal Ergot’s directness.

“If you love the woman and she loves you, just make her yours!” she said, and her pointed look told him she wasn’t speaking only of Ackal Ergot and Balalana.

Kiya appeared on deck, soaked with sweat. Miya went below to take her stint on the oar, and Kiya headed aft for a dipper of cool water.

Watching the green fields unfurl before the galleot’s prow, Tol pondered Miya’s words. Years ago, he had wanted to make Valaran his, but she had resisted. Her duty, she said, was to marry Amaltar and further the fortunes of her family. She didn’t love the prince, and he didn’t love her. Theirs was a family alliance, but one did not insult the honor of the imperial dynasty with impunity. If she’d refused his proposal, her entire family would’ve lost honor, and all their fortunes would have declined. Harsher emperors were known to murder or enslave the families of women who refused them.

Now, after a decade of silence from Daltigoth, Tol had no idea whether Valaran even remembered him, much less still loved him. Whatever his accomplishments, as a warrior and a general, he was no Ackal Ergot, to slay his lover’s husband and take her for his own.

Chapter 9

THE CHAMPION

Quarrel pressed into the heartland of the empire. At times the canal was so clogged with traffic the galleot could make no headway. Small boats, rafts, and barges loaded with produce, livestock, or trade goods plied the canal, all heading for Daltigoth. When Quarrel was forced to halt, Wandervere stood on the bow, shouting at the boatmen to clear the way, but there was nowhere for them to go, and the galleot languished.

The many bridges crossing the great canal also were obstacles to the tall, seagoing vessel. Sailors had to unstep both of the galleot’s masts in order to pass under the bridges. Even so, it was a close thing. At Raven’s Crossing, the arch of the span was so low, all on deck had to lie flat. The oars were run in, and Quarrel cleared the underside of the bridge by little more than two handspans. When the galleot emerged on the other side, travelers on shore gave a spontaneous cheer.

The day, which had started fair, darkened as they made their way slowly up the canal. A seemingly solid mass of gray clouds filled the sky from horizon to horizon. It became apparent they would not reach the city before nightfall.

Kiya suggested they raise the imperial flag, blow loud trumpets and bull their way through the congestion, plowing under any who failed to get out of the way. Wandervere declared himself willing – their agonizing progress was wearing on his nerves – but Tol ignored their frustrated discussion.

At dusk, the sun dipped below the ceiling of clouds for the first time since late morning, and golden light suffused the valley. The surface of the stagnant canal took on the sheen of molten gold. The land, which had been gray in the failing light, glowed anew. Rich green fields, harrowed straight as a mason’s rule, ran to the horizon, girded by bands of leafy trees. A flock of starlings circled the verdant fields. Tiny, sun-gilt figures of men and horses moved across the landscape.

Kiya and Tol stood at the rail. Wandervere joined them. “Merciful Phoenix,” the half-elf murmured. “Is this a vision?”

The highest towers in Daltigoth had appeared over the rolling valley floor. Sunlight flashed off pinnacles sheathed in purest gold.

The great height of the towers was deceptive. Daltigoth seemed near but in fact was still many leagues away. At its present pace, Quarrel would not reach the capital until long after dark.

Kiya was still chafing at their maddeningly slow pace. To take her mind off it, she asked Wandervere how he’d become a pirate.

The half-elf’s gray eyes remained on the stirring vista ahead. Folding his arms across his chest, he said, “While I was working as a raw hand on a coastal trader, I was captured by Xanka. The pirates were short handed, so after they murdered our officers they offered us common sailors a choice: join them or be fish food.”

“Hard decision,” snorted Kiya.

Wandervere shrugged. “I had no liking for the masters of my old ship. They were brutal wretches, beating us at every turn. I accepted Xanka’s offer, and it was a good life, for a time. We roamed the sea, free as fish, taking what we wanted. We had to duck the Tarsan Navy now and then, but while Ergoth and Tarsis were at war, we had a golden time.”

“You’ll miss the freedom,” Kiya said, an odd lilt in her voice.

“No, those days are done. Xanka had grown fat, foolish, and cruel. The war was over, so the Tarsan fleet would soon return to sweep the Blood Fleet back into the crevices again. Lord Tolandruth’s coming was the best answer to my problem – what to do when buccaneering had lost its allure.”

The throng of boats on the canal thinned at last. Wandervere called for four beats. Quarrel stirred ahead.

Golden splendor turned murky as the sun dipped below the horizon. Gray dusk claimed the land. The distant towers of Daltigoth were swallowed by the gathering darkness, but Tol knew they were there, waiting for him.

He and the pirate captain were not so different. Wandervere had forsaken the toilsome life of a deckhand for piracy. Tol had given up the struggle of farming to bear arms for the empire. Had he lived near the coast, he might have done as Wandervere had. The twists and turns his life had taken were startling to contemplate. From a muddy onion field to the halls of the imperial palace; from the Golden House in Tarsis to the deck of a pirate galley! Every step in between, no matter how small, was fateful. There was no knowing where his future path might lead.

He turned away to say something to his comrades and discovered he was alone. Sunset over, Kiya and the captain had left the bow.

*

After midnight, Quarrel reached the walls of Daltigoth. Guards on the barbican overlooking the waterway rubbed their eyes in astonishment as the seagoing ship emerged from the darkness. The canal was clear of small craft at last, but the channel had narrowed greatly, to the point where the oars on either beam barely cleared the stone causeways lining the shores.

Wandervere called, “Backwater.”

The rowers, seated facing aft, dropped their oars, then pushed them toward the stern to slow the galleot’s progress. At the proper time, the oars were drawn into the ship. Smooth as glass, Quarrel gently drew up to the canal master’s quay.

An officer, eyes still bleary with sleep, stumbled out of the barbican gate. Behind him trooped several dozen city guards. Tol was interested to see they formed a neat phalanx behind their commander – the very formation he’d taught the city’s soldiers years earlier.

“What in the name of bloody Chaos is this?” inquired the officer, staring up at the overhanging prow of the galleot.

“The good ship Quarrel, of the Imperial Ergothian Navy!” Wandervere called back cheerfully.

“There’s no such thing!” the officer snapped.

Tol, richly attired in regalia borrowed from Lord Tremond, appeared on deck beside the captain. “There is now, soldier. I am Tolandruth of Juramona, come from Tarsis to attend upon the new emperor.”

Even in the wavering torchlight, the paling of the officer’s face was obvious. “My lord!” he cried, drawing himself up and saluting quickly. “We heard rumors of your coming!”

“I would enter the city,” Tol replied. “Open the gate.”

The officer hastened to obey. With much shouting and gesturing, the heavy gates blocking the canal were opened. Their motion generated a slight swell in the water, setting Quarrel to rocking.

“Send word to the palace I have come,” Tol called down, easily maintaining his balance after so long aboard ship. “Does The Bargeman’s Rest still stand?” Assured it did, he said, “I shall be there awaiting the emperor’s command.”

Quarrel crawled forward at one beat. The soldiers on the quay raised their spears in tribute as Tol passed, and their commander shouted, “Corij be with you, my lord! We are strengthened, now that you are here!”

The bowl-shaped canal harbor within the walls of Daltigoth offered just enough room for the galleot to turn about. Wandervere nosed his ship up to the dock Tol indicated, and lines were dropped. Nimble sailors leaped overboard and tied Quarrel to the stone-paved pier.

Miya and Kiya came up on deck. All the rowers left the hold and filled the waist of the ship, curious to see the empire’s greatest city.

Rising in tiers above the canal basin, Daltigoth by night resembled a heap of coals scattered with jewels. Thousands of windows winked with interior light, and thousands more were shuttered and dark. Massive villas, opulent private residences, temples, and towers thrust up into the cloud-capped sky, shadowing the lesser buildings below them. The streets were never completely devoid of traffic, even at this time of night, and from the galleot’s deck they could hear carts rolling, horses clip-clopping along, dogs barking, and the shouts of late revelers.

Behind Tol, a rower hired in Thorngoth uttered a heartfelt oath. “Who knew there were so many people in the world?” he said.

The Dom-shu sisters snorted, but Tol smiled. That had been his own reaction the first time he’d laid eyes on the capital of the Ergoth Empire.

While the crew worked to run out a gangplank, Wandervere sought out Tol.

“Now we are here, my lord, what shall I do?”

“Return to Thorngoth and report to Admiral Darpo for new duties.” Extending a hand, he thanked Wandervere for their safe passage.

The former pirate clasped his arm and grinned. “No one will believe I sailed a pirate ship into the heart of Ergoth!”

“It is an age of wonders. What we dare, we can do.”

Followed by sailors and awestruck rowers, Tol and the Dom-shu sisters descended the gangplank to shore. Once on the pier, Miya stomped her feet.

“Solid ground at last!” With a yawn, she added, “I’m for bed!”

They roused the innkeeper of The Bargeman’s Rest, who gaped at the enormous vessel tied up outside his establishment. When he learned the identity of his guest, he nearly fell over himself ushering Tol inside. He assured Tol that, although the inn was full, he would gladly turn out the lodgers from his best room, but Tol said pallets in the common room would be good enough.

Kiya and Miya set down the heavy chest they’d been carrying between them. It was the small cask of Xanka’s treasure that Tol had confiscated for his own use.

The innkeeper and four lackeys cleared space before the bar and spread furs and quilts on the flagstone floor. The sisters, tired from rowing, lay down one on each side of the chest and promptly went to sleep.

Tol removed his helmet, cloak, and breastplate. The innkeeper presented him with a brimming mug of beer.

“Welcome home, my lord,” said the master of The Bargeman’s Rest, beaming from ear to ear. “Now you are here, all will be right!”

Tol was almost asleep before the implications of those words struck him. What was not right in Daltigoth?

*

Kiya awoke with the sound of the sea still in her ears. Although they were no longer on the pirate ship, she could hear a loud wash of noise, rising and falling like the surf against the shore. The common room of The Bargeman’s Rest was already light. Miya was still asleep, but Tol’s eyes opened even as Kiya sat up.

He obviously heard the strange noise, too. He looked questioningly at her, but she could only shrug. They both spotted the innkeeper and two of his servants hovering by the shuttered front windows. Tol rose and came up behind them.

“What is it?” he asked.

The innkeeper jumped and nearly fainted from fright. “My lord!” he gasped, bracing one pudgy hand against his underling’s shoulder. “We are besieged!”

Tol peered through the slats. The quay outside was packed with a milling throng, the source of the strange sound. They did not appear to be an angry mob, just ordinary folk in great numbers, filling the waterfront as far the eye could see. Talking, walking, eating tidbits sold by dockside vendors, they seemed to be watching the front of The Bargeman’s Rest.

Kiya had left her pallet and come to join Tol at the windows. She handed him his saber.

“Go and find out what they want,” Tol said to the innkeeper.

The fellow’s rubicund face paled visibly. “Me, lord?” he squeaked.

“You. Someone. Anyone!”

Nodding firmly, the innkeeper propelled one of his hired lads outside. When the door opened, the crowd surged forward. Tol’s hand tightened on his sword hilt, but the people stopped, obviously disappointed by the sight of the apron-clad youth.

“Is Lord Tolandruth within?” said a woman. Dumbly, the young man nodded.

“When did he arrive?” asked another matron.

“And when is he coming out?” another voice called.

The kitchen lad shrugged. At a word from Tol, the innkeeper hissed at the young man to come hack inside, then sent him and his comrade back to the kitchen.

“Why do they want me?” Tol wondered.

“All Daltigoth has awaited your arrival, my lord,” said the innkeeper simply.

Tol walked slowly back to where Miya still slumbered, and Kiya sat cross-legged on the floor. Turning abruptly to the innkeeper once more he asked, “But why? Why should the people crave my return?”

The innkeeper combed stray strands of gray hair from his face with thick fingers. Wiping his hands on his apron, more for something to do than because there was anything on them, he approached Tol deferentially.

“Things have been unsettled lately, my lord. The old emperor, may the gods grant him eternal rest, was a long time dying.”

“And the new emperor?”

The innkeeper looked pained. “It is not my place to speak ill of the Master of the Great Horde and the Strong Right Arm of Corij.”

It took some cajoling, but Tol finally extracted the story. The city had been mourning the death of Pakin III, as was proper, but the equally proper accession of Amaltar had not been entirely welcomed. In the days since the old emperor died, armed groups had appeared in the streets, wearing colored armbands or cockades to signify their loyalties. Amaltar’s partisans – and they were relatively few – wore Ackal scarlet. Gangs marked with black were followers of his brother, Prince Nazramin. Also seen were parties bearing blue bands, and another faction wearing white. No one dared wear Pakin green, at least not yet.

Slogans were shouted in the night, and every morning” another corpse was found in the street, knifed or strangled. A few houses had been put to the torch. Others were daubed with slogans of the contending factions.

“Where are the City Guards?” demanded Tol, outraged. “Can’t they keep order any better than that?”

The guards did their best, said the innkeeper, but their loyalties were divided like everyone else’s. Prince Amaltar remained closeted in the palace. He had not shown himself to his anxious subjects. It was said that he feared assassination.

As a young man, Amaltar had witnessed the assassination of his uncle, Pakin II. He’d been standing close enough he was splashed by the slain emperor’s blood. Ever since he had lived in dread of his own murder. All weapons were forbidden in his presence. Such strictures did his cause no good. In a warrior nation, a man did not display his fears openly, and ordering Riders of the Great Horde to remove their weapons was like asking them to go about naked.

“Now you are here, all will be right,” the innkeeper said fervently, repeating his words of the night before.

Tol sat down at an empty table, digesting the news. “What can I do? I have no followers, no faction behind me.”

“You’re the Emperor’s Champion.”

Tol turned. It was Kiya who had spoken.

One of Tol’s oldest titles, bestowed on him long before he became a victorious general, was that of Chosen Champion of Prince Amaltar. More than a mere honor, it meant Tol was expected to fight Amaltar’s battles for him.

The crowd outside stirred anew, and an urgent knock resounded on the inn’s door. The innkeeper hastened to answer the summons. When he saw who knocked, he opened the door immediately.

An Ergothian officer in magnificent gilded armor strode in with a flourish of his crimson mantle. Outside, visible through the open doorway, was a mounted troop of cavalry. They’d cleared a lane through the crowd.

The officer saluted. Tol knew his face, but the name eluded him.

“Relfas, my lord,” the officer said. “We served together in the Rooks and Eagles horde, back in the Great Green campaign.”

Nobly-born Relfas, along with the rest of the shield-bearers of Juramona, had refused to disobey orders and enter the Great Green after Marshal Odovar was ambushed by forest tribesman. Leading a small contingent of foot soldiers, Tol had rescued the trapped men, including his mentor Egrin. Tol’s career had begun with that victory, and Relfas had never forgiven him for daring to succeed.

“I come from the palace,” Relfas said loftily, smoothing his red mustache with a gloved finger. “You are commanded to appear before the emperor this morning.”

Tol acknowledged the summons, and Relfas added, “I am to escort you to the palace. The streets are quite crowded these days.”

“And unsafe, I hear.”

Relfas clasped his hands behind his back, saying nothing.

Kiya, Miya, and Tol donned the few pieces of their trail-weary gear that they’d removed before sleeping, then ate a hasty breakfast.

Tol paid the innkeeper from the small chest of pirate treasure, then said to Relfas, “Lead on. You brought horses?”

“No, my lord. There were none to spare.”

Miya muttered under her breath. She recognized the ploy for what it was, a deliberate insult. No horse to spare for the General of the Army of the North? Ridiculous. But whose insult was it? Relfas’s, or someone higher?

Tol ignored the slight and buckled on his sword. Walking past Relfas, he went out the door.

A roar went up from the crowd, which was being held back by Relfas’s riders. Face set, Tol pretended not to hear.

Miya and Kiya emerged slowly from the inn, bearing the heavy box of treasure. The sight gave Tol an idea.

Raising his voice to be heard, he said, “I need four strong men to bear this chest to the palace. Who will volunteer?”

Dozens tried to push forward. Tol chose two sturdy longshoremen, a man dressed as a carter, and a thick-armed butcher. Balks of timber were found, and the chest lashed to them. The bearers hoisted the heavy box to their shoulders.

Freed of their burden, the Dom-shu walked out of the inn’s shadow, blinking against the morning sun. The happy mob cheered them too, provoking a surprised grin from Miya and a stoic scowl from her sister. Relfas’s appearance was greeted by hisses, and he mounted his horse with abrupt, angry movements.

“Column, parade right by twos!” he shouted. The horsemen faced about, creating a wide lane in front of Tol and the sisters.

“It isn’t right, Husband,” Miya grumbled, eyeing Relfas’s showy, butter-colored horse ahead of them. “Why should you go on foot?”

“Never mind. A warrior’s worth isn’t measured by his height off the ground.”

Flanked by the Dom-shu sisters and trailed by the four men bearing the treasure chest, Tol set out a few paces behind Relfas and his troop. People crowding both sides of the street waved and cheered. Windows in the houses overlooking the streets had been thrown open and were filled with more happy Ergothians. Tol maintained the same calm expression he assumed on the battlefield. The people’s joy was intoxicating, but the reasons behind it troubled him deeply.

They traveled through the lower city. All along the route people turned out to see the Crown Prince’s Champion. The swelling of the crowd preceded Tol and his party by a few blocks, like the bow wave before a ship’s plunging prow. Along the way was evidence of the conditions the innkeeper had described: burned outbuildings and ominous patches of dried blood staining the cobblestone street. Whitewashed here and there were incomprehensible slogans like LAND FOR THE LANDED! And BLOOD AND SOIL!

Once they left the canal district, the houses were taller and the streets narrower. Relfas’s troopers had to form a wedge ahead of Tol to part the growing crowds. Pale debris fluttering down on them proved to be flower petals tossed by onlookers in the windows overhead.

Miya laughed, lifting her hands to the yellow, red, and white shower. “Who is emperor here – Amaltar or you, Husband?”

“Mind your tongue,” he replied severely. “Things are very delicate just now. Don’t upset the balance with ill-chosen words.” Chastened, for once Miya did as he asked.

By the time they reached Dermount Square in the Middle City, the throng numbered in the thousands. Although peaceful, the press of bodies was so great Relfas’s escort could no longer make any headway, and the procession was forced to halt. Tol planted his hands on his hips and turned in a circle, taking in the immense crowd. Seeing him notice them, the people closest let out a roar, which echoed through the multitude.

Relfas rode back to Tol. “Make them cease these demonstrations!” he shouted above the din, working hard to keep his fractious mount under control.

The small clearing around Tol’s party, walled off from the mob by a thin line of horsemen, was shrinking. As people pressed in, the feel of too many unfamiliar hands caused the horses to prance and back away.

“Do something, or we’ll draw swords and cut our way out!” Relfas declared.

“Use your head!” Tol retorted. “Do that and we’ll be overrun!”

Relfas made no reply, but his hand dropped to his sword hilt. Tol’s one-time comrade was frightened. If pushed too hard, he would resort to swords, and the crowd’s mood would shift from joy to fury with the first stroke.

Tol said to the Dom-shu, “Whatever happens, guard your own lives. Protect the chest, but don’t sell your safety for it.”

“What will you do?” Kiya asked.

He shrugged. “Get through.”

Slipping past the mounted Relfas, Tol approached the edge of the surging mob. People of all ages and many races cheered frantically as he came nearer.

“Good people, let me through!” he shouted. “I must pass! The emperor expects me!”

He repeated this several times, until his words finally had an effect. Those nearest him complied and gradually a way was cleared. He waved for Relfas and the Dom-shu to follow him.

Striding through the narrow lane in the mob, Tol saw that not all the expressions were welcoming. A few stood out, like stones in a bowl of cream. The unsmiling ones wore armbands or headbands in black, blue, or white. He knew there were daggers under the cloaks of these hard-faced men, yet he felt strangely safe passing among them. Like Relfas, they were hostages to their own good behavior. If they dared strike at Tol, the mob would tear them to pieces.

Beyond Dermount Square, the low wall that demarcated the Old City channeled the crowd up the hill toward the imperial palace. For the first time Tol saw the shining white Tower of High Sorcery rising over the lesser rooftops. The elegant spire was wide at the base and narrowed as it rose. Small cupolas sprouted from its sides. The tower had been completed not long after the chief of the college, Mistress Yoralyn, had died, worn out by years of labor on the structure. Her successor, Oropash, was well-liked but a weak man. Under his leadership, the legitimate wizards and spellcasters of Daltigoth had lost ground to unscrupulous, unregulated practitioners who sold their magical skills to all comers.

Below the walls of the imperial Inner City was an open boulevard half a bowshot wide. Six companies of the Horse Guards were drawn up in a double line four deep, stretching all the way from the Inner City gate to the mouth of Saber Street, the thoroughfare Tol was ascending.

He emerged from the row of temples surrounding the Inner City into the boulevard, ahead of his ostensible escort. Behind him, the excited crowd halted. Numbering in the tens of thousands, they could have flooded the street, sweeping aside the six companies by sheer weight of numbers, but the same respect that moved them to part for Tol now stopped them at the edge of the Imperial Plaza.

Tol drank in the view as he walked. The grandeur of the walled Inner City was as he remembered, save for the mourning banners draped over the wall and flying from the tower tops. Instead of the usual flare of Ackal scarlet, the white of lifelessness dominated the scene. The Horse Guards wore white mantles, and the officers had white plumes on their helmets rather than red ones.

Five warriors on horseback rode slowly to meet him. In the center was Draymon, commander of the Palace Guard. Older, heavier, his sweeping mustache sprinkled with gray, Draymon was still imposing on his tall charger.

“Greetings, Draymon, son of Gouran! I come in victory!” Tol called.

“Greetings to you, Tolandruth of Juramona, Bane of Tarsis!” the commander replied. “Your coming is like the breaking of a storm – we heard you from far off!” Folding his arms across the pommel of his saddle, Draymon leaned forward. “What is this mob on your heels?”

“A few friends and well-wishers. I’ve been away a long time.”

Relfas, the Dom-shu sisters, and the treasure bearers emerged from the throng. When Relfas reached him, Draymon’s welcoming expression drew into a fierce scowl.

“Idiot! How could you allow this to happen?” he snapped. “Your company swamped by rabble! The honored general forced to proceed on foot! You have disgraced the Horse Guards!”

“There was little Relfas could do about the crowd,” Tol said mildly.

“He should have taken a closed coach to fetch you.” Draymon waved a dismissive hand at Relfas. “Get out of my sight, dolt!”

White-faced, Relfas turned his elegant mount and cantered briskly through the Inner City gate. It was plain he did not appreciate Tol’s attempt to defend him.

“If he weren’t related to half the court, I’d post him to a rock overlooking the western ocean and let him guard the empire from stray seabirds,” Draymon grumbled. Tol shared the commander’s opinion of Relfas but disapproved of humiliating a proud warrior in public.

One of Draymon’s aides yielded his horse to Tol. Once mounted, Tol asked that Kiya, Miya, and the treasure be escorted to whatever quarters were set aside for him. He took his leave of the sisters then followed the commander to the palace. Draymon had been ordered to bring Tol to the emperor at once.

Time had not dimmed the magnificence of the Inner City. A thousand white pennants stirred in the warm breeze. They floated above the gigantic mosaic pavement that depicted the life and deeds of Ackal Ergot in millions of tiny colored chips of stone. The southern half of the Inner City was filled by the garden of the wizards’ college, now dominated by the enormous Tower of High Sorcery rearing up from its center. This great spire needed no mourning wrap, as it was faced from foundation to pinnacle in translucent alabaster.

Opposite the garden was the palace, a complex of buildings wrought in marble, gold, and warmer tones of alabaster, grown together over the centuries into a single sprawling structure. After the vibrant greeting given Tol by the common folk of Daltigoth, the Inner City seemed oddly lifeless. The large honor guard drawn up in the Imperial Plaza was completely silent.

Grooms ran to hold their horses, and Tol and Draymon dismounted. They ascended the broad steps to the palace doors. The massive bronze portals, ornamented with silver wreaths and golden suns, swung back on iron tracks set in the marble floor. When Draymon and Tol entered the hall, two hundred guards arrayed in funereal white snapped to attention, their iron-shod heels clanging in unison.

“Hail Tolandruth, victor!” shouted the warden of the guard, and the warriors replied in unison, “Victory! Victory!”

As Tol and the commander passed through the facing lines of soldiers, each pair of men drew their sabers and saluted. Tol was unaccustomed to such pomp. It took effort not to flinch as naked swords flashed on either side, and the rattle of blades made his own empty sword hand itch.

They passed through a series of antechambers occupied by uniformed servants, idle courtiers, and elaborately dressed ladies of the court. Although it was still early in the morning, the inner chambers were already full of favor-seekers, ambassadors, priests, and ranking officers of the Great Horde. These last bowed as Tol passed. By custom, he ignored their tribute.

The passage jogged right. It had been Emperor Ergothas’ idea that no corridor in the palace should lead straight into any room. Ackal Ergot’s grandson was a master tactician and his notions of architecture were not mere eccentricity. Dog-legging the corridors made them easier to defend in case of attack.

Mighty doors ahead of them were closed. The warriors guarding them crossed their halberds before the portal.

Halting, Draymon said, “I bring Lord Tolandruth, by the emperor’s command!”

The captain of the audience hall guards went to announce them, entering the hall through a small side door. Moments later he returned, and the huge golden portals parted.

Warm, scented air washed over Tol. At the far end of the room, the golden throne of Ergoth stood on a raised dais. Between the throne and Tol was a crowd of richly dressed folk. All had turned and were regarding him expectantly, whispering among themselves.

Tol felt his heart begin to pound. He flexed his fingers over palms suddenly grown sweaty. “It’s only an audience, not a battle,” he muttered, trying to calm his nervousness.

Draymon heard him. Keeping his eyes forward, the commander whispered, “Battle would be easier.”

Tol glanced at him in surprise, but questions were forestalled as Draymon unhitched his sword belt and drew his dagger, handing both to a waiting lackey. Tol did the same, yielding his saber to another uniformed servant.

A gong was struck, silencing the assembly, and a herald boomed out, “Silence! Attend upon His Excellency, Lord Tolandruth of Juramona, General of the Army of the North, Chosen Champion of the Regent of Ergoth!”

Tol and Draymon entered the great hall, walking in step, their footfalls cushioned by thick carpet: As they traversed the distance between door and throne, whispers of “Is that really him?” “He’s so short!” and “He’s back” mingled with the oft-repeated word “farmer.”

Two decades had passed since Tol had left his family’s farm as a child, yet in Daltigoth, a man was always identified by his father’s profession. To many of these people, no matter how many signal victories Tol won, he would always be nothing more than the son of a farmer.

The hall was warm, stiflingly so. The tall windows were shut and covered with white draperies, in honor of the deceased Pakin III. Bronze braziers, styled to resembled torches, blazed in wall sconces. In spite of the close atmosphere, clothing tended toward heavy velvets and brocades, and the predominant color was white. The current fashion for women was to wear a stiff, starched headdress that wrapped around the forehead and pulled long hair away from the face to cascade down the back, exposing the ears and neck. Even in mourning, court dandies managed to indulge their love of jewelry; Tol had never seen so many pearls and diamonds in his life.

Amaltar was the only one in the room not wearing white. Clad in scarlet robes, the new master of Ergoth stood out like a splash of blood on a snowy field. The throne sat at the end of the hall in a semicircular area thirty paces wide. On each side were ranged Amaltar’s closest advisors. The warriors stood out by the glint of the iron they wore; the others were civilians and priests.

Behind the advisors were the members of Amaltar’s household. His eldest wife, matronly Thura, stood closest to her husband. The other wives were arranged in strict order of precedence. Tol’s heart found a new reason to pound as he sought out Valaran, Amaltar’s fifth wife.

She appeared, still distant, as a slender figure in a proper white ensemble. A few paces closer, and Tol realized her gown and headdress were somewhat improperly trimmed with green. How like her that was! Val had never cared for the pointless whims of fashion, but she couldn’t completely ignore the rules of protocol. The highlights of vivid green certainly matched her eyes. He could never forget those eyes.

When they had first met, she’d been reading a scroll in an alcove, away from the prying eyes of the court ladies who felt such bookishness unbecoming. Now she stood tall and straight, swathed in voluminous waves of white silk. Her stiff headdress curled back from her temples and around her ears, holding the long hair that fell past her shoulders. Unable to see her face clearly as yet, Tol found himself staring at Val’s hair; pulled forward over one shoulder, the sleek mass gleamed a rich chestnut color in the torchlight.

Forcing his attention back to the emperor, Tol saw that Amaltar leaned hard on the right arm of his golden chair. His face was startlingly pale; against the scarlet of his robes, his skin had the pallor of marble. By tradition, he did not yet wear the imperial circlet on his brow, but his prince’s crown, a simple ring of gold set with two large rubies. His black eyes were shadowed by dark circles and his shoulders hunched. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in many nights.

When Tol and Draymon were six steps from the throne, a quartet of burly guardsmen stepped out, barring the way. The guardsmen were weaponless, of course, but had been carefully chosen for their imposing height and muscle. Draymon and Tol stopped.

“Here I leave you,” said the commander with a nod. “May fortune continue to favor you, my lord.”

Draymon withdrew. A chamberlain – it was Valdid, Valaran’s father – bade the guards stand aside, and gestured for Tol to come forward.

Tol slowly advanced. Lacking a dagger, he struck his heels together and raised an empty hand in salute to his liege. Chamberlain Valdid’s brow furrowed.

“Kneel,” he hissed, tapping his gold-capped staff agitatedly on the floor.

“What?”

“Kneelbefore the emperor!”

Tol was taken aback. Kneel like a slave? He’d never been asked to do such a thing before, not before Amaltar, nor even before his mighty father.

The four burly guardsmen regarded him coldly. Perplexed, Tol sank to one knee. Pressing his sword hand to his breast, he said, “Forgive me, Majesty. I’ve been away so long I don’t know proper manners.”

“Rise, Lord Tolandruth. Approach.”

Amaltar’s voice sounded dry and hoarse and much older than his actual age. Tol stood and came forward.

“Great Majesty, I have come as you bid.”

So intent was he on keeping his eyes away from the emperor’s left, where Valaran stood, that his gaze shifted to those on Amaltar’s right, and he spotted a familiar face.

Mandes!

The threadbare rogue wizard Tol had rescued from a band of wild bakali had certainly come up in the world. Looking sleek and well-groomed in his mourning robes, Mandes radiated success. A heavy silver chain lay around his neck, and a second silver band encircled a waist trimmer now than when Tol had last seen him. Although the top of his head was bald, his brown hair was long on the sides, pulled back and braided into a queue.

Hands tucked into his sleeves, Mandes regarded Tol with serene indifference. Tol forced himself not to stare at Mandes’s left sleeve; that was the arm he had lost in the battle with the monster XimXim. He must have contrived some artifice to give himself the appearance of having two good limbs.

It was not lost on Tol that Mandes stood within reach of the emperor, while Oropash, head of the White Robe wizards, was nearer the back. The positioning was a clear indication of who had Amaltar’s ear and who did not.

“Valiant general,” Amaltar rasped, “you’ve been away too long.”

“That was not by my choosing, sire.” Tol threw a stern glance at Mandes. “Enemies kept me away.”

Assuming he meant the Tarsans, the emperor nodded. “But you overcame them. You are the great sword of our empire, and we rejoice to have you at our side again.”

Tol found it difficult to hide his surprise at Amaltar’s condition. It was plain he was an unhealthy man. His Ackal face, with its strong chin and aquiline nose, had gone round and soft, while the rest of him seemed whittled to bone and sinew. Was it the burden of rule that wore a man down like this?

“I would hear of your final battle before the gates of Tarsis, and your journey here,” Amaltar said. “I’m told you arrived by boat, sailing an oceangoing ship up the Dalti Canal.”

“It was a pirate galleot, Majesty.” Tol explained that a sizable portion of the Blood Fleet had pledged loyalty to Ergoth.

“Pirates?” said the officer nearest the throne. “The emperor’s name cannot be stained by an alliance with bandits!”

Tol did not know the man. He was not one of Pakin III’s old lions, but a youngish fellow, clad in glittering court armor and bearing a scar across his upper lip.

“I speak not of alliance, but submission,” Tol replied tartly. “Sixty-six ships have pledged loyalty to the empire.”

The sneer deepened. “And what is a pirate’s oath worth?”

“More than the word of nameless palace heroes.”

The officer’s hand went to his hip, but of course he wore no sword in Amaltar’s presence. Gilded armor clattered as he drew himself up.

“I have a name – an old and respected one,” he said haughtily. “I am Pelladrom, son of Enkian Tumult.”

Lord Enkian, Tol’s old commander at Juramona, had been a remote, calculating man. His son was more of a hothead.

Pelladrom would have continued the exchange of insults, but Amaltar interrupted.

“Be still, young Tumult,” he said hoarsely. “This is the time for my noble father’s funeral, not yours.”

Amaltar’s advisors fell to debating the merits of the empire’s new navy. The notion was raised of an expedition to Kharland, to colonize the hinterlands and exterminate the pirates who remained there. Kharland was lawless territory, claimed by a hundred petty local lords and chieftains. Ergoth would have seized it much earlier had not Tarsis insisted Kharland remain a neutral buffer between them. With the victory over Tarsis, Tarsan wishes were no longer relevant.

While the councilors wrangled, the royal consorts stood patiently, each with her respective offspring ranged behind her. For a man with eight wives, Amaltar had relatively few children. Pakin III, his father, had sired two dozen. The new emperor had only seven, and Tol noted with guilty relief that none stood behind Valaran.

She met Tol’s eyes for the first time and he thought he would shout for joy. In ten years she had indeed changed – she had grown more beautiful. The slender, tomboyish girl he’d known had given way to a woman’s figure and face, her cheekbones high and chin finely molded. Her gown was cut lower than those worn by the other wives and revealed a breathtaking view of creamy skin. However, her most arresting feature was still her eyes. Where once they had sparkled with youthful wit, like sunlight on new spring leaves, they now seemed cold and hard as emeralds. Her icy expression reduced him to the level of an insect crawling across a scroll she was reading.

It didn’t matter. Just to see Valaran again was worth any amount of anger she might feel for his long absence.

The emperor stood slowly, his shoulders bowed down as though by an invisible burden, and put an end to the wrangling among his advisors.

“These discussions are better vented in council, not in court,” he said.

The men bowed obediently. Tol caught a glimpse of Mandes’s hands as the wizard made his obeisance. Alone among all the hundreds of people in the room, Mandes wore gloves. The thin white gloves were just visible at the ends of his long, flowing sleeves.

Chamberlain Valdid announced that other warlords returning from Tarsis were expected in five days, and upon their arrival, Pakin III’s funeral would be held, followed by Amaltar’s coronation. Only then, when he was officially crowned, would Tol’s patron be fully master of Ergoth.

“Majesty, by what name will you reign?”

The chamberlain was shocked by Tol’s direct question, but Amaltar showed no anger. In fact, the prince’s former shrewd self briefly emerged from the prematurely aged man before them as he replied, “I shall be Ackal IV.”

The news set the court humming. The last emperor by that name, Ackal III, had reigned one hundred sixty years earlier. A cruel tyrant, he had desecrated the temples of Daltigoth and massacred many guiltless priests he believed were plotting against him. For this he had been deposed by his cousin Mordirin and later was found mysteriously murdered inside a sealed room. Since then it had been considered bad luck to take the tainted name of Ackal.

Amaltar seemed unconcerned by the stir he’d created. He descended from the dais, walking stiffly to a side door. All in the hall went to their knees out of respect, except his privy council. They followed the emperor in a rustle of silk and soft clatter of armor. By the time Tol stood again, the imperial consorts had departed as well.

In a brief span of time, he’d beheld the changed man who was to be emperor, seen the faithless traitor Mandes exalted at his side, and made an enemy of the haughty Pelladrom Tumult, yet none of that remained long in Tol’s mind. He could think only of how breathtakingly lovely was Valaran, the woman he loved.

Chapter 10

RENDEZVOUS IN WHITE

Tol had hoped for an invitation to stay in the imperial palace, but none came. When he complained, Kiya told him sternly, “Given so many mysterious attempts on your life, I’d think you’d welcome a little distance between yourself and the palace.”

After seeing Mandes again, Tol more than ever believed that the wizard was behind the strange incidents that had threatened him, but as usual, the Dom-shu woman was right. They spent a day searching for accommodations.

The inns were already brimming with the thousands of visitors who’d come for the funeral and coronation. Even if they hadn’t been, Tol required more than a simple roof over his head. Whether he liked it or not, he needed a place worthy of Lord Tolandruth. Unfortunately, few homes remained available for rent.

In the end, it was Miya, the champion haggler, who found a suitable place. She took a turn through the marketplace and acquired new suede boots, a cask of Ropunt lager for half the usual price, and a tip on a house for rent.

“There’s an empty villa in the Quarry district,” she announced. “Cost you nine gold pieces a day.”

The price was good for an entire villa, but the Quarry district was not exactly prestigious. Located just east of the Inner City, it was a vast bowl-shaped hollow left after the stone for the imperial palace was mined out. Over the years, it had filled with houses built tall and narrow to fit in the pit. Most of its residents were artisans, and though some were quite wealthy, the Quarry district did not compare to the Inner or Old cities as locations of distinction.

Tol made his displeasure plain. Since leaving the palace they’d tramped the busy streets of Daltigoth, all their possessions borne on the shoulders of hired porters. The endless circling through the streets, together with the crowds that collected wherever Tol went, had frayed his nerves. Living in the wilds for so long, he’d forgotten how claustrophobic life in the city could feel.

“Listen to you!” Miya chided. “Worried about an unseemly address, are you? Pretty high and mighty for a lad from Juramona!”

“Farm boy,” added Kiya, eyeing him narrowly.

He glared at them for the space of two heartbeats, then a sheepish smile broke over his sweaty face. They were right. The Quarry district certainly was better than wandering the streets like a homeless acting troupe.

When they arrived, they found the district to be relatively quiet. Winding their way through the narrow, steep lanes to the address Miya had been given, the only sounds they heard were the tap of tinsmiths’ hammers, the creak of baskets being woven, and the hum of potters’ wheels. The peacefulness appealed to Tol, as did their proximity to the palace. He apologized for his earlier churlishness and commended Miya on her choice.

“All I sought was a bargain,” she replied.

The white wall of the Inner City rose nearby, putting most of the Quarry district in shadow though it was only early afternoon. Miya’s find was located in the easternmost section of the former stone pit, the side farthest from the looming wall, and it was perched on the highest part of that area, a place fittingly called Noonday Ridge. The villa was in fact a mansion, the largest house in the Quarry district. Its rambling ground floor was surmounted by a much smaller second story, which was surrounded by elevated gardens. The whole house was encircled by a stout stone wall topped with a row of iron spikes.

The small caravan entered a courtyard. Miya pulled up the “To Let” sign and tossed it into waist-high weeds. No one had lived here in quite a while.

They were admitted by an elderly woman caretaker. Inside, the doorways were curiously low, just barely tall enough to allow the Dom-shu sisters to pass through without stooping. The old woman explained the villa had been built by a wealthy dwarf merchant named Rumbold. He had gone on an expedition to the east to buy iron four years ago and never returned.

The porters deposited Tol’s chest of pirate treasure in the hall. Miya paid off the men and the caretaker, and they departed. Tol sat down on a low settee, leaned back, and exhaled gustily.

Kiya took hold of his chin and squinted into his eyes. “You’re exhausted. You should go to bed,” she announced.

He did feel drained of strength. The long campaign, the journey from Tarsis, the fight with Xanka, the tragic loss of Felryn and Frez, all of it hung around his neck like shackles. Seeing Mandes again had stirred up a mighty anger, but that wasn’t an antidote to all the travails of the trail. Worse, the deep wound in his heart left by Valaran’s long, unexplained rejection had opened anew. She had barely acknowledged his longing gaze. He didn’t know how to stanch his emotions.

Miya set the cask of Ropunt lager down at his feet. Her agreement with her sister’s prescription was plain. Grateful once more for the women’s support, Tol took Miya’s hand. With her other, she reached over and tousled his hair.

“Rest, husband,” she said roughly. “You look like you’ve walked all the way from Tarsis!”

Although it was only four marks past midday, Noonday Ridge was submerging in the shadow of the Inner City wall. Tol hunted through the dim, dusty corridors of his new home until he found the master bedchamber. Rumbold’s bed was generously sized for a dwarf’s but barely accommodated Tol’s modest height. He drank only a single cup of lager before succumbing to sleep.

The brass mug, bearing the arms of the lost dwarf’s line, fell from Tol’s slack fingers. It landed with a dull thump on the rug and rolled to a stop against the wall.

*

Half a league away, at a far more stylish address, the master of the house was in his private sanctum. Heaps of curling scrolls spilled off tables onto the floor, mingling with trays of half-eaten food. Everywhere the eye fell there were goblets stained with the dregs of many days’ wine. No one was allowed in this room to clean it, and the occupant of the high-backed chair was too lost in thought to care about such mundane matters.

Mandes pressed the tips of both forefingers to his temples. Before him was a shallow silver pan filled with gently steaming liquid. He sprinkled various colored salts in the pan, noting how the swirling patterns changed with every addition. His lips barely moved as he whispered the words of power.

At last, he commanded, “Show me.”

The lines of color resolved themselves into a scene – a kitchen or dining hall. The object of his surveillance was seated at a rough table, sawing at a roasted boar’s leg with a long knife.

“Come, voice,” Mandes breathed.

“— and make a fool of himself,” said a female, someone not in view. “He could lose everything!”

The woman Mandes watched put down her carving knife, the boar’s leg forgotten. “He wouldn’t do that,” she said. “Our husband may be lovesick, but he’s not stupid.”

The unseen speaker snorted loudly. “This is no ordinary woman, sister! She’s the emperor’s wife!”

Mandes leaned forward, intrigued. Lord Tolandruth was still in love with Princess Valaran? That was a most interesting revelation.

A discreet knock on the door did not rouse him at first. Only after it was repeated several times did he realize the sound came from his own environs.

“What is it?” he barked, looking up from the pan.

The tall door opened a crack. A servant stood in the wedge of light created by the open door.

“You have a visitor, master.”

“What is my first rule, Valgo? Never disturb me when I am in this room!”

Valgo bowed hastily, but said, “The visitor is high born, master, and most persistent —”

“They’re all high born!” Mandes sighed wearily. His breath disrupted the image in the pan and the liquid turned muddy brown.

Irritated, he rose from his chair, determined to give his impertinent caller a case of boils. When he drew near the partly open door, he realized Valgo sported a rapidly swelling black eye.

“What happened to you?” Mandes demanded.

The servant’s gaze flickered quickly back over his shoulder, a final attempt to warn his master, but it was too late. The door was shoved hard and flew open, just missing Mandes’s nose. A lean, red-haired man dressed in blood-colored leather stood at Valgo’s shoulder.

The sorcerer hastily erased his outraged expression and bowed. “Your Highness! Welcome to my unworthy house.”

“Did you really think you could keep me out?”

“Of course not. You’re always welcome, Highness.”

Prince Nazramin, half-brother of Amaltar, swaggered in, shoving the cowering Valgo aside. Looking over the clutter of manuscripts and magical paraphernalia, the prince sniffed.

“I thought you had a woman in here, and that was why you didn’t want any visitors.”

“So I did, gracious prince.” Mandes gave his best, oiliest smile. “Two women, in fact.”

“Conjuring up company, eh? Saves paying them, I’ll wager.”

Nazramin took Mandes’s own chair. With a single stroke of his quirt, he swept the table before him clear of its clutter. The scrying pan and several scrolls hit the floor. Liquid from the pan splashed the priceless scrolls before they rolled under the furniture.

“Attend me,” said the prince loftily. “We have much to discuss.”

Lips locked in a rictus of forced hospitality, Mandes dispatched Valgo for refreshment. He shut the door and slid the bolt into place.

Nazramin was seven years younger than Amaltar and a far different sort of man. While Amaltar had been groomed from birth to serve the empire, Nazramin had never served anyone but himself. He had made himself the living embodiment of all the cruelty and arrogance of the Ackal dynasty – which to Nazramin meant all the power and glory. Vigorous, ambitious, hated and admired in equal measure, Nazramin stood at the head of a sizable faction of Ergothian warlords dissatisfied with Amaltar’s cold, scholarly ways.

Mandes stood before the prince, hands folded and eyes lowered. Nazramin stared up at him, chewing on his thick auburn mustache.

“So the pig farmer has returned,” Nazramin said at last. Mandes gave a slight nod. “Your vaunted magic did not stop him.”

“My efforts took their toll, Highness. The country priest from Juramona perished in the mountains, and one of Tolandruth’s favorite retainers died before Thoragoth.”

“You killed a pair of cubs and spared the lion.”

The sorcerer’s bland smile hardened. “Lord Tolandruth spared himself, great prince. He is not an easy man to defeat.”

Nazramin lashed out with his quirt. An Ackal family heirloom, the quirt was made from the hide of a bakali chief slain in personal combat by Ackal II Dermount. The braided lizard-leather whip split Mandes’s cheek like a rotted peach; with a cry of pain, he fell to the floor.

“Never call that peasant filth ‘lord’ in my presence!” Nazramin roared. “Do it again and I’ll have you flayed alive!”

Mandes looked up at him through eyes half-blind with tears. Blood ran down his neck. With shaking hands, he pulled a fine linen handkerchief from his sleeve and dabbed at the burning wound. He said nothing. Explanations and apologies would merely make the volatile prince even angrier.

The sight of the cringing man pleased Nazramin, and he mastered his wrath, leaning back in the chair again. “You should know better than to say that to me, sorcerer,” he said evenly. “Get up.”

Mandes clutched the table and pulled himself to his feet. He was still shaking, as much from shock as from the pain. No one had dared to raise his voice to him in years, much less strike him. Rich and influential beyond his fondest dreams, he suddenly realized how ephemeral his status was before a prince of the realm.

Placing one booted foot on the empty table, Nazramin said, “You assured me your spells were infallible. How did the peasant escape?”

“At critical points, the conjurations weakened or failed completely. I cannot explain it.” Mandes spoke haltingly, cradling his bleeding face. He cleared his throat and went on. “I thought the priest Felryn was protecting him with counter-spells, but Felryn died and the protection continued. Tolandruth must have other protection – probably an amulet or talisman. If this artifact could be removed —”

“Talisman, eh? What would it look like?”

The sorcerer explained the protection could take many forms. Commonly amulets were disks of metal inscribed with magical symbols, but they could just as easily be rings, jewels, or even a sword or enchanted dagger.

“My eyes at court tell me the pig farmer is carrying an unusual sword,” Nazramin mused. “It’s made of some sort of special metal, said to be harder than forged iron.”

“If you procure it, Your Highness, I could try my magic against him once more.”

A knock sounded at the door and Valgo begged permission to enter. Mandes unbolted the door, and the servant brought in a tray of amber nectar and sweetmeats. Nazramin took a tall, thin goblet of nectar and ignored the food.

Mandes looked longingly at a glazed walnut but chose a piece of soft, sugared cake. He took small bites and chewed carefully, mindful of his stiffening jaw.

“Our common foe has another weakness, Highness,” he said. “Princess Valaran.”

Nazramin laughed harshly. He used two very vulgar words to describe his brother’s wife. Mandes colored.

“We know that already. After the lies we have fed her, she might kill the peasant for us,” the prince said. He picked up the second goblet, Mandes’s serving, and drank it down as well. “I should love to see that!”

“There might be a better approach, Highness. Tolandruth will certainly seek her out under furtive circumstances. If caught together, both their lives would be forfeit, and only the emperor would bear the blame for their deaths.”

Nazramin blotted droplets of nectar from his mustache. “You’re a devious wretch, aren’t you, sorcerer? How can you insure they meet? I already have the princess watched at all times, but why would Tolandruth risk it after all this time? Surely he has other women.” He leaned forward, becoming caught up in the plot. “You could make a potion, an aphrodisiac. I’ll see it’s put in Valaran’s food —”

“That won’t be necessary, my prince. Just bring them together. Their natural passion will accomplish the rest.”

“After all this time, she detests the peasant bastard!”

Mandes had little experience of love, but he understood human nature far better than his noble patron. Valaran hated Tolandruth because she believed he had betrayed her by having a child with the forester woman Miya. Nazramin had forged that lie in a letter from Tolandruth to her ten years ago, and had reinforced it with more forged letters. Valaran had cut off all communication, and Mandes had taken pains to intercept Tolandruth’s letters to her, which dwindled over the years.

Now, if the couple was brought together and the truth revealed, their passion would rekindle tenfold, fanned by the misunderstanding and their long separation.

Nazramin was content to leave the details in Mandes’s hands. The prince said Valaran would provide a potent diversion while his agents got their hands on Tol’s saber, in case it was the talisman Mandes suspected was shielding him from his spells.

The prince was not yet ready to depart. He demanded to see the progress of their other ongoing project. When Mandes hesitated, Nazramin tapped the quirt weightily against the palm of his hand. Bloody handkerchief still pressed to his face, the sorcerer acquiesced with a bow.

On the room’s rear wall was a shelf piled high with pots of dried herbs, mineral powders, and trays of rough crystals. Mandes faced this wall and traced a sigil in the air with his left hand. A vertical line of light appeared, widening steadily as the hidden door opened in the seemingly solid stone wall.

Beyond was a niche lit by a smoky oil lamp. Within the niche was a black-draped table on which rested a statuette two handspans tall. Made of dully glinting gray metal, the image bore the unmistakable features of Nazramin’s elder brother. Affixed to the statuette were two screw clamps, one compressing the figure’s head, the other its chest. Every day Mandes tightened the screws a half turn. Every day, Amaltar grew a little more ill.

“Splendid,” the prince said, and smiled.

“A crude method, but effective,” agreed the wizard. “Almost no one uses image magic any more. Too easily countered if discovered.”

The prince approached the statuette. “Oropash and his people can do nothing. My brother has lost all confidence in their abilities.” He rubbed a finger over each of the clamps, his touch as delicate as a woman’s. Resting his finger on the statuette’s middle, he looked back at the sorcerer, eyes aglitter. “Add a third one. On the belly.”

“As you wish, great prince.” Mandes bowed, but warned, “If too many clamps are used, the emperor will sicken too quickly, and people will suspect his weakness is not natural.”

“How long can he live with the current arrangement?”

“As long as Your Highness wants – a year, two years – or a day.”

Nazramin slowly took his hand away from the cruel, merciless clamps and straightened. “I can wait,” he said. “Many of the older lords feel the loss of my father, and they’ve transferred their sympathies to Amaltar. As time passes and he becomes weaker and more useless, more and more warlords are weaned to my side.”

With a final, feral grin, Nazramin gathered up his dark cloak and departed in a rush.

Left alone, Mandes hunted up a jar of ointment for his wound. Nazramin had been a good client for many years. Mandes could credit his rise in Daltigoth to Nazramin, to the many jobs performed for the prince, the public ones for all to see and the private ones that served darker purposes, but all along the wizard had loathed Amaltar’s brother. All along he had distrusted Nazramin’s ambition and cruelty.

After dabbing the soft unguent on his stinging cheek, he re-entered the niche. He lifted the heavy drape and withdrew a second hollow lead statuette that had been concealed beneath the table. This figure bore the face of Nazramin. Two clamps encircled its head. With great satisfaction, Mandes tightened both screws a full turn.

*

Three loud thuds echoed through the great house. In the kitchen, Tol and the Dom-shu sisters looked up from the remnants of their meal. It had been a good one, roast beef, prepared by Tol. For all their skills, the sisters were of little use in the kitchen. Miya freely admitted she could not cook. Kiya thought she could, but for the sake of all their stomachs she had to be prevented from doing so.

Tol buckled on his sword belt, and with a casual gesture, made sure the Irda millstone was still in its secret pocket.

Miya picked up the candle from the table. It was a timekeeper, divided into thick rings, called marks, representing the hours of the day.

As they made their way to the front door, the sound came again, three knocks booming through the silent house. Some-one with a heavy hand was pounding on the bronze portal.

Night had long since fallen; the time for casual visitors was well past. Kiya urged caution. Her hand rested on the hilt of her knife.

“Since when do assassins knock?” Tol said, and pulled the doors open.

Four tall figures stood before them, identically dressed entirely in white. Their robes swept the ground, and their heads were covered with stiff cloth cowls, styled to look like war helmets. The two in the rear carried lanterns.

“Lord Tolandruth.” It was hard to determine which of the two figures in front had spoken. “You are summoned to attend upon the emperor.”

“Doesn’t Amaltar ever sleep?” Miya blurted.

“The summons does not come from Crown Prince Amaltar,” the muffled voice solemnly replied. “His Majesty Pakin III requires your presence.”

“But he’s dead!”

Tol, although as confused as Miya, shushed her. “What is this about?” he asked. He decided it was the figure on his right who was speaking.

“The Emperor of Ergoth calls you to duty. Will you come?”

Kiya put a hand on his arm. “Don’t go, husband. No good can come of serving a dead man.”

“You must make yourself clean, and wear these.”

The fellow on Tol’s left held out a bundle of white cloth, its corners tied together at the top.

The bundle was weighty, but soft. Ritual garments, Tol assumed, like the ones the strange messengers wore.

“I will come,” he said.

The sisters exchanged worried glances. Tol was altogether too trusting.

“Come alone at midnight to the Tower of High Sorcery. Follow where you are led, and do not speak.”

The white-clad phantoms departed. Miya shut the heavy door.

“What sort of trick is this?” Kiya demanded. “Husband, you should not go!”

Tol smiled. “It’s all right. I believe they want me to stand vigil over the late emperor.”

This made sense to the sisters. Their tribe had a similar rite. The night before a dead chief was immolated on his funeral pyre, his family was expected to spend the night with him, making offerings to the gods.

Kiya went to the kitchen to heat water for Tol’s bath. He headed to his bedchamber and there untied the bundle. It contained a linen robe, a sash, a short cape, a simple cloth skullcap, and slippers. Even smallclothes had been provided. Every item was spotlessly white.

Miya watched as he laid out the funerary garments. “Honor or not, I still don’t like you going through the streets alone,” she said. “Wear that dwarf blade, will you?” He assured her he would.

Kiya arrived bearing a steaming kettle. Tol stripped and splashed hot water on his face, arms, and feet. The sisters watched with critical eyes, as though inspecting a prize bull.

“He’s held up well. Wouldn’t you say?” Miya asked her sister.

Kiya nodded. “Quite a few scars, but strong for a man his age.”

Tol paused in his ablutions. “What do you mean, ‘a man his age?’”

“His hair’s too short. Looked better longer,” Miya said with a frown.

“What do you mean, ‘a man his age?’” Tol repeated.

Kiya shrugged. “Well, you are past thirty —”

“Just past,” he said quickly.

“A man’s vigor peaks at twenty,” Miya said, “but you are holding up well.”

Tol planted fists on his bare hips. “Would you like to check my teeth while you’re at it?”

Miya waved his pique aside. “We see you chew every day. We know your teeth are good.”

She started to discuss other, more intimate facets of his physique, and Tol stamped his foot in warning. Grinning, the sisters fell silent.

Clean and dry, Tol donned the smallclothes, tying the drawstring waist snugly, and pulled the long robe on over his head. In short order he was dressed, down to the slippers and skullcap.

Worried his sword belt would smudge the white linen, he pulled Number Six from the scabbard, wiped the blade clean, and slipped it through his sash.

The timekeeper candle showed it to he just a half-mark short of midnight. Tol descended to the entry hall, trailed by the Dom-shu.

He had no time to hunt up a horse for hire, so he decided to walk to the tower. The sisters wanted to accompany him, at least as far as the Inner City gate. However, their mothering was getting on his nerves, so he ordered them to stay in the villa and guard the treasure.

Cool wind sighed through the streets. Working folk tended to turn in once it got dark, so there was little nightlife in the Quarry district. Robe billowing, Tol climbed the flat, winding steps leading up and out of the former stone quarry.

In the streets above, the few folk he passed gave him a wide berth, whispering, “Vigilant.” He was glad the strange visitors had reminded him not to speak; it was considered a gross breach of etiquette to talk while wearing the robes of the vigil, but he’d never taken part in the ceremony before.

Overhead, stars played hide and seek behind clouds scudding before the wind. He noticed a bright light in the distance, and it took him a moment to realize he was seeing the white moon, Solin, shining over the peak of the Tower of High Sorcery, his destination.

Customarily, the emperor’s vigil was held in the Temple of Mishas, but Tol wasn’t surprised at the change of location. The Tower of High Sorcery represented one of the greatest achievements of Pakin III’s reign, and holding the ceremony there would regain for the wizards some of the prestige Mandes had usurped.

Out of respect, he had left the nullstone behind, though, he felt very vulnerable. Not even the heft of the dwarf blade at his side could banish the feeling.

He chided himself for his fears. Did he need a talisman merely to traverse the streets of Daltigoth in sight of the imperial palace? Of course not. And what danger could there be for him at the emperor’s vigil, in the very Tower of High Sorcery?

At the Inner City gate, the guards did not challenge him. Seeing the white robe of a Vigilant, they stood to attention and let him pass without a word.

The courtyard of the Imperial Plaza blazed with light. Tripods of torches stood between long rows of mourners. Rank upon rank of warriors and courtiers knelt on the hard mosaic, heads bowed toward the Tower of High Sorcery. Some looked up when Tol entered then resumed their prayers for the deceased emperor. The steady drone of hundreds of low voices filled the square.

Above the trees of the wizards’ garden, the mighty Tower of High Sorcery glowed with its own light. Awed by the sight, Tol slowed. What mysteries were held within those shining walls?

He shook himself, then folded his arms and gripped his biceps hard. He had nothing to fear. No evil workings could penetrate the sanctum of the magical orders.

He picked up his pace, striding purposefully to the garden path that would take him to the tower. His footsteps on the quartz gravel path sounded loud in the stillness.

Many times as a young man Tol had stolen into this very garden to meet Valaran. The wizards guarded their privacy with a wall of sleep, but the millstone had allowed Tol to penetrate it with impunity. Holding Val close, he could protect her, too, and they passed many a golden hour in the shadowed glade by the fountain of the Blue Phoenix. The wizards had lowered the barrier for the vigil, and Tol now passed through without hindrance.

The tower rose from a circular plaza paved with white marble. A ring of robed wizards surrounded its base. Alternating Red Robe with White, they stood, eyes closed, hands linked, facing outward. The very air itself seemed charged with power.

Tol wondered fleetingly at the lack of Black Robe wizards. Red and White made him nervous enough; he was glad not to have to face wizards consecrated to evil magic.

A gap in the ring of wizards corresponded to the tower’s only entrance – arched double doors, which stood open. White light shone within, paler and colder than the glow emitted by the tower itself. Straightening his shoulders, Tol went carefully up the ramp to the entrance. The wizards did not stir, speak, or open their eyes. He recognized only one face among them: Helbin, chief of the Red Robes.

Tol passed through the massively thick foundation walls into a chill, open chamber that comprised the entire ground floor of the tower. The ceiling of the chamber was domed. In its center was an opening, the end of a shaft that rose all the way to the tower’s peak. Shining down through this atrium was the light of Solin. Focused and clarified, the white moon’s pallid light was the only illumination in the chamber.

Directly under the column of moonlight was Pakin III’s white-draped bier. The emperor was dressed in full regalia, lying on his back with his hands resting on his chest, clasping the imperial scepter. His hair and beard were the color of snow. Bathed in Solin’s cold radiance, the old emperor seemed carved out of alabaster.

Humbled by this vision, Tol approached slowly. He had no specific instructions and was uncertain what he should do. His slippers made faint scuffing sounds as he circled the bier. Halfway around, he spotted another figure in white, a second Vigilant. He was pleased he wouldn’t be alone.

The other mourner was kneeling, head bowed, by Pakin’s left hand. By her slenderness, Tol could tell it was a woman, perhaps one of the old emperor’s daughters. In spite of the stricture against speech it seemed wrong not to offer his sympathy.

In the silence, his intake of breath sounded like a shout, and the Vigilant’s cowled head turned toward him. Green eyes flashed with surprise in the sere white light.

Valaran!

Whatever words he’d intended to say went unuttered as Valaran glared balefully at him. He could almost feel the darts of fury hurled by those emerald-hard eyes.

She put a finger to her lips. With a thrust of her chin, she indicated he should take his place on the other side of the bier, at the emperor’s right hand.

Tol drew Number Six in a swift motion. After saluting Pakin III with broad sweeps of his saber, Tol knelt in the appointed place, laid his weapon down, and straightened the folds of his robe. Bowing his head, he smoothed his face into an expression of calm introspection, but inside he was fuming.

How dare she treat him so coldly! Returned at last, victorious from a long campaign in the east, narrowly missing death many, many times, and still she wouldn’t even speak to him! Ten years he’d been gone – nearly eleven. Val had stopped answering his letters without one word of explanation. He’d believed their love was eternal, their passion unquenchable. What had happened?

The still form of the late emperor drew his attention. Long illness had leached the color from Pakin III; his hair, beard, and skin were white as Tol’s mourning robes. A curious detail caught Tol’s attention. Where the dead man’s hands were wrapped around the handle of the scepter, the gaps between his fingers had disappeared. Finger flowed into finger without a break.

Startled, Tol studied Pakin III’s face more closely. The lines on the aged face were not the sagging creases of skin, but sharper, more inflexible. His skin had an odd, flat sheen.

Tol stood and leaned over the late emperor to get a better look. As he entered the moonlight, he shivered. Poets called Solin’s aura cold, but he’d never taken their words literally. Yet the light, concentrated and directed through the tower, was indeed cold, icy as a high mountain stream. It washed the warmth from Tol’s flesh, making him shiver hard. Doggedly, he persisted and touched the dead man’s hand. The hand and wrist were rigid and hard.

Pakin III had turned to stone.

Was this a statue, standing in for the frail remains of the late emperor? Closer inspection forced Tol to abandon that notion. On the back of Pakin III’s thin hand white hairs still sprouted, and age spots discolored the surface – yet the flesh had become something akin to alabaster. This then must be a special rite of the wizards’ college, a bizarre magical embalming that slowly turned Pakin III’s mortal remains into imperishable stone.

Valaran was watching him disapprovingly. The hood of her gown left only the oval of her face exposed. Contrasted against the white silk, her skin was a warm rose color. She’d never been an outdoor type, preferring the shadowed corridors of the palace, a quiet library, or the wizards’ garden by night. Warm memories of the latter brought color to Tol’s face. Clearing his throat, he resumed his kneeling posture.

Many times Val had shared with him whatever weighty tome she was reading. Books about the bloody deeds of her ancestors, the religious practices of the Silvanesti, or the marriage customs of gnomes, all were eagerly devoured by the inquisitive girl. Once, as they lay hidden on the roof of the palace, washed in the light of the setting sun, Valaran had begun reciting the epic of Huma, slayer of dragons. She had never finished the poem. Tol had plucked the scroll from her hands and loved her there and then on the ancient battlements. It was their most daring encounter, the one he cherished above all others. In the wizards’ garden they were protected from intruders by the wall of sleep. On the palace roof, without such protection, they might have been discovered by anyone. Danger only sweetened the moment. It had been an immortal night.

From being chilled to the bone, Tol now felt uncomfortably warm. Passion, even recalled from so long ago, was stirring his blood. Perhaps it was disrespectful to be dwelling on old love rather than pious prayers, but Tol didn’t think Pakin III would mind. The emperor had been an irreverent man, impatient with pomp and protocol. Valaran had been one of his favorites, and he indulged her like a fond grandfather.

Tol tugged at his robe, now clinging to his skin. The air seemed muggier than when he’d entered. He glanced across the bier and realized Valaran must be feeling the warmth, too. Shiny beads of sweat dimpled her forehead.

The failing light explained the change. Solin was progressing through the heavens, slowly leaving its place above the tower. As the cone of cold light shrank, the normal heat of late summer reclaimed the hall.

Tol bowed his head, closing his eyes. Rest in peace, great Pakin. Given the turmoil that was sure to follow, the reign of Pakin III might seem like a golden age in the days to come.

After a brief time, the sound of movement caused him to open his eyes. Solin was nearly gone from overhead, and Valaran had pushed back her cowl to cool her head. She lifted the heavy mass of hair from her neck and ears. Tol could see the tiny notch on the top of her left ear, souvenir of a childhood fight with Vorkai and Talmaz, her elder brothers. Ten years had honed her fine features. A woman’s strength and beauty showed in every line, every contour.

Tol’s knees ached from his long vigil. He shifted position slightly. Skinning back the sleeves from his arms, he opened the collar of his robe. The dark tan of his face and arms contrasted starkly with the white linen.

Valaran was looking at him. Catching his eye, she quickly averted her gaze. A small thing perhaps, but it was the first time she had looked at him without obvious ire.

Solin was gone. The only light now was a faint glow from the bier itself. Heat suffused the great domed hall. Sweat trickled behind Tol’s ears. Valaran shifted slightly, brow furrowed with discomfort.

Fate must have brought them together like this, Tol mused. Fate, destiny, the gods themselves must have conspired to allow him to be alone with Valaran, even with the body of the dead emperor between them and no words spoken. This was a gift he hadn’t expected. It had long been said that Tolandruth of Juramona was the luckiest warrior in the empire. Tol had never agreed with that. A wise man made his own luck.

Valaran parted the collar of her gown, opening it just enough to bare a wedge of skin. Transfixed, Tol watched a single drop of sweat curve down her neck to the hollow of her throat. It paused there, then plunged on, vanishing where the folds of her gown came together.

How much could a man bear? His throat constricted with the need to speak, yet one word, even a whisper, and the whole corps of wizards outside would rush in and punish the desecration of the vigil, a dishonor to both Pakin III and Amaltar.

I love you, Tol thought fervently, framing each word with such care he had to clench his jaw to keep them from escaping his lips. I love you, Valaran.

Time dragged, slow as resin oozing from a wounded pine. The ache in Tol’s knees was nothing compared to the longing in his heart. He prayed for dawn, for release from this torture, but the heavens would not hurry to suit him.

A faint sound interrupted his long torment. Valaran had sighed. She rolled back her sleeves, baring her arms to her elbows. Her fingers were long and tapering, a lyrist’s hands, though Val disdained idle pastimes like music. With her fingers spread, she could hold a manuscript open with one hand while holding her tea, or taking notes, with the other – no mean feat. Those hands had also gripped the back of Tol’s neck with desperate strength when she’d feared he might leave her too soon. Not trifling things, those hands. He had been held by them often enough to revere them.

Again he caught her sneaking a glance at him over the bier. Was it his own wishful thinking, or had her expression softened? It wasn’t love, but something other than anger flickering in her eyes. From her expression, it seemed to Tol she desired to ask him a question but couldn’t quite frame the words.

He returned her gaze calmly, concealing his own inner turmoil with great effort. They studied each other, both perspiring in the stifling dimness. It came to resemble a contest to see who would look away first. Tol never wanted to look away ever. Solin’s rays could harden him to stone right here, forever beholding the woman he loved.

When light did at last slant in, graying the high dome, it took some time before either of them recognized the dawn. Still they did not turn away.

Footfalls announced the entry of two members of the White Robe order. They halted at the foot of the bier. The younger bore a tray with a slender pitcher and two clay cups. The older wizard made the sign of Draco Paladin in the air, ending the vigil.

“Good morrow to you, Highness,” he said. “Welcome the day, my lord. I am Perogen.”

In unison, they turned away from each other to face the newcomers. Tol’s tongue was thick, his throat parched. Coughing a bit, he said, “It was a long, hot night.”

He got to his feet. His legs roared with pain as blood rushed back to long-folded muscles. Perogen extended a hand to help Valaran rise, but she ignored it and staggered upright unaided.

The younger wizard presented the tray of refreshments. He was about Tol’s age, clean shaven, and with dark skin like Felryn. Perogen poured two measures of amber liquid from the slender pitcher. Silvanesti nectar. An ironic choice, Tol thought, given the events of Pakin III’s life.

A cup was offered first to Valaran, who took precedence over Tol. She downed the nectar in a single long swallow.

Tol watched her slender throat work and swallowed hard himself. This vigil had been worse than some battles he’d been in. Well, not worse perhaps, but certainly hard to bear. He sipped his own nectar gingerly, letting it trickle down his dry throat.

Valaran set the cup back on the tray then carefully adjusted her gown, closing the neck and unrolling the sleeves. “Thank you,” she said to the wizards, her only words all night. With a swirl of silk, she turned and walked swiftly out of the tower.

The young wizard frowned slightly at the obvious tension in the air. “Did the vigil pass well?” he asked.

“Well enough. I owe much to the late emperor. It was hard to say farewell to him,” Tol murmured.

“We were told you were most devoted to him,” said Perogen. “That’s why you were given this duty.”

“I’m honored.” The import of the fellow’s words suddenly occurred to him. “Who told you I was specially devoted to the late emperor?”

“Consort Valaran, my lord. It was her request that brought you here.”

Tol smiled all the way back to the Quarry district. Upon his return, Miya made ribald comments about where he’d been, scoffing at the notion of a holy vigil. She knew that look, she teased. He’d been with a woman.

And so he had.

*

Mandes the Mist-Maker yawned and stretched. It had been a long night and a boring one. He could not use his magic to spy upon the dead emperor’s vigil; the Tower of High Sorcery was well shielded against such intrusions. He was forced to rely on a more old-fashioned method to gain information about Lord Tolandruth’s activities – he bribed a young Red Robe to act as his spy.

“They did nothing, master,” his hireling reported. “They remained kneeling by the bier all night and never spoke.”

Mandes smiled and readily gave the young wizard the promised six gold pieces. His informer seemed puzzled by his pleasure.

“Nothing happens for many days after a seed is planted,” Mandes told him. “To expect a sprout the first night would be unnatural.”

He dismissed the spy, reminding himself to ask Prince Nazramin to have the fellow killed. Anyone who could be so easily bought was a liability to their scheme.

Chapter 11

FORCE OF ARMS

More vigils followed. Each night two people with close ties to the late emperor stood watch over his remains. When the rites ended, Pakin III was completely transformed into stone, and then it was time for the coronation and funeral. Traditionally, the two ceremonies were performed sequentially. Only when the old emperor had been consigned to the gods could the new emperor be crowned. Because Pakin III’s preservation depended on the natural course of Solin through the sky, the petrification process occupied several days.

In her rooms deep within the palace, Valaran felt half turned to stone herself. She’d known that after Pakin III’s death the warlords of the empire would gather from all over to put their old master to rest and see a new emperor crowned. She knew that Tol would be one of those lords, of course he would. That was perfectly logical, and she prided herself on her logical and ordered mind. Unlike the featherbrained consorts and ladies-in-waiting who populated the palace, Valaran was well read, intelligent, rational —

She threw aside the roll of parchment on which she’d been writing. This was her fifth book, a history of the cadet branches of the Ackal dynasty. Five years she’d spent compiling genealogies, reading dry old chronicles from every corner of the realm where the many descendants of Ackal Ergot had spread, seeking to understand the impulses and motives behind the history. Now the sight of one man in the Tower of High Sorcery was driving all sensible thoughts from her head.

What was his gift? Why did this son of a peasant farmer hold such a grip on her heart and mind? He wasn’t the smartest man in Ergoth, nor the strongest, nor the bravest. Tol wasn’t even the best-looking man around. He was short, broad shouldered and thick necked, with a coarse, loud voice. And yet —

Valaran went to the window. She could see the wall of the Inner City, a patch of the wizards’ garden, and the pallid glow of the Tower of High Sorcery beyond. White banners flipped slowly in the night breeze. Beyond the wall, the lamps of Daltigoth were lit.

Tol was real. When he took her out the first time through the streets of the capital to that noisy, dirty tavern, he was in his element and she was out of hers. The true world of sweat, dirt, and blood – that was the realm where Tol of Juramona stood tall and commanded respect. Not in the shadowed halls of power. Not in the scented courts of devious nobility and pampered consorts.

Damn him to the fires of all Chaos! She struck the heel of her hand against the wall, succeeding only in making her wrist hurt. Like an old scar, Tol brought with him an ache she had thought long healed. No, not a scar – more like a severed limb. Everyone knew that warriors or workmen who lost hands, arms, or legs experienced pain in the missing part long after the stump healed. Learned healers wrote treatises on why this was so. The Silvanesti sage Coralethian believed the soul of a living being was shaped like their flesh. When an arm was chopped off, the flesh passed away, but the soul of the limb still lived. It ached, as any limb of blood and bone would, when the phantom extremity felt cold or was tired or strained.

So it was with Valaran. She’d severed Tol from her life over ten years ago, but he was still there, a part of her soul. The missing part ached.

There was a cure, but she feared it would be worse than the pain.

*

Every day, more and more of the empire’s warlords arrived in Daltigoth, assembling from all parts of Ergoth. Some were battle hardened and trailworn, others softened by years of idle luxury. The first high lords from the armies at Tarsis reached the capital five days after Tol’s arrival. They brought news of the city’s final capitulation. The princes and syndics had submitted to all the empire’s demands, ceding coastal territory in Kharland, agreeing to remove the high tariffs on Ergothian trade goods and to use their navy to curb piracy, and allowing the establishment of an Ergothian garrison just two leagues from Tarsis.

Daltigoth went wild with joy at the news. The name credited with this considerable victory over a wily foe was Lord Tolandruth’s. Men who had served in Tol’s army came to his rented villa to pay their respects. As it would have been inhospitable to send well-wishers away without refreshment, Tol soon found his larder depleted and the Dom-shu sisters in revolt. Tol hired a cook and kitchen crew. To mollify Miya, who refused to allow anyone else to take over the marketing yet complained about the amount of food she had to purchase and organize daily, he himself agreed to help with the shopping. It would give him an excuse to get outside, moving among the people without ceremony.

On a gray morning four days after Tol’s vigil, he and the sisters wheeled an empty cart out of the villa gates, headed to market; that is to say, Tol pushed the two-wheeled cart, and Kiya and Miya walked ahead of him. The dawn sky was low and threatening. The smell of rain was in the air.

It took considerable muscle to manhandle the pushcart through and up the twisty, uneven streets of the Quarry district. When they finally reached the level of the city proper, Tol was sweating. He wore no armor, only a light linen shirt and leather trews. His heavy saber hung from his left hip.

The nearest market square was in the Old City. It was a long, rather narrow square, lined with temporary stalls and stands. The food sellers inhabited the south end; the north was populated by potters, tanners, cobblers – those who peddled items other than food.

Tol and the sisters, were at the south end, and Miya had already acquired a side of bacon from a butcher at a startlingly low price, when a commotion broke out at the other end of the square.

A gang of men erupted into the market, their faces concealed beneath blue scarves. They assaulted anyone within reach and tipped over sellers’ stands. From all around came screams and the cracking of wood. The noisy, crowded market fell silent as everyone looked up from their business toward the disturbance.

“Who wears blue?” Tol demanded, incensed. “Not some followers of the Pakin clan, are they?”

“I’ve heard talk about this band,” Miya said in a low voice. “Skylanders, they call’em. They’re said to owe allegiance to a secret group of provincial landowners opposed to the new emperor.”

“Who do they prefer?” asked Kiya. “Prince Nazramin?”

Tol shook his head. “Nazramin’s followers wear black.”

The politics of Ergoth, like its war-making, was brutal. Factions formed gangs to intimidate their rivals; by committing outrages, they made their opponents look and feel powerless.

Tol knew nothing about these Skylanders or their beliefs, but he wasn’t going to allow vandals to wreak destruction. The square was crowded with more than enough people to subdue the criminals, if only the folk would band together and fight.

Tol drew his saber. “Are we going to stand here and let thugs ruin our city?” he shouted. “Fill your hands, and we’ll send these dogs back to their masters whipped! Who’s with me?”

He started forward a few steps but stopped, suddenly aware he was charging alone. Even the Dom-shu sisters seemed reluctant to mix in. The blue-masked gang continued to overturn carts and pummel helpless onlookers. Anyone slow to flee was dragged aside and beaten with cudgels, the gang’s only weapon.

“What’s the matter with you?” Tol raged, as traders and customers alike stood wide-eyed and unmoving. Those closest to him seemed more frightened of his bared blade than of the rampaging rioters fifty paces away.

Rabbits, he thought suddenly. They were like rabbits frozen in place by the baying of the hunting pack; they think they can hide simply by remaining immobile. Ordinary city folk, diligent and hardworking, they had grown dependent on the Riders of the Horde for protection.

Tol sheathed his sword. Going to a trestle laden with summer cabbages, he handed the seller two silver coins and yanked one of the folding legs loose from the table. Cabbages tumbled around Tol’s feet, and he now had a stout stick. Tapping it against his palm, he started toward the trouble.

Their indifference broken, the Dom-shu yelled for him to wait. They grabbed the first things to hand which could be used as weapons – the wooden poles from their pushcart. Removed from the sockets, these made handy staves.

As the ruffians ploughed through the crowded square, a swell of panicked people rushed to get away. Tol found himself breasting this human tide. He grabbed an able-bodied young man as the fellow rushed by and shook him until his teeth rattled.

“Listen to me!” he barked. He pressed a gold coin into the man’s hand. “Find the City Guards! Have them send a detachment here to quell the riot!”

The terrified man jerked away from Tol and resumed his panicked dash. Two heartbeats later, the stampede thinned before the oncoming Skylanders, and Tol found himself facing seven toughs. More were working their way through the frightened crowd.

Surprised to see someone standing up to them, they halted in a body, but the lull lasted only a moment.

“Him!” exclaimed one of the masked men, pointing at Tol with his stick. “Pound him into the cobbles!”

Yelling, six men charged. Tol sidestepped the first, whacking him across the shoulders in passing. The man pitched onto his face. Tol parried an overhand blow from the second, dropped his shoulder to avoid a hit from the third, and thrust the end of his bludgeon into the face of the fourth attacker. He received a whack on his left thigh from the fifth man. He punched that one in the throat, cursing himself even as he struck home. He knew better than to hit someone with his fist. It was an instinctual reaction, but also a good way to break every bone in your hand.

Ducking a sideways swing from the sixth man, Tol now found himself ringed by masked enemies. He wasn’t overly worried. Although they were rough and brutal, they weren’t trained warriors. He had faced any number of more seasoned and dangerous foes than these street toughs.

Unconsciously, Tol smiled, giving a snort. The contemptuous sound caused the blue-masked gangsters to hesitate; this was not the reaction they usually encountered. Tol immediately used the advantage. He hurled himself at the farthest one, the fellow least expecting an attack. The borrowed table leg connected with the thug’s jaw. Bone yielded, and the man went down.

Someone landed a terrific blow on the small of Tol’s back. Pain seared through him, and he staggered forward. He stumbled against a fruit seller’s stall, collapsing on a tray of ripe grapes. Half blind with pain, he still managed to get his stick up in time to ward off the next swing.

A full-fledged riot had broken out. Some opportunists in the square were trying to loot the stalls, but if the traders would not stand up to masked gangsters, they apparently had no qualms about cracking the heads of common thieves.

The churning crowd had delayed Kiya and Miya, but at last they fought their way to Tol’s side, screeching forester war cries that gave their blue-masked foes a start. Kiya fended off attackers while Miya boosted Tol to his feet.

“Where’ve you been?” he gasped.

“Buyingbeef,” Miya quipped. “Prices dropped suddenly!”

Kiya battered down a Skylander, but more took his place. Blue-masked enemies were thick around them. The press of so many foes forced Kiya back to her sister and Tol.

“You two done resting?” she snapped.

Tol answered by laying out four opponents with as many blows. He got a nasty chop in the ribs and staggered back again, gasping. There were too many, too many attackers in too close quarters.

The gang leader who’d ordered his men to pound Tol appeared again. Now he personally went on the attack, holding his stave in two hands, like a quarterstaff. Tol fended him off, but this man was not like the other Skylanders. This man had warrior skills.

Tol used his shorter stick to deflect another attack from the leader. The fellow sidled left, seeking to cut Tol off from Kiya and Miya. Sliding on the crushed fruit underfoot, Tol drew off. He feigned confusion, dropping one end of his stick. The leader promptly swung his cudgel up in a powerful underhand stroke, aiming for Tol’s unguarded chin. Tol hurled the table leg, which rapped his opponent across the nose. The gangster yelled and fell flat on his back amidst the purple pulp of a cartload of grapes.

Tol advanced quickly, snatching up the fellow’s own staff. He stood over him. “Yield,” he commanded, breathing hard. “Guardsmen are coming!”

“Liar!” the masked man hissed. He drew a long, thin knife from his boot and cut at Tol. The sharp tip snagged on Tol’s pants leg. He sprang back out of the way.

Discarding the borrowed stave, Tol drew his saber. He hoped the lingering hiss of blade on scabbard would bring the gang leader to his senses. It did not. Undaunted, the masked man thrust at him again.

Tol presented his far longer blade, ordering his opponent to disarm.

“Mercy?” sneered the masked man. His face above the blue kerchief was young, but his dark eyes were those of a fanatic. “But I heard Lord Tolandruth was such a fierce warrior!”

Tol was surprised to be recognized, but easily knocked the man’s knife back. “I don’t know you,” he said. “Why should I want your blood?”

“Because I’ll have yours if I can!”

He slashed at Tol. Catching the point on his handguard, Tol drove the masked man back with a strong shove. He raked the tip of his sword down the man’s chest. Homespun tweed split wide under Tol’s blade. Metal gleamed beneath. His foe was wearing a scale shirt!

Taking advantage of Tol’s brief surprise, the masked man lunged again, blade driving straight at Tol’s heart. No armor protected him, but Tol stood his ground and at the last minute bound up the short blade with a twisting movement. He straightened his arm, and two decades of training and battle experience turned the knife aside. The point of Number Six drove inexorably through scale mail, into flesh, bone, and heart.

The attacker’s eyes went wide in shock, his fingers opening.

The knife clattered to the pavement and a moment later his lifeless body joined it.

Tol planted a foot on the dead man’s chest to pull his sword free. Around him the riot continued. There was no time to reflect on this senseless death.

Kiya was down, one leg crumpled under her. Miya stood over her, ferociously fending off more enemies. Tol ran toward them, yelling. The sight of his bloody blade gave the Skylanders pause, and they fell back from the beleaguered Dom-shu.

Kiya’s face was ashen with pain. Her knee was purpling, and she could not stand. Furious that she’d been hurt, Tol charged into the blue-masked gang, slashing right and left, curses flying uncharacteristically from his lips.

An oiled cudgel whisked by the tip of Tol’s nose. His attacker recovered and raised the stick again. Tol let him swing, turning the edge of his sword to meet the blow. The end of the cudgel hit the dwarf-forged blade and split neatly along its entire length. Startled, the Skylander dropped the remnants of his stave and fled.

Tol was about to give chase when he heard a clattering noise. There was no mistaking the hoofbeats of iron-shod war-horses. The City Guards!

Over the heads of the struggling mob Tol saw a wedge of riders entering the square at the south end. They were soldiers all right, but not city guardsmen in white mourning mantles. This trailworn group sported muddied red capes.

Using their horses and the butt ends of their spears, the riders tried to part the crowd. The mob was so thick the horsemen could make little headway.

Tol and Miya stood over the injured Kiya. Common folk gave them a wide berth, and the masked troublemakers disappeared. The Skylander threat was gone, but waves of panic and rage flowed through the crowd, and Tol feared his little party would be trampled. He and Miya beat back anyone who ventured too close.

A horn blared over the chaos. Tol and Miya exchanged a disbelieving look. They knew that call.

“Juramona!” cried Kiya hoarsely.

In a final pell-mell rush, a troop of horsemen parted the mob. Tol at last beheld the banner on the tip of the trumpeter’s spear: the Eagle Horde!

Hailing the riders, Tol slammed his sword back into its sheath. The officer in the midst of the troop removed his helmet.

“Egrin! It’s Egrin!” Miya cried, slapping her sister happily on the shoulder. Kiya winced but looked pleased as well.

To Tol’s glad eyes, his former mentor seemed unchanged by the years. His auburn hair and thick beard might be a bit more gray now than when they’d first met, but Egrin still sat tall in the saddle, his back straight as a tent stake.

Reining up before Tol, Egrin saluted. “My lord,” he said. “It is good to see you.”

“And you, my old friend! How did you find me?”

The elder warrior smiled slightly. “All of Daltigoth knows where Lord Tolandruth dwells. I merely asked the first soldier I came across.” Dryly, he added, “Once in the area, I had but to follow the sounds of battle. I knew you would not be far away.”

“Marketing in this town is rude business,” Miya said, grinning. She’d helped her sister stand and now supported Kiya. “Try to strike a bargain and see what happens!”

Egrin dismounted, chuckling. After clasping arms with Tol he said to the Dom-shu women, “It’s good to see you both. I rest easier every night knowing you guard Tol’s back.”

Kiya grunted. “He needs us,” she said sourly. “Thirty-two years old and he still runs at danger like a young hothead.”

Tol protested, “I am a temperate man!”

“Temperate as a bull,” Miya said. She asked Egrin, “Has he always been so?”

“No more so than most young men. I would call him bold rather than hotheaded.” The marshal regarded his renowned former comrade fondly. “Bold, with a knack for doing the unexpected.”

“And lucky,” Kiya said. “Lucky as the gods’ favorite.”

Tol gruffly put a stop to their discussion. A grimmer task needed doing. Kicking through the debris, he found the body of the gang leader he’d dueled. He squatted in the wreckage of the morning market and rolled the dead man over. He removed the fellow’s blue mask.

To his astonishment the face of Pelladrom Tumult was revealed, the young noble Tol had seen standing at the new emperor’s side. Why was a high-born, well-positioned young warrior leading a gang of thugs smashing up pushcarts?

“Who is he?” Egrin asked. Tol told him, and the marshal said urgently, “Cover his face!”

Sellers were returning to the square, collecting around the famous Lord Tolandruth. Tol let the blue kerchief fall, hiding the dead man’s features. Egrin summoned two of his own men to remove the body.

“I offered him quarter, but he forced this conclusion,” Tol said, as the scarf was tied in place over Pelladrom’s face and his body thrown over a saddle.

Drawing near so only Tol could hear, Egrin whispered, “Lord Enkian is on his way to Daltigoth for Prince Amaltar’s ascension.”

Enkian was Warden of the Seascapes, the province farthest from Daltigoth. Summer rains had swollen the major streams between the northwest coast and the capital. It might be another three or four days before Enkian arrived.

Tol sighed. Enkian had never liked Tol and would be furious at the killing of his youngest son, but the fight had been a fair one. Tol said as much, but Egrin shook his head, insisting, “You don’t understand. Enkian does not come alone! He brings five hordes!”

“Five thousand men?” Tol said, voice rising.

Although out of favor with the prince for his criticism during the war, a noble like Lord Enkian, coming to pay his respects to Pakin III and swear loyalty to his successor, was allowed to bring an entourage to the capital. For a modest man like Egrin, that meant twenty riders. A rich, prominent lord like Tremond of Thorngoth might bring a hundred, all dressed in his personal matching livery. Five hordes was not an honor guard but a warband.

Egrin’s face and voice were grim. “We had word of this as we rode south. People thought the Tarsans were invading!”

“What does he think he can do with five hordes? Seize the city? The Daltigoth garrison numbers ten times that many.”

“I don’t know what he intends, but he will not take the death of his son kindly. If he has five thousand men at his back, you must be careful, Tol!”

“Let him seek me out,” Tol said. “I’ll not hide what I’ve done.”

Unhappy, the marshal agreed. He returned to his waiting retainers and ordered two off their horses. With canvas and planks from a shattered stall, the soldiers made a litter for Kiya. She didn’t like being carried but her knee was painful enough that she relented after only a few protests. Egrin had accepted Miya’s enthusiastic offer to lodge with them in their hired villa, so Tol and Miya mounted the empty horses and led the Eagles home.

Despite the dark turn the day had taken, the journey to the villa was a happy one. Like the Dom-shu sisters, Egrin was very dear to Tol. The elder warrior was his second father, a substitute for his real family, whom he had not seen in years.

Three years after leaving to live in Juramona, Tol had returned to visit his family. He’d intended to remain a week but had departed after only three days. Although pleased to see them again, and they to see him, it had been an awkward visit. They didn’t know how to act around him, and he no longer seemed to have anything in common with them. His life in Juramona was utterly foreign to them. Where his mother, Ita, had cried for the changes in her boy, Bakal was gruff, yet obviously proud of Tol’s position as shield bearer to Egrin, Warden of the Eastern Hundred. As his mother hugged him goodbye, Tol had surreptitiously pressed into her hand a little money he’d saved. After taking leave of his father, and enduring a quick, embarrassed kiss from middle sister Nira (eldest sister Zalay was preparing to deliver her second child), Tol had mounted his horse and ridden away.

That was the last time he’d seen them. Apart from everything else Egrin meant to him, he was the only one of Tol’s old comrades to have known his family.

Once the party reached the Rumbold villa, a healer was sent for to tend Kiya’s knee. Having been in the saddle since before dawn, Egrin and his men were famished. Tol took them down to the kitchen and they dined together at two big tables.

“You look very well, Egrin,” Tol said, and he truly meant it. “Hardly a day older than when I first rode into Juramona with you on Old Acorn.”

Egrin waved a dismissive hand. “You were a child then; all adults seem elderly to the young.”

He pressed Tol for an account of his recent adventures. Tol told of the final battles before the walls of Tarsis (discreetly leaving out all mention of Hanira and the golems), and his subsequent hazardous journey through the hill country. He made the magical attacks on his party sound like natural storms. Without hard proof Mandes was responsible, Tol would not accuse him publicly.

Egrin was saddened to hear of Felryn’s death.

“A good man, and a wise and gentle healer.” He raised his wooden cup, brimming with beer. “May he stand forever at the right hand of Mishas!”

Tol and the sisters echoed the marshal’s toast. When Tol related the tale of Xanka and the Blood Fleet, Egrin shook his head in disbelief.

“At the mercy of this bloody buccaneer and you bullied him into a duel? Then you slew him before his crew and fellow captains?”

Tol shrugged. “I could see Xanka was a coward at heart. If I challenged his courage in front of his men, I knew he’d fight me. To do anything else would have cost him too much prestige, maybe even command of the Fleet.”

Egrin asked to see the blade Tol had used to defeat the pirate chief. Number Six was duly handed over. Egrin fingered the blade, pressing his thumbnail against the flat. Despite the use Tol had put it to, the curved blade was as bright and smooth as the day Mundur Embermore had given it to him.

“I’ve heard rumors of this metal for years,” Egrin said, holding up the saber and running his gaze down the cutting edge. “Only a few in the dwarf clans know the secret of its making.”

“Is it magic?” asked Miya.

“Not at all. The dwarves use a special forging process to temper ordinary iron into something far stronger – ‘steel’ as the pirate captain said.” He handed Number Six back, adding, “There’s no armor in the empire could turn aside that blade. I wish I had one for every man in the Eagle Horde.”

Tol had finished his recollections. Since he hadn’t mentioned it, Miya told how he had been summoned to a vigil over the late emperor’s remains. Egrin’s bushy brows rose in surprise.

“That is an honor indeed!”

Miya smirked. “Husband thought so. Especially since he didn’t keep watch alone.”

“Take care!” Tol interrupted, raising his voice. Though among friends, he would not see Valaran compromised. Hearing his concern, Miya subsided and Egrin let the matter drop.

The healer arrived, a garrulous old woman named Truda. She examined Kiya’s knee, gave the welcome pronouncement that it was bruised not broken, and wrapped it with linen bandages and a splint. Leaving the Dom-shu woman a bottle of medicine to ease the swelling and pain, Truda treated the rest of them to the latest street gossip.

“There was fighting in every square this morning,” she said. Her purse clinked heavily with the money she’d earned treating the injured. “Skylanders, Nazramin’s Wolves, the whole lot. They say you, my lord, quelled one of the riots all by yourself.”

Tol sighed. People told such lies about him, even if they were complimentary lies. Miya and Kiya set the old healer straight. Truda was disappointed, but her black eyes narrowed with unpleasant mirth.

“Your Lordship did slay the chief of the Skylanders, did you not?”

Tol was astonished word had spread so quickly. Egrin’s men had brought Pelladrom’s covered body directly to the villa. He was lying in the cellar until Tol and the marshal could arrange an audience with Amaltar to tell him what had happened.

“People are talking,” Truda went on. “They say the Skylanders’ chief was of high birth. I’d be happy to quell that rumor, if I could.”

Tol ignored the blatant plea for gossip. He paid her twice her normal fee and the healer was swiftly ushered out.

With Kiya taken care of and the Juramona men made welcome, the difficult visit to Amaltar could not be put off any longer. Tol and Egrin departed to make themselves more presentable for an audience with the future emperor.

Alone in his room, Tol poured cool water from a ewer into a shallow basin and raised a double handful to his face. Staring at his reflection in the mirror, he paused.

In the moment of his greatest triumph his enemies seemed to be multiplying. Could he best them all? Staunch friends, a strong arm, a blade of dwarf steel, and the Irda nullstone were among his assets; Were they enough?

What of Mandes? The sorcerer had defamed him, stolen his glory, and besmirched his honor for more than a decade. Was Mandes responsible for all the treachery that seemed to surround him? If he denounced Mandes, would Amaltar even believe him? Mandes had become a highly trusted advisor to the new emperor, while Tol had been absent a long time.

On the sea journey to Daltigoth, he had contemplated what should be done about the rogue wizard. Mandes was not merely a faithless liar, he was a murderer. Tol was more and more certain he had killed Tol’s men at the Golden House in Tarsis and killed Felryn and Frez as well.

Tol dashed the water on his face. His resolution was firm. There could be only one solution to the problem of Mandes.

Whatever happened with Nazramin or Lord Enkian, the Mist-Maker could not be allowed to live.

*

Although they hadn’t been summoned, Tol and Egrin had no trouble gaining admittance to the imperial palace. The guards, hailing Lord Tolandruth, ushered the hero of Tarsis through the Inner City to the palace steps. Draymon, commander of the Palace Guard, appeared and sternly ordered his men back to their posts.

“My lord,” he said. “I had no word you were coming.”

“I come on my own. May I see the emperor?”

“He is in council now —”

Egrin said, “The matter is pressing.”

Draymon was not about to forestall two such formidable visitors. With a nod, he conducted them himself to the imperial council chamber.

Loud voices came to them through the closed doors. Egrin professed surprise. Emperor Pakin III would never have allowed such a contentious enclave.

Draymon looked grave. “Our new master, may the gods guide him, is not the man he once was.”

He left them while he entered the chamber to announce them. The heavy gilded doors did not allow them to hear his measured tones, but the chorus of loud denunciations his words engendered carried clearly to Tol and Egrin. They exchanged a look.

When Draymon finally returned, his face was red with embarrassment, but he said, “The emperor will see you at once.”

Tol surrendered his sword, and Egrin likewise removed his saber and dagger. Draymon took the weapons, but delayed Tol’s entry with a quick jerk of his head.

“They’re all there, including Prince Nazramin,” he muttered. “Beware, my lord.”

Tol nodded. “Thank you, Captain. A favor? Stay close to this door – with my sword.”

Another man might have smelled a nefarious purpose in such a request, but Draymon vowed he would remain outside the council chamber until Tol and Egrin returned.

Tol grasped the smooth, cold door handles and shoved the heavy portals apart. The sunlit chamber beyond was much as it had been when he’d last seen it, when he’d volunteered to lead three hundred foot soldiers to Hylo to find the unknown enemy threatening Ergothian hegemony over the kender kingdom. That quest had led to the death of the monster XimXim and the loss of many good comrades.

Amaltar’s assembled advisors ceased bickering as Tol and Egrin entered, but their expressions could hardly be termed welcoming. The crowd parted, revealing Amaltar seated at the head of the long table.

The soon-to-be emperor looked even less well than he had when Tol had seen him just days before. His skin was ashen, a sickly color only made more obvious by the deep scarlet of his robes. His dark eyes, once so intelligent and penetrating, stared out from deeply hollow sockets. High cheekbones, once the envy of many a noble lady, now stood out in such sharp relief his face resembled a skull.

Tol knelt, as he’d been told to do when last presented to Amaltar. Egrin’s astonishment at the action was plain. Warlords of the empire knelt to no one! But he too slowly went down on one knee.

“Your Imperial Highness,” Tol said. “Thank you for receiving us.”

“Lord Tolandruth, welcome. Egrin Raemel’s son, welcome. Come before me.” Though his chest rattled slightly with phlegm, Amaltar’s voice was still strong.

Tol rose. Egrin trailed him through the line of glaring councilors: Chamberlain Valdid; Oropash, head of the White Robes; Red Robe leader Helbin; Lord Rymont, commander of the imperial hordes in Lord Regobart’s absence; lesser lords of the hordes based in the capital; and Prince Nazramin.

Amaltar’s younger brother sat at the end of the lengthy table. Turned partly away, Nazramin’s posture was more proof of Amaltar’s weakness. Such casual contempt would never have been dreamt of in the presence of Pakin III. The Prince Amaltar Tol remembered wouldn’t have allowed it either.

Nazramin was dressed in impeccable white, but his attire was so stylishly cut and so lavishly sprinkled with pearls and sparkling diamonds it could hardly be called mourning dress. He ignored Tol’s progress through the room, blithely studying his nails.

Mandes was there as well, hovering behind the emperor’s chair. Though Amaltar’s personal physician and seer, Mandes did not have the status to sit at the council table. Hands clasped across his belly, the sorcerer kept to the background, one of many aides, assistants, and servants of the great men gathered around the Emperor of Ergoth and his high councilors. Unlike Prince Nazramin, however, Mandes met Tol’s gaze. The sight of his bland countenance filled Tol with unexpected fury; he clenched his jaw to keep the emotion from showing on his face.

Tol and Egrin halted by Amaltar’s right hand. They saluted, warrior-fashion.

“Marshal,” Amaltar said, smiling at Egrin, “it has been a long time. You look well.”

“As well as a warrior half my age, Your Majesty,” Egrin joked. “How fare’s Your Majesty’s health?”

Several courtiers gasped at the impudent question, but Amaltar said, “While I was regent, I ruled with the vigor of three men. Now they’re about to put the crown on my head, I have the strength of less than one. Why is that, I wonder?”

“It’s grief,” Nazramin called out from the other end of the council table. “Grief for our noble father, isn’t it, Your Majesty?”

This was obviously a jibe. Amaltar and his father had not been close. In fact, Pakin had cared little for any of his sons, preferring the gentler company of his wives and daughters.

Ignoring his disrespectful brother, Amaltar asked, “What weighty matter brings you here this day, Tolandruth? Surely you did not enter a closed council session to present Marshal Egrin, close though he is to our heart.”

“No, Majesty.” Tol looked to Egrin briefly. The older man urged him on with a slight nod. “There was a spree of riots in the city this morning.”

“There have been many riots,” Lord Rymont said haughtily. Tol’s age but blond where he was dark, Rymont had never fought in a major battle. “Malcontents from all over the empire have come to Daltigoth to air their petty grievances. They will be found out and punished.”

“One already has.”

Rymont thrust out his broad, clean-shaven chin. “Indeed? Who?”

“The leader of the gang that wears blue kerchiefs over their faces,” Tol replied.

“Skylanders,” said Helbin, leader of the Red Robe wizards.

“Provincial scum!” exclaimed Rymont’s aide.

“They’re not scum,” Oropash countered, mopping his round, sweaty face with a handkerchief. “The gentry have many legitimate grievances —”

The city-based warlords shouted him down. They rallied around Lord Rymont, denouncing the Skylanders and their sympathizers as traitors to the empire.

Before things grew too heated, Tol said, “This band of malcontents, as Lord Rymont calls them, attacked the market square near the Quarry district this morning. It so happened I was there with my Dom-shu companions. The chief of the Blue Masks sought me out.” He folded his arms. “He now lies dead in the cellar of my house.”

Tol watched those in the room carefully for any reaction. Mandes’s benign expression twitched as he turned away. Oropash seemed relieved, but Helbin looked alarmed. Nazramin picked up an apple from a tray on the table and bit into it loudly.

“We’ll find out who he was,” Rymont declared. “His confederates will be rounded up!”

“No need. We know who he was,” Egrin put in, “and he is familiar to everyone in this room.”

A heavy silence fell, broken only by the sound of Nazramin devouring his apple.

“Well, speak his name, Marshal, and be done with it!” Rymont prompted peevishly.

Egrin allowed another instant of silence to pass then complied. “His name was Pelladrom Tumult.”

All of them, including Prince Nazramin, were thunderstruck for the space of two heartbeats, then the council chamber exploded into noise. Rymont’s aides all but called Tol a liar and a murderer. They recalled the clash of wills between him and Pelladrom the day Tol had returned to Daltigoth. He had manufactured this story, they said, merely to get back at the proud young noble. Besides, no well-born Rider of the Great Horde would put on a mask and brawl in the streets, especially not on behalf of a band of ragtag bumpkins like the Skylanders.

Angry at their insinuations, Tol looked to the emperor for support. However, Amaltar was clutching his chest with one hand. His face had gone utterly white, and his lips were blue. He gasped for breath.

“Your Majesty!” Tol cried, effectively silencing the uproar.

Chamberlain Valdid hurried to his master. He summoned Mandes with a quick flick of his hand. The sorcerer came forward and laid white-gloved fingers on the great vein in Amaltar’s neck, checking his pulse. Snapping commands to two lackeys, Mandes had a potion compounded on the spot. He was about to administer it to Amaltar when Tol stayed his hand.

“My lord, the emperor needs his medicine,” Mandes protested.

“You drink it first,” Tol said.

Several courtiers gasped. The wizard tried to laugh off the demand, but Tol’s unflinching gaze and hard grip on his right wrist doomed that ploy. Shrugging, Mandes took the vial in his left hand, raised it to his lips, and sipped.

Tol stared. Two hands. Mandes now had two working hands. He’d somehow replaced his lost left arm. Was his healing magic that powerful? He watched Mandes intently for any adverse reaction to the brew he’d been forced to drink.

When nothing happened, Tol released him. Mandes held the remainder of the potion to Amaltar’s lips. Moments after he swallowed it, color flooded back into the emperor’s face. His chest heaved, and he drew a stronger breath.

“His Majesty suffers from asthma. The condition was brought on by too much work and too little rest,” Mandes explained, tucking his gloved hands into his sleeves. Though others whispered, he seemed in no wise upset by Tol’s rude treatment.

“When did you become his physician?” asked Tol coldly.

“I have tended His Majesty in many roles for the past eight years.” Mandes smiled, adding sweetly, “You haven’t been at court, my lord, so of course you wouldn’t know that.”

If Tol had possessed a blade at that moment, Mandes would have died. Egrin sensed this and pulled the infuriated warrior away.

Nazramin’s dry voice cut across the room. “If my brother is improved, can we return to the matter of young Tumult’s death? Is there any real proof he was the leader of the Skylanders in Daltigoth?”

“Only that he died leading his gang on a rampage,” Tol replied, forcing his straining limbs to relax.

He related the story of the brawl in the marketplace, explaining that many people had seen Pelladrom Tumult directing the blue-masked thugs. Miya and Kiya could confirm this, he said, and Egrin had been present when Pelladrom was unmasked.

“Well,” Nazramin said cheerfully, “if it’s true, there’s one less troublemaker in Daltigoth!”

Egrin shook his head. “I fear the repercussions may mean trouble, Your Highness. Lord Enkian Tumult is on his way from the Seascapes to pledge his fealty to our new emperor.” Any sympathy for the sad news that would greet Enkian was quickly abandoned at Egrin’s next statement. “At his back are five hordes.”

Argument broke out anew. Bringing troops to Daltigoth was a serious breach of etiquette, yet Lord Rymont insisted, it was foolish to believe that Enkian might have designs against the dynasty. Five thousand men, though improperly large for an entourage, were far too few to overcome Daltigoth’s loyal garrison.

“Why then does he bring them?” asked Oropash, twisting the sleeves of his robe anxiously.

“Wait four days and ask him,” Nazramin replied. He stood up. “It seems to me the only one here with cause to fear is Lord Tol.” The curtailing of Tol’s name was a deliberate slight. “Enkian will certainly have a score to settle with the one who gutted his son, won’t he?”

Although he wasn’t smiling, Nazramin’s glee was obvious to all. At this juncture Amaltar managed to speak again.

“Lord Tolandruth is my personal champion,” he rasped. “If he slew young Tumult in the course of quelling a riot, then he has committed no crime. Lord Enkian must abide by my judgment.”

Amaltar then dismissed the council. With much unseemly grumbling, the emperor’s advisors withdrew. Amaltar asked Tol to linger.

Egrin departed for the villa. Once the last of the council filed out, Amaltar dismissed his personal servants. Mandes reluctantly went with them. Only four guards remained, one at each of the far corners of the large chamber.

Amaltar waved Tol closer. “Sit, sir, if you will. I find it taxing to look up these days,” he said. Tol took the chair recently vacated by Lord Rymont.

Amaltar went on. “You’ve done great things for us, Tolandruth. Whatever else happens, I want you to know I appreciate your deeds. My father did also.” Amaltar coughed a little. “There is much more to do, I fear. I must use you again.”

“I am at Your Majesty’s service.”

“Enemies gather around me, Tolandruth. Not enemies of the honorable kind, like you face in battle. These enemies smile and bow, swear their loyalty, yet all the while grasp hidden daggers and contemplate my death.”

Tol said nothing. After what he’d seen of the men closest to the throne, he could not dismiss his liege’s fears.

Amaltar squeezed his eyes shut. Sweat popped out on his waxen forehead. “I’m never free of them, Tolandruth. I hear them moving in every shadow. They’re like ants, black ants, swarming over me. They will pick my bones clean.” His eyelids sprang open. “You must stop them!”

Pity welled in Tol’s heart. He’d earlier wondered if the emperor was being poisoned, but Mandes had drunk some of the potion himself, with no ill effects. It was obvious, though, that the emperor was ill, and his illness was only made worse by the power struggles around him.

Amaltar took hold of Tol’s hands, gripping them so tightly his knuckles turned white, and repeated his plea for help. Tol vowed he would do whatever it took to defend him.

At last, the emperor relaxed, sinking back into his chair. For a moment the old Amaltar returned, the shrewd plotter, the careful judge of men. His dark eyes cleared of some of the pain that clouded them.

“It is said you are impervious to magic,” he murmured.

The swift change of subject surprised Tol, but he denied the rumor, calling it idle gossip.

“If you were, if you had some protective spell or amulet, Tolandruth, you would give it to your emperor, would you not?”

There it was, plainly stated at last. Tol had considered this question many times: dare he admit owning the Irda millstone? Could he give it to someone else to save his life? To Amaltar? Egrin? Valaran?

If it became known that he possessed a nullstone, no one Tol knew would be safe. His friends would be captured and tortured to force him to yield the artifact. There was no telling what evil use the stone could be put to by an unscrupulous owner. Since he could not bring himself to destroy so fantastic and ancient a relic, the safest course was to keep its existence utterly secret.

Calmly Tol said, “Many stories are told about me, Your Majesty. Few are true. If the gods bestow favors on me, I cannot say why. I am a soldier of the empire, nothing more.”

Amaltar’s right cheek twitched. The slight clarity fled his eyes, leaving them even more haunted than before. He gave a rattling sigh.

“You are too honorable to lie to me,” he said. “So be it.”

The words pricked Tol’s conscience, but he knelt in obeisance to his liege. Before he could rise again, Amaltar’s dry, feverish hand came to rest on top of his head.

“Look after my wife, will you?” the emperor whispered.

Tol stiffened. Did Amaltar know? He and Valaran had faced terrible retribution if caught – burial alive for her and a slow, painful dismemberment for Tol. Had Amaltar known all along? Was he now giving his tacit approval?

“Poor Thura,” Amaltar sighed. “When I die, she’ll be too old to marry again. Look after her, Tolandruth.”

Tol was certain the emperor would be able to hear the thundering of his heart. Clearing his throat, managing to speak without the faintest quiver, Tol vowed he would see to Thura’s comfort and safety, should the need arise. By all accounts, the emperor’s eldest wife was a gentle, kindhearted woman.

Amaltar dismissed him, and Tol departed.

Alone at the massive council table, Amaltar reached for a goblet of wine. His fingers trembled as they closed around the golden stem. As he brought the goblet to his lips, dark objects darted around the edges of his vision.

He flung the cup down. Red droplets flew, and the golden goblet clattered loudly on the polished tabletop.

“Ants!” he cried, pushing himself up from the chair with his hands. “I see you there! Ants!”

Shiny black insects the size of his fist hurried out of the light, under the table. Their scissor-like jaws could take off a man’s finger or toe with one snip.

Amaltar let out a shriek and climbed onto the table. He poured forth obscenities at the vermin.

At the far corners of the chamber, the guards did not move to assist their master. No ants, giant or otherwise, were visible to them. They had witnessed the emperor’s bizarre behavior before. The imperial physician’s orders were not to intervene unless the emperor was in peril of hurting himself.

“Ants! Ants!”

In the anteroom outside, Nazramin poured himself a glass of wine. He raised it in silent salute toward the closed doors of the room where his brother screamed at invisible tormentors then drained the glass. Setting it down with careful precision, Nazramin chuckled quietly.

Chapter 12

FOES UNMASKED

The death of Pelladrom Tumult seemed to have a chilling effect on the gangs; the streets of Daltigoth were quiet in the following days. Word spread, however, that Lord Enkian was on his way with an army to avenge his son’s death. Since the Tumult family was a distant offshoot of the Ackals, it was even said he planned to depose Amaltar and become emperor in his place. Whatever the gossip in the alleys and city squares, preparations for the complex coronation continued. On the day of the coronation, Amaltar would present himself at the great gate of Ackal Ergot, on the eastern side of Daltigoth, and demand to be let in. A high noble specially chosen for the task would pose several ritual questions to him. Once Amaltar provided the answers, the gate would be opened. Ackal Ergot had first surveyed the site of his future capital on foot, so the rising emperor was required to walk the two and half leagues from the gate to the Inner City, trailed by his entire household – wives, children, courtiers, servants, and guards.

At the Inner City Amaltar’s way would be barred once more. He would demand admission as ruler of the Ergoth Empire, only to be told the emperor already resided within. Touching the gate with a bared sword, Amaltar would symbolically “capture” the Inner City. Within he would find the dead emperor lying enshrined in a great catafalque.

“What’s that?” Kiya asked, interrupting Egrin’s description of the coming ceremony.

“A catafalque is the raised, curtained bier on which the old emperor will lay. Very elaborate,” he told her, then resumed his narrative.

It was because the empire was founded on force and conquest that Amaltar had to enter the catafalque and lightly strike the body of his father with his sword, thereby “defeating” the old emperor.

“Ah, that’s why they turn the old one to stone,” said Kiya, “so the blow won’t damage him.”

Egrin went on. “When the old emperor is ritually overcome, the new emperor emerges from the catafalque and is presented with his predecessor’s crown, which he places on his own head. He is then Emperor of Ergoth, spiritually as well as temporally.”

Tol’s little household was gathered around the kitchen table, having a late supper. With only a trio of candles to hold back the gloom, it was an eerie scene, quite unlike the usual cheerful brightness of the room.

“What becomes of the dead emperor?” asked Kiya. Still hampered by her bad knee, she had her leg propped on a chair.

“He is interred in the vault of his ancestors, deep beneath the Inner City plaza. After the new emperor is crowned and enthroned, he receives the oaths of every warlord in the empire.”

“That could take days!” Miya exclaimed.

The marshal shrugged. “Usually does.”

She shook her head. “Poor old Amaltar! I hope he has good cushions in his chair!”

Tol yawned, and the others professed themselves also ready for rest. Egrin, who slept in the north wing of the villa with his escort from Juramona, took one candle. Tol took one for himself and snuffed the last. Flanked by the Dom-shu sisters, he wished his mentor a good rest.

The villa was quiet. Miya’s hare feet thumped loudly as they climbed the broad, slate-covered stairs to the second floor. For all her stealth in the forest, indoors the younger Dom-shu made far more noise than Kiya, who was limping.

The sisters were once again discussing this fact – rather heatedly – when Kiya suddenly broke off and grabbed the hem of Tol’s jerkin, halting him.

“Something up there on the landing moved!”

Tol’s candle was as thick as his wrist, hut its light was too feeble to illuminate the whole of the great stairway. The landing at the top was covered by a large wine-colored carpet, woven with a golden pattern of circles, lines, and squares. Beyond it, they could see very little down the black corridor.

Tol asked, “What did you see?”

“Something near the floor. It flapped.” Kiya undulated her hand to illustrate what she meant.

Tol took her warning seriously. Kiya was not as imaginative as her sister and not at all prone to seeing things that weren’t there. Handing the candle to Miya, he drew his sword and continued slowly up the stairs.

Miya accompanied him, and the glow of the candle flame flickered over chairs against the wall, side tables covered with dwarven bric-a-brac, and suits of armor. It was easy to imagine furtive movement in the heavy shadows, but Tol saw nothing tangible.

“Sister’s imagining things!” Miya announced through a yawn. She stomped by Tol, handing him the candle as she passed. “G’night!”

The room the sisters shared was at right angles from the master bedchamber at the end of the hall. Miya vanished inside.

Kiya struggled along with her bandaged knee. She didn’t ask for help and wouldn’t have accepted it if offered. Many years out of her forest home, she still adhered to the code of a Dom-shu warrior: if you can breathe, stand; if you can see, walk; if you can move, fight.

“There was something here,” she insisted quietly.

“I believe you,” he told her.

Though the deadly attacks that had dogged their journey seemed to have ended with the storm at Thorngoth, Tol had no doubt they could resume at any time.

Once Kiya was in her room, Tol walked the length of the corridor twice, probing along the walls, peering into every corner. Aside from dust and a single desiccated mouse, he found nothing.

His own room was chilly, which was odd. Although summer was giving way to autumn, the day had been quite warm.

Shedding his outer garments, Tol hung his sword belt on the bedpost and crawled under the bedclothes. He settled into the mattress, which smelled of horsehair and pine shavings, and tried not to dwell on thoughts of Valaran, just a short gallop away in the palace. At last he surrendered to sleep.

The air in the room grew colder still. Tol burrowed more deeply under the covers for warmth, but did not wake.

The chill inspired dreams of childhood. As the youngest child, his place was farthest from the hearth, the coldest spot in the house. Some nights he couldn’t sleep because his ears ached, or his feet were numb from the cold. His mother had taught him to place a small slab of fieldstone close to the fire before supper. At bedtime, he slipped the hot stone under his patchwork quilt. During one particularly frigid night, when the icy wind howled outside his family’s small hut, he lay on his side, hugging the stone to his chest. Rolling over in his sleep, he’d ended with the slab on top of him.

It was wonderfully warm beneath the stone, but the weight on his chest had made breathing difficult. The stone was too heavy. He might have slumbered on into death had not his father seen his face turning blue and wakened him.

Tension drained from Tol’s tired limbs. He was warmer now. The heat was wonderful. If only he could draw breath ….

No longer a naive child, Tol jerked awake, his warrior’s sense telling him something was amiss. He wasn’t dreaming: he really couldn’t breathe. Something heavy and thick clung to his face, shutting out air. He tried to raise his hands, thinking to pull away the bedclothes, but his arms were locked to his sides. His legs too were held down by a heavy weight.

Ghostly flashes of light flickered across his vision as he struggled to take in air. He was suffocating! He needed air – now!

Twisting side to side, Tol managed to get his right shoulder up. He put all his strength behind moving one arm, and managed to jerk it awkwardly against the restraint. The smothering wall yielded just a bit.

Tol arched his back, clearing more breathing space, and twisted over onto his face. The darkness around him was close and hot. He wormed his hands out to either side but could find no edge to the terrific weight pressing him more and more strongly into the soft mattress.

The mattress!

Maddened by a growing sense of doom, he used his teeth to rend the sheet beneath him, then attacked the mattress cover itself. By the grace of Corij the ticking was old and tore readily under his frenzied assault. Inside, the stuffing of horsehair and wood shavings was crumbling from age. As he worked his way through, the crushing barrier on top of him clung to his back, pressing him deeper into the torn mattress.

Clawing his way through several spans of stuffing, he at last reach the slatted bottom of the bed. Blood roared in his ears. Sweat – or was it blood? – dripped from his elbows and fingertips. He slammed his fist into the pine slats again and again until they broke apart. With a thump, he fell through to the dusty floor.

Cool air swirled around him, and he inhaled greedily. His head cleared after a dozen breaths.

He crawled to the far side of the bed and peered out. His room was dark and silent. He groped until he felt his scabbard. Freeing it from the bedpost, he pulled it to himself. It was difficult to draw the saber while lying on his belly, but he managed.

Feeling better able to meet whatever might come, Tol rolled out from under the bed and sprang to his feet, blade held ready.

There was no stealthy, pillow-wielding assassin. The room was empty, but the door was open and the great carpet from the corridor outside was draped across the bed. Woven from three layers of wool and jute, the huge carpet was very heavy, easily capable of suffocating a sleeping man. Who had put it over him?

Tol circled around the end of the bed, intending to rouse the house to search for an intruder. As he passed the foot of the bed, the carpet suddenly shifted, rolling up and tripping him. He stumbled forward, and great folds of wine-colored wool flung themselves over him. The carpet was moving like a living thing!

He thrust his saber at it. The carpet undulated, rolling him over and over, trying to smother him in its folds. With both hands on his sword hilt, he impaled the wild rug. It flapped and shivered, hut he sawed at the tough weave, rending a considerable hole.

The carpet bunched itself beneath him, rose up, and hurled him off. He flew through the air and hit the far wall with a crash. His sword remained buried in the carpet.

Shaking off the impact, Tol got to his knees in time to see the enormous rug dragging more of its bulk through the door. It filled his room, the intricate pattern of gold circles and squares looming higher and higher. Why wasn’t the nullstone affecting the ensorcelled rug?

Tol brushed a hand over the hip of his smallclothes. With wide-eyed alarm, he felt more carefully. The Irda artifact was not in its pocket.

He turned the material over with frantic fingers. The threads had pulled loose, making a hole in the pocket. The nullstone had dropped out, somewhere.

Fear sizzled through Tol. Several hundredweight of living, murderous carpet might have seemed ridiculous had not the thing’s lethal intent been so clear.

He climbed over upturned furniture and made his way toward the window. The drop was straight to the street below. If it came to it, he would jump and risk a broken leg over being suffocated by an enchanted rug.

The sound of splintering wood drew his eyes to the door. So much carpet was trying to force its way in that the doorframe had cracked. The carpet wrapped its folds around the bedposts, snapping the polished wood like twigs.

Voices from the hall heralded the arrival of the Dom-shu sisters.

“Get back!” Tol cried. “The carpet’s been hexed! It’s alive!”

Miya drew too near and the rug slapped her in the chest, throwing her to the bare stone floor of the corridor. She bounced up, nose bleeding, eyes wide.

Kiya, still slowed by her injury, ordered her sister to fetch Egrin. As Miya raced away, Kiya sized up the situation.

Tol was perched on a side table, clinging to a sconce as the carpet coiled beneath him like a monstrous snake. Another few folds of height and it would rise up and crush him against the wall.

Kiya disappeared briefly then returned with a poleaxe from one of the displays in the hall. Not bothering to chop at the rug, she used the sharp tip to spike several of its folds to the floor. The rug strained against the impediment but was prevented from reaching Tol.

“Good!” Tol shouted. “Get more spears – I don’t think one will hold it!”

The carpet tugged and squirmed, working the poleaxe back and forth. By the time Kiya reappeared with an armload of ancient weapons, the carpet was almost free again.

Kiya hurled a spear toward Tol. It stuck, quivering, in the wall beside him. He worked it free and jammed it hard into the carpet writhing at his feet. Kiya added three more poleaxes.

“Look out!” Tol cried.

The rug surged toward the door. Like a purple-red tidal wave, the heavy fabric hit the cluster of pole arms restraining it, snapping their shafts.

A wall of rug knocked Kiya flat. When the carpet began flowing over her, she tried to struggle free, but her bad knee betrayed her. Wool covered her face.

“No!” Tol shouted.

Heedless of danger, he leaped from the table onto the rippling rug. It surged and twisted, trying to engulf him. He punched and kicked his way across the room, but the carpet finally managed to send him sprawling on hands and knees.

A broken bedpost lay nearby and he grabbed it. Using it like a quarterstaff, he fended off humps of carpet and reached Kiya at last.

Dropping the post, Tol clawed at the thick wool with his bare hands. He cleared Kiya’s face but could not free her. Even bringing to bear all his considerable strength, he could do no more than hold the quivering fabric away from her head.

“Behind you!” Kiya sputtered. At Tol’s back, the carpet was gathering itself high to crush them both.

Egrin, Miya, and the men of the marshal’s retinue came thundering down the hall. When they saw the battle was not with assassins or thieves but with an ordinary hall carpet, the men halted and stared, transfixed.

“Sister! Help!”

Kiya’s cry brought Miya forward, shoving men left and right. She snatched the lamp carried by the nearest Ergothian and hurled it over Tol’s head. The oil spilled on the carpet and ignited. The carpet spasmed visibly Egrin followed suit with his own lamp, and the others did likewise. Soon, a smoky fire was burning on the thrashing carpet. The terrible pressure on Tol and Kiya slackened as the rug surged first to one wall then the other, blindly seeking escape from the flames. When it found the window, it smashed through the shutters and poured itself out. Paces of bulky fabric hissed over the sill to land with a loud crash in the street below.

Rescuers and rescued sorted themselves out. Egrin pulled Tol to his feet, and they went immediately to Kiya, who was sitting up with her sister’s help.

“Filthy rug!” Kiya said, coughing and spitting dirt. “Didn’t those dwarves ever beat it?”

Miya snorted. “Would you?”

They went to the broken window. The hall carpet, twenty paces long and eight wide, lay in a mound on the pavement, burning fitfully. Now and then an edge twitched feebly. The stench of burning wool was sickening.

Egrin sent his men to search the villa for further menaces. Kiya put a hand on Tol’s shoulder and squeezed.

“Thank you,” she said simply. Weaponless, he’d stormed across the room to save her. Tol patted her long, rawboned hand.

When he was alone again, Tol immediately searched for the millstone. To his vast relief, he found the precious artifact in his discarded clothing. It was undamaged. It must have fallen out of his pocket while he was undressing.

A simple accident, yet it had very nearly led to more deaths.

Tol lit a candle. By its meager light, he got to work with needle and thread to repair the worn pocket.

*

Dawn was not far off. A heavy dew had fallen on the sleeping city, silvering the worn cobblestones in the street. A taste of autumn was in the still air, hinting at the cold that would grow stronger with every passing day.

Wrapped in a brown cloak against the damp, Tol stood before the door of a sumptuous residence. The gates were barred and the door certainly bolted, but that wouldn’t stop him.

He grasped the black iron chain securing the gate and drew it taut. Number Six flashed in the pre-dawn light, and the links parted. He shoved and the gate swung inward without a sound.

The courtyard beyond was tidy, paving and granite benches scrubbed clean, but something about the scene bothered Tol. The answer struck him – nothing grew here. Every fine house in Daltigoth had a garden, with flowers or vines, a tree or two for shade. Even the poorer domiciles boasted a flowering bush or some sort of greenery to ease the harshness of endless stone. The courtyard of Mandes’s grand mansion was as sterile as a quarry.

Approaching the bronze door, Tol felt a flicker of heat over his hands and face, a fleeting touch, like a baby’s breath. Of course Mandes would have wards around his home to keep out unwanted visitors. For Tol, with the Irda artifact firmly in his possession again, these were no more of an impediment than a wisp of fog.

The door latch yielded to the keen edge of his steel blade as had the gate chain. Unlike the gate, though, these doors squeaked as they swung open, rousing the guard dozing on a stool just inside the door.

He was a hulking brute, not entirely human. When he spotted Tol striding in, saber in hand, he gave a surprised grunt and vaulted off his perch. He grabbed frantically for the halberd tucked beneath his arm.

Tol wasted no time. He lopped off the halberd’s head with a single two-handed stroke, presented the tip of his blade to the guard’s thick gullet, and hissed, “Get out.”

The guard wisely wasted no time. He grunted once and went out the door. Tol heard his heavy footfalls crossing the courtyard and going out the gate.

A great house such as this would have a maze of additions and extra chambers, but Tol reasoned the layout of its core would be much like his villa in the Quarry district, built on the same pattern as most of the finer houses in Daltigoth.

So it proved. Beyond the foyer was an antechamber of moderate size, richly decorated with tapestries, gilded sconces, and a thick carpet.

Eyeing the milk-colored rug warily, Tol stamped it with one foot and poked it with his saber. It lay quietly, as a good carpet should.

A wide, doorless opening led to a hall with a broad staircase leading up. He dropped his cloak to the floor and strode into the hall. At once he came upon a gray-haired, stooped man, bearing a tray of brass cups and folded linens.

The sight of the grim-faced warrior, naked blade in hand, sent the blood draining from the old servant’s lined face. The tray wobbled in his hands.

Tol put a hand on the tray to steady it. “Quiet,” he said evenly. “Not a sound. You know who I am?”

A nervous nod. “Lord Tolandruth.”

“I am here to kill your master.”

The man’s knees shook violently, setting the cups to rattling again. “I said no sound!” Tol hissed. The servant clenched his fingers hard on the edge of the tray to steady it.

“What is your name?” Tol asked.

“Yeffrin, my lord. P-p-p-please don’t kill my master!”

“Can’t be helped. He owes me many years and many lives.”

Tol ordered him to set the tray aside and lead the way to Mandes’s bedchamber. Teeth chattering in fright, Yeffrin did as he was bid, mounting the steps with a halting, shuffling gait. His obvious terror embarrassed Tol.

“Buck up, old man. You’re in no danger,” he said.

Yeffrin’s expression showed how little he believed that, but he mustered his courage and proceeded up the steps at a slightly faster clip.

At the landing they bore left down a side corridor brightly lit by wall lamps. It did not surprise Tol that Mandes would spend good money on oil to keep the hall illuminated all night. The sorcerer had reason to fear the dark. Miya, the indefatigable devotee of gossip, had collected many tales of his perfidy. Half the wealthy households in the city would like to slit Mandes’s throat. The other half were equally determined to protect the rogue wizard, who performed so many illicit favors for them. Until now Mandes’s life had been delicately-balanced. Tol’s return upset everything.

Ornate double doors at the end of the passage plainly denoted the master’s private suite. Yeffrin halted several steps away. Tol brushed past him.

“My lord!” said the old servant. “Beware – there are spells —”

Tol shifted Number Six to his left hand and opened one of the doors. Nothing untoward occurred, and Yeffrin gasped.

“Seems safe enough,” Tol remarked.

Inside, the room was a shambles. Shelves had been swept clean of their contents, tables and chairs overturned, cabinets opened and ransacked. Ancient manuscripts, no doubt extremely rare, crackled under Tol’s feet.

Yeffrin gave a shocked cry. He fell to his knees and began picking up the rare scrolls, clutching them to his narrow chest.

There was no sign of Mandes, but Tol spotted a faint light coming from behind the far shelf. Lifting his sword, he advanced rapidly.

A door in the stone wall stood slightly ajar. It blended so perfectly with the wall that, had it been closed, Tol would’ve missed it completely. He kicked it open and stormed through.

One person was in the small room. He sat with a hip propped on the only piece of furniture, a small table. Light glinted on his red hair.

“Where’s Mandes?” Tol demanded.

Prince Nazramin’s expression was mocking. “Well, I see it’s true – farmers do rise early.” The prince slid off the table and faced Tol, adding, “That isn’t a hoe in your hand, is it?”

Tol lowered his sword. “Don’t worry: I’m not here to harvest you.” He repeated his demand for Mandes.

“The churl has fled. Fortunately, I know where.” Tol waited, blocking the only door, and Nazramin added, “He’s gone to the palace to throw himself on my brother’s mercy.”

Tol ground his teeth in frustration. Mandes, knowing his latest attack had failed, feared Tol would do exactly what he had done, show up at his door with vengeance in mind. He had scuttled off to the imperial palace for protection.

Yeffrin appeared like a ghost at Tol’s elbow. Seeing the royal intruder occupying his master’s secret sanctum, the elderly servant yelped in fright. He fell to his knees, keeping the armed warrior between himself and the capricious prince.

“Why are you here?” Tol asked suspiciously.

The prince’s hand strayed to the hilt of the ornate saber at his hip. “It’s not your place to question me,” he replied, brown eyes narrowing.

“The question has been asked. Answer it.”

Nazramin smiled – or rather, his mouth drew up in a nominally friendly way, but above it, his eyes were as cruel as ever.

“Are you giving me orders, farmer?”

Tol tensed for an attack. “Yes.”

The false smile didn’t waver. “By rights I should have you broken. Hung from the lowliest gibbet in the city. Your friends and retainers would hang beside you – those I didn’t sell into slavery, that is.”

He meant his ugly threats, but Nazramin did not dare harm Tol, not while Tol commanded his own army and bore the title of Emperor’s Champion. Neither could Tol presume to challenge an imperial prince. Still, he would not take the man’s insults any longer, not without giving some back.

“I’ll ask one more time,” he said, hard gaze and keen blade unwavering. “Why are you here?”

Keeping one hand on his sword hilt but not drawing the blade, Nazramin advanced until he was nose to nose with Tol. Being slightly taller, he sneered down at the fuming warrior.

“I am here to tell you that your day of reckoning is coming,” Nazramin said. “Everything you cherish will fall into my hands – treasure, titles, trinkets, and all your people. And the lady you love – I wonder what will happen to her on that day?”

He let the question hang in the narrow space between them. Tol felt as though he’d been dashed with icy water. Was it possible Nazramin knew of his love for Valaran? How could he have found out?

His chaotic thoughts showed plainly on his face, and Nazramin chuckled. “Yes, I know your little secret. She’s quite a prize, isn’t she? Who knew the little bookworm would become so delectable?”

If Tol had been hotly angry before, now cold fury washed over him, making it difficult to draw breath.

“Leave her out of this,” he whispered, emotion quivering in every syllable. “Defame her, even speak her name again, and I’ll kill you where you stand. I’ve shed royal blood before. It flows just as freely as common stock.”

It was Nazramin’s turn to believe the threat. The cold smile left his face and he glared at Tol. “I’ll keep your dirty secret because it suits me,” he said. “Now get out of my way!”

Tol remained rooted to the spot. The murderous fury in his heart made him bold.

“Why do you hate me so? I’ve never done you an injury, and I’ve always served the empire loyally.”

Nazramin stepped back, surveying Tol with amazement. “That I am forced to speak to you on anything near equal terms is a gross insult. To see you walk the halls of my ancestors’ palace as though you belonged there … is unforgivable!”

Seeing Tol still did not understand, Nazramin went back to the table and leaned on it. He drew a deep breath, mastering strong emotions of his own, then said, “Far from being a boon to the empire, I consider your successes one of the greatest threats ever to the state. You are common as dirt, yet you command armies, win battles, and walk with the high lords of Ergoth as though you were one of them.

“The empire, all of this” — the prince made a broad gesture — “was taken by force from lesser peoples. Weaker tribes and inferior races succumbed to the might of the Great Horde because it is the law of nature and the gods that those born to strength should rule those who have none. Invert that order, and you have chaos. For you, a farmer’s son, to show ability as a warrior, to lead men, win battles, even defeat well-born enemies like Morthur Dermount and Pelladrom Tumult is a travesty of nature.” He frowned deeply. “Your existence offends not only me, it offends the gods!”

Tol laughed, a short, harsh sound. “Now you speak for the gods as well as all Ergoth?” he mocked, sheathing his saber. “I knew you were a cruel man, Nazramin, but I never imagined you were mad!”

The prince came off the table, taut as a great cat smelling blood. Tol’s hand flashed to his sword hilt, and Nazramin, mindful of Tol’s fighting prowess, halted but did not back down.

“We’ll see who’s mad,” he said slowly. “Whatever distortion of nature allowed your rise cannot endure forever. When you fall, little farmer, I shall be there. I am patient. I can wait for everything to fall into place, but I shall be there.”

He pushed by Tol, who let him go. Passing Yeffrin still groveling on the floor, the furious prince vented his spleen by kicking the old man in the ribs. Whimpering, Yeffrin rolled into a ball amidst his master’s scattered manuscripts.

Tol helped Yeffrin to a chair. As the old man held his ribs and gasped for breath, Tol considered the ransacked chamber. Why had the prince been here? Had he warned Mandes? Or was he seeking something? Documents that linked him to the nefarious sorcerer? It was a disquieting thought. If his two greatest enemies were allied, Tol’s quest for justice would be all the harder.

He re-entered the small, secret room. On the floor next to the table lay a crumpled square of black linen. Judging by the creases it held, it had been a covering for the little table.

Something crunched under his feet. Bending down, Tol pressed his fingers to a smear of gray flakes on the floor. The weak light showed him they were soft metal shavings, perhaps lead. He had no idea what they might signify.

After making sure Yeffrin was all right, Tol departed. He left Mandes a token of his visit, to make his feelings plain to the elusive sorcerer. In the entry hall were several fine statues depicting famous spellcasters of the past. Among them Mandes had immodestly placed an image of himself. With two strokes of his steel blade, Tol hacked the head from the bronze statue. It hit the floor with a loud clang.

Outdoors, morning sunbathed Tol’s face, soothing him like a balm. He had missed Mandes, but twice in one night he had dared death and twice survived.

Chapter 13

THE CROWN OF ACKAL ERGOT

The villa was alive with activity when Tol returned. Egrin and his retinue, in full battle gear, were arrayed in the front court. The Dom-shu sisters had donned their best outfits and were pinning strips of white cloth to their sleeves.

“Where’ve you been, husband?” Miya demanded. “There’s much to do, and you go off wandering in the middle of the night!”

“What’s happening?” he asked.

“The funeral is today!” Kiya said. At the same time, Miya declared, “The coronation is today!”

A herald had come to the villa just after sunrise with a message for Lord Tolandruth. Egrin had accepted it in his stead. The message prompted the marshal to rouse everyone in the villa, ordering them to prepare for the grand dual ceremony.

Tol sought his old friend.

Egrin explained, “The emperor, in consultation with his privy council and the college of wizards, has declared this to be the day he will be crowned.” Looking somewhat embarrassed, he added in a lower voice, “It was felt the emperor would be safer if he is crowned before Enkian Tumult arrives.”

He handed Tol a flattened tube of parchment. “There was a personal message for you as well.”

By order of His Majesty Ackal IV, Tol read silently, Lord Tolandruth will present himself at the imperial palace at once.

Exhausted by the long and eventful night during which he’d slept only briefly, Tol stared blindly at the terse summons. What did it mean?

Egrin took the parchment from his slack fingers and said gently, “The women have prepared your gear. Go inside, my lord, and they will assist you.”

Miya and Kiya were in the entry hall, standing by neat piles of armor.

“Time to make ready, Husband!” Kiya boomed.

Wearily, he nodded. He started to undress, but was so listless and slow Miya clucked her tongue and took over the task herself.

She chided him for his gallivanting ways, then added more softly, “Did you do what you sought to do?”

Tol shook his head. “He wasn’t home.”

“Never mind. Justice will catch Master Mandes in time.”

Miya stripped him down to his breechnap, and Kiya took a wet sponge to his back. Tol felt like horse being groomed. He was so tired, his head swimming with thoughts of Mandes, Nazramin, and the coming coronation, that he bore the sisters’ ministrations in silence.

Soon they were buckling him into his newly polished armor. A kilt of mourning white was fastened around his waist, and a snowy mantle of gilt-edged silk secured to rivets on his pauldrons. Lastly, Kiya passed his sword belt around his waist and fastened it so the dwarf-forged saber hung at his left hand.

The sisters stood back to admire their work.

“His eyes are red,” Miya remarked, frowning.

Kiya shrugged. “Can’t help that.” She limped in closer and adjusted the drape of Tol’s mantle. Still not satisfied, she grumbled, “What can you do – one shoulder is bigger than the other!”

“His sword arm,” Miya agreed sagely. “Husband, in the future try to use your left arm more.”

He had to smile at that. “I’ll try.”

Egrin had promised to send a replacement from Juramona for Tol’s beloved mount Shadow. In the meantime, the marshal’s men had groomed and saddled their best horse for Tol. The Juramona contingent was drawn up in formation, one man holding the horse’s reins. With a clash of iron, they saluted and cried in unison, “Long live the Emperor!”

Long live Amaltar indeed, Tol thought. So much depended on his continued existence – not merely Tol’s life, but the lives of all his friends and companions, not to mention the stability and welfare of the entire empire.

He swung into the saddle. Kiya whispered to her sister, and Miya hurried to Tol, one hand concealed behind her back.

“Husband, this is —” She reddened. “This is for you!”

She held out a large, splendidly formed white rose, cut from the villa’s roof garden. Tol was touched, and amused. The Dom-shu were not the types to give flowers. He was sure they had competed to see who would present him with the rose, and Miya had lost.

He took the beautiful flower from her and slipped its shortened stem under one of his cuirass straps. The flower’s head was nearly as broad as his hand, yet its aroma wasn’t overpowering.

With a wave, he led his honor guard out of the courtyard into the sunny morning.

Every street, every lane in the city was alive with activity. Windows and doors bore twin swatches of colored cloth, white for the late Pakin III, red for the new emperor, Ackal IV. Detachments of City Guards had taken up positions along the route Amaltar would traverse from outside the walls to the Inner City, keeping the way clear of onlookers. Already an army of pushcarts had appeared, their owners peddling tidbits and trinkets to the gathering crowd. The air was alive with excitement, half-anxious, half-festive. It was a contagious feeling. By the time Tol had ridden a quarter-league, his fatigue was gone, vanquished by the tonic of this great event.

The gate of the Inner City was closed and barred. A small postern gate beside it was open and manned by Imperial Horse Guards, dismounted for the moment. They hailed Tol.

“Go at once, my lord!” said the captain of the guard. “His Majesty awaits in the Tower of High Sorcery!”

Tol rode on. Egrin and his men remained outside.

The Imperial Plaza was a forest of alternating red and white standards. The banners hung limply in the still air. A wide lane led through them, from the great gate to the center of the plaza. There the path forked, one branch leading to the wizards’ enclave, the other to the steps of the imperial palace. Guards marched and countermarched from the palace to the Riders’ Hall on the far side of the plaza.

At the Riders’ Hall, warlords from every corner of the empire were collecting; red, rather than white, predominated in their attire. The tide of observance was turning from mourning for the dead ruler to celebration of the living one.

Tol rode to the Tower of High Sorcery at a measured pace. This was due in part to the solemnity of the occasion, but also because the plaza’s mosaic pavement had been covered by white flower petals – not roses, as it happened, but narrow chrysanthemum and jasmine petals. The thick, soft layer made for uncertain footing for his horse. The heavy scent of jasmine, stirred up by his mount’s hooves, was nearly overwhelming to both man and beast.

Upon reaching the boundary of the wizards’ garden, Tol paused and looked back at the palace. The vast pile of marble and granite, surrounded by drifts of flower petals, resembled a mountain rising from a field of snow. A shadow moved slowly across the columned façade. Tol shaded his eyes, and looked up. A small grayish cloud was drifting over the Inner City.

Strange. The sorcerers always maintained tight control of the weather over the palace, banishing all fog, rain, snow, or clouds. A cloud over the imperial residence was like a smear of mud on a spotless mantle – it shouldn’t be tolerated. Why weren’t the wizards doing their duty?

Then Tol remembered. Mandes had sought sanctuary in the Inner City. The stray cloud could be his doing. He was certainly a blot on the coronation.

After the teeming bustle in the streets and the regimented pomp of the plaza, the garden surrounding the Tower of High Sorcery seemed still as a graveyard. The first hints of autumn color were beginning to paint some trees, and Tol caught fleeting glimpses of wizards, some in red robes, some in white. All gave him a wide berth.

By day, the tower was almost too bright to bear. At regular intervals along its height, small cupolas sprouted from the main spire like buds on an apple tree branch. Oval blocks of translucent alabaster were set in the thick walls to provide light to the interior.

A line of golden chariots stood by the entrance. Each was drawn by a pair of white or bone-gray horses. All the farms around Daltigoth must have been emptied to assemble so many pale animals. Young charioteers stood by their conveyances. They were the sons and daughters of favored courtiers. Among them Tol recognized Talmaz, one of Valaran’s brothers.

A boy appeared to hold his reins, and Tol dismounted. At the door to the tower, a quartet of young wizards, arms folded over their chests, barred his way.

“No weapons within the tower,” said one. Tol surrendered his saber, along with the dagger he’d bought to replace the one lost in the sea at Thorngoth.

The great hall in the base of the tower was a fog of floral incense, so thick it seemed to catch in his throat. He smothered a cough with one fist. The silent crowd inside looked up when he entered.

Temporary cloth walls hanging from head-high frames divided the normally open space into small rooms and narrow passages. Around the tower’s interior were gathered the favored relatives and courtiers of the old and new emperors, easily identifiable by their distinctive colors. Chamberlain Valdid came forward.

“The Emperor awaits,” he said solemnly, directing Tol to the entrance into the corridor of screens.

Tol wondered which emperor he meant. The inhabitants of the Inner City made no distinction between the living ruler and the dead one.

As he wound his way along the passage, Tol gradually became aware of low chanting. The galleries above the circular hall were lined with wizards. The sound of the deep, repetitive chanting caused the hair on the back of his neck to bristle. As a youth he’d seen an assemblage of mages levitate huge building blocks into place for the foundation of this tower. Benign though the chant likely was, he was glad he carried the millstone.

Small alcoves appeared at intervals along the spiral passage.

In each of these someone close to Pakin III or Amaltar knelt, meditating. The wives of the late emperor appeared first, in descending order of precedence. Amaltar’s mother, who would have been the dowager empress, had died several years before. Even the youngest of Pakin III’s wives was old enough to be Tol’s mother.

After the imperial widows came Amaltar’s wives, from the newest, Lady Woriyan, to his first, Lady Thura. Tol’s heart beat a little faster as his progress brought him closer to Valaran, but before he reached what would be her place in the series, strong hands seized his arm and dragged him through a slit in the curtains.

Startled at first, Tol recovered, and fumbled to grab the wrists of his attacker. To his astonishment, he saw it was Valaran who’d pulled him aside.

“What —?” he began, only to be silenced by a stinging slap on the face.

“Do you know what you put me through?” she demanded in a fierce whisper. She was so close that he felt her warm breath on his face.

“Me? What have I done?” he protested, utterly at sea.

Hissing at him to keep his voice down, she drew back a few steps, whirled, and glared at him silently.

She was stunning, wrapped in scarlet silk from head to toe. Her chestnut hair fell to her waist in a thick, intricate braid interlaced with crimson thread and golden beads. The starched red headdress accentuated the pallor of her face, a pallor further heightened by a thin layer of powder. Her lips were painted deep ruby. She resembled a spirit wrought in fire and ice.

There was a brief flash of something in her green eyes – pleasure? – before she folded her arms and spoke to him in a low tone that dripped venom.

“For more than ten years I’ve yearned for you every day and hated you in the same breath!”

“Hated me? Why? What did I do?”

Her beautiful face worked as she struggled with a deep conflict. Finally she snapped, “Nothing! That’s the truth of it – you did nothing!”

Tersely, Valaran related the false tale told her: that Tol had asked to remain away from Daltigoth because he didn’t want to come back. He didn’t want to be her toy or Amaltar’s lackey. He had fathered a child by Miya. This last almost caused Tol to shatter the solemn air in the tower with laughter. Child? Miya? If he’d tried such a thing, he wouldn’t be alive before Valaran now!

The look on her face as much as the need for quiet stifled his amusement. The lie obviously had hurt Valaran deeply. He could only imagine her pain at hearing such things about him. He held out his arms. She shunned them, so he took her by the shoulders and demanded to know who had concocted the tales.

“Nazramin – and the sorcerer Mandes,” she said, exactly as he had expected. “They concocted false letters, then prompted others to confirm the stories.”

“When did you find out the truth? And how?”

“I have had you watched since you returned.” Tol recoiled a bit at that, but she went on. “I hired agents to strike up conversations with your forest women, in the market, in shops.” Valaran essayed a slight smile. “It became obvious they were devoted to you, but not as your lovers. There is no child, either.”

“I could have told you that!” he said. “Why didn’t you seek me out?”

She drew herself up. “I am a Princess Consort.”

Her haughty expression collapsed in sorrow, and his heart went out to her. To have endured such a lie! He tried to draw her to him, but still she resisted. He would not overpower her by force, so she kept him at arms’ length.

“Fool,” she called him, but her eyes were bright. “You did stay away too long. It’s too late for us.”

He denied it. She said, “Long ago, we were young and stupid. It’s one thing to deceive a prince, but I cannot betray the Emperor of Ergoth.”

“Instead you betray yourself? And me?”

Valaran’s whole body trembled. He tightened his grip on her shoulders. “It’s impossible,” she said flatly.

He let go. Since she didn’t move away, he did.

“I haven’t been a monk over the years, Val. I’ve known other women …”

Her eyes flashed. “Now you’re going to brag to me about your conquests?”

“No!” She could be so infuriating! “What I mean is, I never forgot you. Not one of them could ever make me do that.”

Silence ensued. All Tol could hear was her breathing, and the thudding of his own heart.

“What will become of us?” she asked softly.

The sound of heavy footfalls reached them. Tol took her hand and pressed it to his lips.

“The Rumbold villa, in the Quarry district,” he whispered, eyes boring into hers. “Come when you can!”

Immediately, he ducked back through the partition into the airy passage and resumed his approach. In moments he was overtaken by a band of Riders of the Horde clad as he was in armor and mourning cloth. He recognized most of them, including Hojan, an officer in the Army of the North. The warriors halted.

“My lord,” Hojan said, “I rejoice to see you! We heard many times you were killed on the journey here.”

“If people keep reporting my death,” Tol said wryly, “one day they’re bound to be right.”

They fell in behind him and resumed their march. In hushed tones Hojan described their own agonizing progress to Daltigoth. It had seemed as though the gods and nature were conspiring to keep them away. Every time the Riders approached a stream, a storm blew up, transforming the sleepy rivulet into a raging torrent. Once, the column wandered for three days, lost in a fog that refused to lift, even at high noon.

Mist-Maker. Tol kept the thought to himself.

They passed other alcoves and other wives. When they reached Valaran’s niche, she was there, kneeling in a properly reverent position. Eyes closed, in profile she resembled a fine ivory cameo.

Once past her, one of the Ergothians murmured, “A beauty, but cold, they say.”

Tol bit his lip to hold back a grin. The notion of Valaran, his Valaran, being cold was ludicrous.

The warriors finally reached the center of the domed hall. There, under the atrium where Pakin III had lain in state, stood Amaltar. Priests of Corij were arraying him in bits of ancient bronze armor. Tol and the Riders went to their knees.

“The arms of Ackal Ergot!” one warrior whispered.

Amaltar was being dressed in the very armor worn by the founder of the empire. It did not fit him well. Ackal Ergot had been a powerful man; the breadth of his cuirass as well as his infamous deeds testified to that fact. The priests would place a piece of armor on Amaltar’s lesser frame, then take it away and pad it with wads of linen. Ackal Ergot’s greaves stretched from his descendant’s ankles to well above his knees. The tasset, a skirt of bronze meant to hang to the tops of the thighs, nearly brushed the tops of the greaves.

Amaltar looked much better than he had the last time Tol had seen him, however. His skin was still sallow and his shoulders stooped, but some of the old firmness had returned to his expression. He beckoned the men forward and greeted each by name, saving Tol for last.

Tol replied, “Greetings, and best wishes on this mighty day, Your Majesty.”

“A great deal of nonsense, isn’t it?” said Amaltar, holding out his arms so the front half of Ackal Ergot’s cuirass could be fitted to his chest. “Important nonsense, of course. Tradition matters so much in affairs like this.”

Once he was strapped into his ancestor’s bronze breastplate, Amaltar called for a stool. He sat down heavily, glad to take the weight off his feet. He seemed suddenly old to Tol, far more than his fifty-odd years.

“I summoned you men particularly to be my honor guard,” he said. “The ceremony requires that no one walk ahead of me, but nothing prohibits an escort walking alongside.

“You, Lord Tolandruth, will walk behind me – bearing this.” Amaltar snapped his fingers, and Valdid appeared from the curtained labyrinth. He carried a flat golden case in his arms. Red-faced with strain – the case was obviously quite heavy – the chamberlain hastened to the new emperor’s side.

Amaltar pushed the face of his signet ring into a hole in the front of the box and twisted his hand. With a click, the lid of the box released.

Tol wasn’t sure what he was expecting to see, perhaps a jeweled necklace or a ceremonial dagger. He wasn’t prepared for what Amaltar lifted from the case. It was a simple circlet of white metal, darkly speckled with age. Neither gold nor silver, the circlet was innocent of jewels or engraving of any sort. It looked like very old iron.

“The crown of Ackal Ergot,” said Amaltar, holding the head-sized ring reverently.

The warriors stared in awe. This was the most legendary artifact in the realm, the original crown worn by the first emperor on the day he proclaimed the Ergoth Empire. As befitted a conqueror, it was made from Ackal’s own sword, edges blunted and hammered to fit his regal brow. The crown was kept in the vaults beneath the palace, seeing the light of day only during coronations. The usual imperial crown was a golden one, made at the order of Ackal Ergot’s son, the second emperor, Ackal II Dermount.

Amaltar returned the iron crown to its red velvet bag and placed it carefully back in the case. He closed the lid, locked it, then bade Tol come forward and take the case from the sweating Valdid.

Tol bowed deeply. “I am honored beyond words, Majesty!”

Amaltar smiled thinly. “It’s the only blade I’ll allow in my presence. Do take care of it.” A veil seemed to cover his countenance. “They say Ackal’s sword was tempered by the fire of the captive dragon Blackwyrm, and quenched in the blood of a hundred foes. Do you think that’s true?”

Tol supported the heavy gold case with both arms as he answered, “Ackal Ergot was a mighty man, Your Majesty. Heroes of the past accomplished many tremendous deeds.”

Amaltar took his ancestor’s bronze helmet from a priest and perched it on his knee. “Ackal Ergot was no hero. He was a bloodthirsty savage.”

The other warriors were shocked at hearing the founder disparaged, but Tol remembered being privy to similar opinions from old Pakin III.

Amaltar added, “But he did have vision.”

Oropash appeared, trailed by the senior wizards of the two orders. The chief of the White Robes was pink-cheeked and well-scrubbed, and he wore a crisp robe of shining silk. His mostly bald pate was newly shaven for the day’s ceremonies. He was already sweating.

Tol remembered his predecessor, Yoralyn. She had been an altogether different sort, already ancient by the time he’d met her and tough as boot leather. A sharp, conniving rogue like Mandes could easily get the better of one like Oropash. He was a willow tree, bending before Mandes’s storm. Yoralyn had been an oak.

It was time to depart. To create the illusion Amaltar was outside the city prior to “storming” it, the imperial entourage would depart Daltigoth incognito, then form up on the road before the Great Ackal Gate. Lower ranking wizards handed out identical hooded gray robes that all, including the emperor, were to don.

Oropash and Amaltar led the group out of the tower. The imperial consorts and their offspring took to their chariots and were driven away. More chariots arrived for the imperial party.

As Tol climbed aboard with Hojan and the charioteer, he saw the white catafalque rising above the forest of banners in the plaza. Nearly journey’s end for Amaltar, this was the beginning of a far longer voyage for the spirit of Pakin III.

One at a time, the chariots rattled through a narrow postern in the south wall of the Inner City, behind the wizards’ enclave. The sun was well up by now and the day promised to be hot. The single cloud hovering over the palace had grown denser and darker. Tol wondered if there would be a storm. It seemed impossible, especially on this day.

The streets were thronged. A wedge of cavalry cleared the way for the chariots. People high and low from all over the empire had journeyed to Daltigoth for this day, this moment. City merchants and country gentry, laborers and craftsmen, farmers and their families, all passed in a blur.

Tol noticed a brown-haired man about his age leaning on his hay-fork, gripping it with large, work-worn hands. But for the hand of fate and the grace of the gods, that could have been Tol standing by the wayside watching the speeding chariots instead of riding in one.

A surprising number of other races were represented.

Tol saw gnomes and dwarves, as well as woodland elves in leather and face-paint. A quartet of Silvanesti elves, elegantly attired in silver and green, had hired human guards to keep the crowd hack from them, but the hirelings couldn’t stop the curious from gawking. The crowd found the mysterious Silvanesti as great a treat as the coming coronation.

Even rarer folk appeared: centaurs,, wild and swarthy; even Tarsans, with their characteristic flat cloth hats and canvas sailors’ trews. Tol wondered whether Hanira had come to the coronation. He sincerely hoped not. Life was complicated enough just now.

Foresters wearing animal skins jostled cheek by jowl with kender. Bare-chested herdsmen from the south jockeyed for a good view with stocky yeomen from the northland coast. Most remarkable of all, Tol spotted a few minotaurs in the crowd. Their bulls’ heads towered above those around them; each carried an ax of heroic proportions resting on one massive shoulder. No one had bothered (or dared) to ask the minotaurs to put their lethal weapons away.

The chariot squadron bumped through the smaller Tanners’ Port. Bearing off to the right, they soon caught sight of the rest of the imperial procession forming on the high road before the closed Ackal Gate.

In a swirl of crimson silk and satin, consorts and children fell into place, followed by a mass of courtiers and their families. Behind them was a far more formidable array of warlords and riders, all on foot today. Ritual demanded Amaltar enter the city on his own two feet, and no one could be allowed to upstage him by being mounted.

Everyone in the coronation party, even the children, was given a blunt wooden sword and tiny buckler. This made them the army of the “conqueror.” In all the parade numbered almost two thousand souls.

The chariots drew up at the head of the line. Amaltar got down and discarded his gray robe. He was sweating already in Ackal Ergot’s oversized armor, and the disguise only added to his discomfort. The rest of his honor guard followed his example, leaving gray robes piled along both sides of the road. The sun was at their backs, shining on the walls of Daltigoth.

Valdid went forward to consult with Amaltar. The assembly, already fairly quiet, hushed to silence as the chamberlain and emperor conversed. Valdid had been studying the coronation ritual since Pakin III died and was giving his liege a few final pointers. Although Valdid was a decade older, it was Amaltar who looked the elder.

With a final bow, Valdid withdrew, taking his place in line with his family. Amaltar went down on one knee and crossed his arms on his chest, making his prayer to Corij, patron deity of the House of Ackal. When he stood again, five of his eldest children came forward. The three boys and two girls were all in their teens and dressed as warriors. They bore simple instruments – two drums, a sistrum, and cymbals. The leader of the musicians was Amaltar’s eldest son and heir, Prince Hatonar.

To Tol’s eye, Hatonar looked soft and pampered – his hair elaborately curled and his scarlet raiment chased with layers of gilt. Most princes spent at least some time on campaign with a horde, but Hatonar had never been out of Daltigoth.

The five youths were the only people who would precede Amaltar. He gave them leave, and they set out to the beat of their drums. At an interval of ten paces came Amaltar. Tol counted to ten then followed his imperial master. The honor guard was close behind him, and the rest of the coronation party fell into place. All proceeded with stately, measured tread up the wide, paved ramp that led to the Ackal Gate.

The largest and most elaborate gate in the entire city, the Ackal actually comprised three gates, one monumental portal flanked by two smaller but still impressive ones. The pillars supporting the pediment over the triple entrance were colossal statues of the conqueror, Ackal the Great. The six statues, two per gate, were carved from living black granite, and each was twenty paces high. The curving pediment above them showed scenes from Ackal Ergot’s life in high relief. The central relief depicted the warlord’s hardest-fought battle, his duel with his own brother, Bazan Ergot. By defeating Bazan in personal combat, Ackal cleared the way for the forging of the plains riders into the Great Horde and the birth of the empire.

When the musician princes and princesses reached the top of the paved ramp, they stood aside, making way for their father to approach the closed gate.

“Who dares come before the city with arms and martial music?” called Lord Rymont from the gatehouse, playing the part of the city’s defender.

“Amaltar Ergot, Prince of the House of Ackal!”

“Turnback, Mighty One! This place is your doom!”

With a sweep of his hand, Amaltar directed his children to storm the gate. The youths threw themselves at the closed portal with much shouting and shoving. The double doors parted. Having thus “captured” the gate, they reformed and resumed their music. Amaltar marched through. Tol, bearing the golden case containing the famed crown, kept pace behind.

The square and street beyond were jammed with people. Mounted warriors with blunt spears kept a lane clear through the mob. When Amaltar emerged from the deep shadow of the Ackal Gate, a roar went up from the multitude – not a roar of approbation, but a cry of fear and anger. Until the crown of Ackal Ergot rested on his brow, Amaltar was emperor in name only, and his role now was that of a foreign warlord storming the city.

The people played their part with gusto, as this was their only opportunity to vent any resentment to their master’s face. Tol was taken aback as the good folk of Amaltar’s capital screamed, cursed, and shook fists at their ruler.

Prince Hatonar and his four siblings were intimidated by the fury of the mob and shrank together, slowing the pace. Their father overtook them and pushed them firmly along. His words were lost in the din, but his stern countenance and commanding gestures conveyed his meaning: This was no time for faint hearts.

The procession continued along the broad streets of the outer city. Through street and square, they marched inexorably toward the high walls and spires of the Inner City.

Tol sweated, the gold case in his outstretched arms seeming to grow heavier with every step. He watched the crowd for signs of trouble, a nearly impossible task as everyone was playing the part of hostile, subjugated citizens. The enormous mob could have charged at any time, overwhelming the cordon of warriors holding them back, but in spite of their seeming fury, the people of Daltigoth played their role fairly. None tried to get past the lines of warriors.

They rounded the corner into Empire Way, the broad boulevard leading directly to the plaza at the entrance to the Inner City. The long, hot walk was nearly over. Now facing east, Tol squinted into the sun’s glare.

Midday was not far off, and against the dazzling blue sky the single dark gray cloud remained overhead, as motionless over the palace as when Tol had left that morning. As he watched, the cloud grew larger and more attenuated.

Tol increased his pace, gaining slowly on Amaltar until he was only four paces behind instead of the prescribed ten. He wanted to be within range to rush to Amaltar’s side if anything unnatural occurred.

The cloud spread itself wider and wider. Though thin, it blocked the bold glare of the sun and the marchers felt a sudden chill. Would Mandes dare interfere with the coronation? Amaltar was his patron, after all.

Over the bang of the drums and clatter of sistrum and cymbal, through the mock rage of the crowd around them, Tol heard a rushing sound. He hustled forward to within two steps of Amaltar, still watching the sky. From every direction, black dots had appeared, moving swiftly toward them. Raucous cries rose above the tumult below. The dots soon resolved into ravens, a vast flock of them.

Amaltar looked up, slowing. Immediately Tol was at his side, whispering into his ear, “Whatever happens, Majesty, do not leave my side! I shall protect you! “

“They’re only birds,” said Amaltar, but his expression was uncertain.

Only birds, but thousands of them, black as coal and screeching like demons. The flock collected over the plaza, wheeling and darting a few hundred paces above the restive crowd. Every time the ravens tried to dive on the people, they entered the thin mist and were repulsed. The cloud was as airy as morning fog, but somehow it thoroughly repelled the army of ravens. This strange spectacle distracted the people below; and their rants against the “invader” Amaltar faded.

The spectacle in the sky did not last long. Stymied by the cloud, the flock of birds broke apart, flying to every horizon as suddenly as they had come. When the last one was gone, the cloud finally melted away, leaving only blazing sun and polished blue sky.

“What was that?” Amaltar wondered, along with every other soul in Daltigoth.

“An omen, Majesty,” Tol said, trying to sound cheerful. “A good omen for the start of your reign!”

The emperor did not look convinced. “Stay by me, Champion.” Tol vowed he would.

At the gate of the Inner City, Amaltar’s children divided, flanking the entrance on either side. Tol halted while the emperor continued on. Standing before the closed gate, clad in white-girded armor, was Draymon, commander of the Palace Guard.

“Stand off, invader! This is the sacred realm of His Majesty Pakin III!” Draymon intoned.

“Your ruler is lost and must yield,” Amaltar recited the ritual reply. “Death awaits any who resist!”

“Then fight, hated foreigner! The house of Ackal Ergot shall not fall!”

So saying, Draymon slipped inside the gate. Amaltar strode forward and struck the gate three times with his ceremonial sword. Each blow was punctuated by beats on the drums. On the third strike, a squad of palace guards hauled the gate open wide. Draymon and his men went to their knees. The mob in the plaza calmed.

“Spare us, O conqueror!” the commander exclaimed. “We did but serve our great lord!”

“Where is the noble Pakin III?”

“Yonder, on his bier.” Draymon pointed behind him. Through the forest of banners, the catafalque’s white curtains stirred in the breeze flowing through the open gate.

“I will pay homage to your defeated lord.”

Accompanied only by Tol and the golden case he bore, Amaltar entered the grounds of the place in which he’d grown up, no longer a prince, but as master. Pale and sweating inside the armor of his powerful ancestor, Amaltar did not resemble a conqueror but a worn and sickly man. More than once Tol had to pause as his imperial master faltered slightly, staggering under the weight of Ackal Ergot’s armor and the burden of his empire.

Oropash, Helbin, and the senior wizards stood waiting by the catafalque. Catching sight of Tol, Oropash paled and Helbin scowled. With Mistress Yoralyn gone, they were the only wizards who knew Tol possessed the nullstone, fatal to all their art. The two wizards mastered their emotions and lowered their eyes out of respect for their new emperor.

Amaltar and Tol climbed the steps to the veiled shrine. Within, Pakin III lay on a black basalt plinth. His loyal wizards had transformed him entirely to stone, even to his burial robes and single golden earring. Alive, he had been a sardonic, cynical man, brutally honest and strictly fair. Transmuted to alabaster, the old emperor looked wise enough to counsel the gods.

Amaltar laid his sword across his father’s chest. Instead of the ritual words, he said quietly, “Good-bye, Father. No man worked harder or understood me less.”

He knelt and a long silence ensued. Tol stood unmoving. He did not want to desecrate Amaltar’s silent prayers with any noise, no matter how slight.

At last, Amaltar rose and recovered his sword. “Come, Tolandruth.”

The banners had been cleared away, and the entire coronation procession had taken over the square. The monumental plaza could have easily accommodated even their number, but they were not alone. All the warlords of the empire had joined them, as had the wizards of the college and the servants, lackeys, cooks, and other lesser folk of the palace. The plaza was full of expectant faces and hushed voices. In the multitude Tol located Valaran, Nazramin, and Egrin. Far across the square, Mandes stood on the palace steps, surrounded by scribes and palace guards. The sorcerer was dressed in his best for the coronation, a blue-gray robe and spotless white gloves.

Tol descended two steps, turned to face Amaltar, and presented the heavy golden box. Amaltar unlocked it with his ring and raised the lid, letting it rest against Tol’s chest.

The ancient blade, bent into a circle, held within its tempered length the power and glory of an entire empire – the future of millions, contained in three spans of iron.

Amaltar lifted the iron crown from its resting place and seated it on his head. He turned to face the assembled throng.

In a loud voice slightly gruff with strain, he declared, “I am Ackal IV, Emperor of Ergoth! Who will bow down to me and serve me all my days?”

Noisily, with the clinking of armor and swish of silks, five thousand knelt as one.

“Hail, Ackal IV!” Tol shouted.

The crowd replied with a roar, “Hail Ackal IV! Long live the Emperor! Long Live Ackal IV!”

Chapter 14

DINNER AND A DUEL

By night the sky over Daltigoth was ablaze with light. The tremendous orange glow blotted out the gentle light of the stars. To an onlooker leagues away, the city might seem to be burning from end to end, but Daltigoth blazed only with revelry. From the Inner City to the scruffiest dive on the canal, everyone was honoring the memory of their past emperor or paying homage to the new one by feasting, drinking, and dancing.

So large was the throng of the elite – warlords, wizards, courtiers, and foreign dignitaries – the banquet in the Inner City was being held outdoors in the plaza. No hall in the palace was large enough to hold all the guests.

An army of trestle tables had been set up between the palace and the garden surrounding the Tower of High Sorcery. Torches stood at the ends of the tables, and masses of servants labored to keep the emperor’s favored guests well supplied with food and drink. An entire herd of imperial cattle had been slaughtered for the feast, along with no fewer than ten thousand fowl.

The palace kitchens were not sufficient for the great quantity of food to be prepared, so firepits were built in the alley between the palace’s north façade and the Inner City wall. There an army of cooks labored. Stripped to loincloths against the searing heat, they roasted whole steers, turned spits containing a hundred chickens, and stirred cauldrons of simmering vegetables. Wine tuns as tall as ogres were hauled up from the cellars and tapped on the palace steps, and hogsheads of beer were put at the end of each row of tables.

At the imperial table, Ackal IV dined with his wives, children, and royal siblings. Tol was favored with a seat at the table facing the imperial table. Miya and Kiya had joined him, as had Egrin and the other members of the morning’s honor guard.

The night air was cooler now, as summer waned into autumn, but the heavy coronation finery worn by the diners, the great quantities of wine and beer they consumed, and the leaping flames of the torches combined to overheat the scene.

The gathering was earnestly merry, with a few notable exceptions. Chief among the melancholy was the new emperor himself.

Ackal IV sat in his oversized chair, listlessly taking in the fantastic scene. Gray-faced and sweating, his earlier vigor had faded under the great weight of his new position. As regent, Amaltar had ruled the empire for twelve years, but no matter how much power he’d held, it had always been wielded in his father’s name. Now he was emperor in truth. There was no one above him, no other name to invoke to settle disputes. Everything rested on his own shoulders. The Ergoth Empire was a prodigious burden. Another man might have reveled in the glory, in the unbridled power that was now his to command. Ackal IV looked miserable.

The emperor’s apparent gloom infected Tol’s mood, or perhaps it was the quantity of beer he had drunk. Between toasts offered by the Dom-shu sisters on his left and salutes offered by the warlords on his right, Tol was imbibing much more than usual.

Valaran was seated only steps away from him, yet she might as well have been perched on the red moon. Cool and regal amid the raucous celebration, she seemed totally unruffled by the loud talk and the oppressive heat of torches, braziers, and open hearths. Tol itched to stalk across the narrow gap separating them and take her for his own, as he had Tarsis or the Blood Fleet.

A stinging blow on his back snapped Tol out of his glum preoccupation. Hojan had come up behind him and given his commander a comradely whack.

“My lord!” Hojan said, weaving a little on his feet. “We’re having a friendly dispute. Give us the benefit of your wisdom!”

Tol grimaced. “If I can.”

“Which is more important to a commander: training or instinct? Bessian, Manacus, and Urbath say training is more important. Illando and I say instinct.”

“And Varnacoth?”

Hojan waved a dismissive hand. “He’s too drunk!”

Tol leaned forward and looked down the table. “What does Lord Egrin say?”

Disdaining to wait for an overworked servant, the marshal had gotten up to fetch himself a trencher of bread. “The most vital characteristic of a successful commander is luck,” Egrin tossed over his shoulder.

“I agree,” Tol said.

Hojan’s ally Illando said, “But, my lord, luck is so random. How can a conscientious leader count on it?”

“He can’t, but a wise commander fosters his own luck. You must be able to seize upon any sudden change in fortune or any weakness in the enemy.”

“Was your training of no consequence then, Lord Tolandruth?” asked the squat, muscular Bessian.

“No, he was just lucky,” Kiya said. The men laughed, and she raised her voice, expanding on her claim. “Lord Tolandruth is the most fortunate man I’ve ever known. If he’d stayed a farmer, he’d have the best crops in the Eastern Hundred. If he’d become a cobbler, he’d have sold more shoes than anyone in Ergoth. Because he took up the sword, he became a famous general.”

“That’s too simple,” Hojan protested. He steadied himself by planting a heavy hand on Miya’s shoulder. Fastidiously, she lifted it off. He wobbled a moment then firmed his knees again.

“Truth is simple,” said Kiya. “That’s what makes it hard to take.”

Egrin carried his bread back to his seat on Tol’s right. “What do you say, my lord?” the marshal asked.

“Kiya’s right. I’ve been very lucky.” Tol popped a hunk of rare beef in his mouth. “I was lucky to learn a great deal from Lord Egrin and all the warriors at Juramona, who were also my teachers. Some, like Marshal Odovar, taught by bad example, but I tried to learn from them all and to put what they taught me to the test in battle.”

He warmed to the topic. “Some common wisdom was invaluable. Some was arrant nonsense. For example, when deploying foot soldiers against cavalry, I —”

A commotion among the guests interrupted Tol. All heads turned in the direction of the disturbance to see Mandes, whom had been absent from the festivities up till now. He was advancing along the lane between the tables. Richly clad in deep blue velvet, he gazed straight ahead, ignoring the merry chaos around him. When he reached the imperial table, he bowed to Ackal IV.

Tol’s fingers closed into fists. By the emperor’s order, no knives or forks were allowed at the banquet (the meat was carved into bite-sized pieces by the cooks before it was served). The order was meant to protect him, but now it spared Mandes, who otherwise would have found Tol’s dinner implements buried in his heart.

“Your Majesty sent for me?” the sorcerer said smoothly.

“I am weary, and my heart is heavy,” Ackal IV said, sighing.

“Your Majesty has had a trying day.” Mandes held out a gloved hand. A many-pointed star of flawless crystal appeared on his palm. “The stars of heaven descend this night to pay you homage, sire.”

Mandes set the ornament on the table before the emperor. It was pretty, but hardly remarkable amidst the splendor of jewels and ornate decor. Smiling slightly at Ackal’s lukewarm response, Mandes clapped his kid-covered hands. With each clap, the small star enlarged, growing to bushel-basket size. Empress Thura, seated next to her husband, gasped and applauded.

Mandes levitated the spiky ornament from the imperial table down to the pavement. He clapped his hands once more, and the glass star expanded again. The crowd around the imperial table exclaimed at the performance.

From their place far down the high table, Oropash and Helbin did not bother to hide their disapproval. Magic was high art to them, not meant for sideshow entertainment.

In addition to all his other violations of the wizards’ code, Mandes now was cheapening their craft merely to amuse the emperor and his guests.

The Mist-Maker spread his arms wide and mouthed silent words of power. The transparent star rose slowly into the air. With a tilt of his head, Mandes set it turning on one point. Catching the torchlight, the spinning star flashed and scintillated, throwing rainbows of light over the admiring crowd.

More than a little tipsy, Tol leaped to his feet. Miya clutched his arm, trying to stop him. Kiya broke her sister’s grip and cut off Miya’s protests.

Oblivious to the danger that threatened him, Mandes was embellishing his act. He put the tip of one finger to the bottommost point of the whirling star, as if balancing it there. Many in the crowd laughed. Ackal IV smiled.

All laughter died when Tol approached. The grim expression on his face spoke volumes, and someone in the crowd yelled, “Take him, Tolandruth!”

“Liar! Betrayer! Murderer!” Tol declared.

Suddenly, the star exploded. With a sound like discordant music, brilliant shards rained over the nearby tables. Mandes threw an arm over his face. Tol did not do so fast enough, and a shard cut his right cheek.

A hush fell over the plaza and all eyes went to the emperor. Far from being displeased, Ackal IV looked more alert and interested than he had all evening.

Mandes was livid. “How dare you interfere with the emperor’s diversion,” he said, drawing back from Tol. “You might have injured him, breaking the crystal orb!”

Tol wiped the line of blood from his cheek. He saw a dark object lying on the ground amid the broken slivers of glass. Mindful of the sharp shards, he bent down and picked it up. It was a lump of lead, formed into a plum-sized ball.

“Lord Tolandruth did not interfere,” called out a strong, clear voice. “I did!”

Striding down the lane between the tables came a dark-eyed young man with curly black hair. He was dressed like a foundryman in leather apron, gauntlets, and leggings. To his surprise Tol recognized Elicarno, engineer and builder of machines. He was trailed by eight young men similarly attired.

Elicarno carried a strange and complicated device. It had a heavy wooden stock, shaped for grasping at one end. At the other end, two pivoting arms stuck out nearly at right angles to the stock, their free ends connected by a thick cord, like a bowstring.

“Master Mechanician, what’s the meaning of this?” Despite the disruption, there was no anger in the emperor’s challenge. Plainly, he did not find Elicarno’s sudden arrival unwelcome.

Elicarno halted a few steps away and bowed with a wide sweep of his free arm.

“Your Majesty, my apprentices and I come to wish you a long and happy reign. I bring you this hand catapult, the latest project from my workshop.” He set the device on the imperial table.

“So it was you who shattered Mandes’s star?” Ackal IV asked.

Elicarno admitted it. He’d broken the glass star with a single lead missile loosed from his hand catapult. Mandes puffed out his chest, ready to bask in the emperor’s outrage.

“Remarkable,” was Ackal IV’s comment.

Mandes deflated visibly as the emperor fingered the tightly twisted skein of cords that powered the throwing arms. When the bowstring was drawn back, the skein was compressed further, imparting power to the arm.

“What is its range?”

“Aimed range is a hundred paces, Majesty, but it can loft projectiles up to two hundred paces.”

Tol asked, “Can it throw darts or arrows?”

“With some adjustments, yes.”

At Elicarno’s nod, Tol picked up the hand catapult. It was weighty but well balanced. The engineer explained he should tuck the butt end against his right shoulder and aim by holding the stock level with his eyes.

From his place below the emperor’s wives, Prince Nazramin remarked loudly, “Ingenious. Just the thing for knocking pigeons off the battlements. No more soiled statues!” Some in the crowd greeted this remark with titters.

Elicarno’s black brows knotted, and Tol could see the retort forming on his lips. Nazramin was not the sort to take sharp words from a commoner, so Tol forestalled any reply by quickly asking how the device worked. He grasped both sides of the cord, and pressing the butt into his hip, he tried to draw the bowstring back. However, the skeins were very strong, and he succeeded in pulling the bowstring only halfway toward the catch-hook set in the middle of the stock.

“Allow me, my lord.”

Elicarno looped the string over an iron hook attached to his broad leather belt. Bending forward, until the stirrup on the front of the catapult was resting on the floor, he put his foot in the stirrup. By straightening his back, he pulled the bowstring across the catch, where it held.

Mandes, furious at having lost the emperor’s notice, could remain silent no longer.

“How long are we to listen to this tradesman?” he protested. “Your Majesty, by rights he should not even be here —”

“I will listen as long as I like,” came the mild reply.

Mandes’s gaze flickered toward Nazramin, hoping to find an ally, but the prince was busy downing a large goblet of wine.

Fixing a bland smile on his face, the sorcerer smoothed his blue velvet robe. “As Your Majesty pleases, always,” he said. “We all know what interesting toys Master Elicarno makes.”

“Toys?” the engineer exclaimed. “I’ll show you a toy!”

He took the lead ball from Tol and loaded it into the catapult. Holding the device high, he turned swiftly, searching for a target. A bronze statue of Ackal Dermount II on the palace promenade caught his eye, and he squeezed the release bar under the catapult’s stock. The bowstring hummed, and the small gray ball flashed away. A heartbeat later, the projectile hit the bronze torso with a metallic plunk. The statue rocked from the impact.

“That lead ball just penetrated bronze plate a finger’s width thick,” Elicarno announced. “The target was over sixty paces away. At forty paces, I can pierce iron armor. With the improved version of my hand catapult, projectiles will go through an iron cuirass at two hundred paces!”

“Sacrilege!” Mandes said, pointing dramatically to the ruined statue. “You desecrated an image of the emperor’s ancestor!”

“It was a terrible likeness anyway,” Ackal IV said.

During the polite laughter that greeted his sally, the emperor began to cough. He couldn’t stop. Thura rubbed his back, her round face creasing with worry.

When he finally regained his breath and lifted his head, blood was trickling from the corner of his mouth. Those nearby gasped, the murmurs of concern rippling outward through the ranks of notables. Thura wiped the blood away with a linen napkin.

“Your Majesty!” Mandes said, taking advantage of the silence. “Permit me to say these claptrap machines are not worthy of your attention! Leave such mechanical trivialities to the gnomes. The Emperor of Ergoth can rely upon the swords of his brave warriors and the magic of his loyal sorcerer!”

If Mandes hoped to win the sympathy of the assembled warlords with his remarks, he failed. Even the dullest soldier present could see the value of Elicarno’s invention, and many of them had been on the receiving end of Mandes’s spells and potions. Not a word was spoken in his support. Mandes’s eyes kept darting to Prince Nazramin, but he was engaged in a murmured flirtation with the ladies seated on either side of him.

Elicarno bristled. “Claptrap? Trivialities? Bold words from a weaver of mists and concocter of poisons!”

Pale blue eyes narrowing, Mandes raised a hand, fingers spread, a conjuration forming on his lips. Tol grasped the engineer’s arm, as though to restrain him from further heated words, but in fact to grant him the secret protection of the millstone. However, the agitated expostulations of Chamberlain Valdid reminded Mandes where he was, and he ceased his spellcasting.

Instead, he drew himself up haughtily and stated, “You slander me, Master Elicarno. I demand an apology!”

Elicarno’s reply was brief and pungent. Courtiers gasped to hear profanity spoken in the emperor’s presence, but the warlords guffawed. More heated words would have followed, but Ackal IV, looking wan, called for silence. Although he shivered visibly, sweat had formed a sickly sheen on his forehead.

“Neither of you is a Rider,” he said hoarsely. “Dueling is forbidden to the common born.”

Sorcerer and engineer continued to exchange fulminating looks, but their anger turned to surprise with the emperor’s next words.

“Still, I see no reason why your skills cannot be tested against each other. We shall have a contest, a match of magic versus mechanics.”

Excited whispers buzzed through the assembly. Valdid, hovering at the emperor’s elbow, asked, “Is that wise, sire?”

“Let them test their strength with their creations, not by shedding each other’s blood. The empire needs both magic and machines to be strong. Let the champion of each try conclusions against the other.”

Ackal IV pushed himself to his feet. The assemblage of courtiers and warriors likewise rose.

“The contest shall take place on the Field of Corij, two days hence, at five marks past dawn.”

Elicarno and Mandes bowed their heads, signifying their acceptance.

Leaning heavily on his chief wife, Ackal IV told Valdid the celebration should continue, though he was retiring. Everyone waited in respectful silence as they withdrew.

When Ackal IV reached the top of the palace steps after a slow, painful climb, Tol shouted, “Long live the emperor! Long live Ackal IV!”

Thousands of throats took up his cry. The emperor turned and acknowledged their salute with a brief lift of one hand, then he and Thura vanished into the palace. Tol had hoped to speak with Valaran at some point, but when their ailing husband withdrew, protocol demanded the imperial consorts retire as well. With a swirl of crimson silk, Valaran entered the shadowed palace.

Freed of the presence of imperial dignity, the feast immediately grew louder and more raucous.

Mandes slipped away as Egrin, the Dom-shu sisters, and Tol’s officers came forward to meet Elicarno. Miya in particular seemed quite taken with the hand catapult. She and Elicarno spent the rest of the party talking earnestly together. Tol remarked to Kiya that he’d not known Miya was so interested in machines. Kiya said it wasn’t engines that held Miya’s attention so much as the engineer.

Tol invited Elicarno to stay with them at the villa, citing Mandes’s treachery. He wouldn’t put it past the sorcerer to make an attempt on the engineer’s life before the contest.

Elicarno agreed. He’d long suspected Mandes had been behind the strange, crippling arthritis that had afflicted his old master practically overnight. The illness struck just after Master Wurdgell had argued with a prominent courtier over a fee the courtier refused to pay. The courtier, Elicarno explained, was known to be one of Mandes’s clients.

Midnight had come and gone when Tol and his party finally left the continuing celebration. They recovered their weapons at the Inner City gate while they waited for their horses to be brought. As he and his apprentices had no horses, Elicarno accepted Miya’s offer to ride double with her.

Elicarno told his apprentices to return to the workshop and prepare for the coming contest.

“What should we prepare, Master?” asked the eldest.

“Everything. Tools, timber, the portable forge, ingots of iron and bronze. I want to be on the Field of Corij one mark after dawn!”

The trip back to the Quarry District passed in silence, surrounded as they were by the celebrations ringing through the streets of Daltigoth.

*

Nazramin rose from the tangle of bedclothes. The chamber was stifling. His head swam from too much wine and his throat was dry as dust.

Pulling on a robe, he slipped out, stubbing his toe on a table leg before reaching the door. The resultant shower of curses did not wake the two women snoring softly on the bed behind him. He couldn’t remember their names. They were the sisters – daughters? – of an ambitious courtier and had sought him out at the feast, eager to curry favor.

He’d found them amusing enough at first but loathed the sight of them now. He’d have the servants throw them out at daybreak.

In the antechamber, he went to a small table that held a pitcher of cider, several cups, and a tray of breads and sweets. Servants replaced the food on the tray regularly, knowing better than to allow their master to discover anything stale or less than perfectly presented on the tray.

The tart cider stung his throat as he gulped it down. He was about to refill his cup when he noticed a strange shadow moving on the wall in front of him. Spinning, he flung the cup at the fireplace.

The brass cup clanged against the stone hearth. Mandes easily ducked the awkward throw.

“How dare you come here unbidden!” Nazramin snarled. “Get out!”

“Please, Your Highness! Be not hasty!” said the sorcerer, holding up his gloved hands in a placating gesture. “We have common cause against these upstarts, Tol and Elicarno! If you will lend me a few men, Highness, I could chastise them properly!”

“I’d sooner throw my men off a cliff. Master Tol has taken the engineer under his protection. He’ll be vigilant. Armed assassins won’t get within bowshot of either of them.”

Nazramin drank greedily from the heavy brass pitcher, cider trickling down his cheeks. Sated at last, he slanted a dangerous glare at Mandes.

“You are not welcome here, Mist-Maker. Get out.”

“We are allies,” Mandes insisted.

“You are my hireling, not my equal!”

Hefting the brass pitcher in one hand, Nazramin advanced. The flickering firelight was the room’s only illumination, but it plainly showed the violence in the prince’s eyes. Mandes sidled out of reach, beseeching his former patron to listen to him.

Without warning, Nazramin relaxed. He dropped the pitcher carelessly to the floor. Cider dregs splashed onto the intricately woven wool and silk carpet.

“The peasant was at your house last night, did you know?” he said. “He came there to kill you.”

Mandes nodded. He’d been told as much.

The prince snorted. “He would have slain you tonight, in front of the entire coronation party, had not Elicarno diverted him. You should be grateful to Master Soot-and-Gears. He saved your cowardly carcass.”

“No one spoke up for me at all,” Mandes muttered.

Another snort. “You’re hardly well loved, sorcerer.”

“After all I’ve done for those lords and ladies – the troubles I’ve handled for them – and they just sat there, gawking, while I was threatened! Even the emperor failed me.”

Nazramin’s eyes narrowed. “He seems to have recovered much of his will. What happened to your spells?”

Mandes explained that Ackal IV had been spending an unusual amount of time in the Tower of High Sorcery, which had helped to restore some of his equilibrium. “His recovery is only temporary, Highness,” the sorcerer added.

From a squat vase in a corner of the room, Nazramin drew a hefty cloth bag. He tossed it at Mandes’s feet, and the contents clinked loudly.

“The balance of your fee.”

“Highness, your brother still lives and reigns. My task is not yet done.”

“You’ve done enough. Amaltar won’t last long on the throne. Besides” — the prince smiled in a most unpleasant fashion — “something tells me you won’t be in Daltigoth much longer.”

Mandes, fingering the bag of money he’d picked up, froze. “What do you mean?” he stammered.

“You’re finished here, sorcerer. Surely you realized it yourself, tonight. You’ve gone too far. None of your wealthy ‘friends’ is willing to be your patron. Master Tol thirsts for your blood, and the engineer will do his best to shame you on the Field of Corij. When that happens —”

Mandes flinched hard, and Nazramin’s smile widened.

“When that happens,” he repeated, “your only recourse will be exile, unless you wish to face the tender mercies of the farmer or any of the several hundred other worthies in the city who hate you for what you’ve done to them.”

The cold words were like a judgment. Mandes shivered, but he was not finished yet. Drawing a deep breath, he straightened his back and declared, “That tinker will never beat me!”

“Care to wager on it? That villa of yours is quite handsome.

Want to hazard your house against my gold that Elicarno humiliates you?”

Mandes’s hard-won composure failed him, and his gaze dropped. Nazramin laughed harshly.

“No? Well, no matter. When you’re gone, I’ll claim it anyway.”

Mandes looked utterly bewildered. His empire was crumbling, and he couldn’t begin to understand why. The prince, his most powerful client, was exploring the food on the tray with a casual hand, ignoring him completely.

“I know many compromising things about this city’s nobles,” Mandes whispered desperately. “I will speak. I will tell all.”

Nazramin made a disgusted sound. “Open your mouth, and I’ll see your tongue cut out before you finish your first word.”

This was no idle threat. Nazramin would likely do the deed himself – and enjoy it.

The sorcerer pulled the shreds of his dignity around himself and backed away. His dark blue robe blended with the shadows by the wall.

“Don’t be too smug, cruel prince. I can see your future,” Mandes said. His form began to fade away. “You will gain what you most desire, only to have it taken from you, bit by bit. Your own blood will strike you down, and the last thing you see in this life will be the eyes of the one you have wronged most …”

Nazramin uttered a loud, vulgar exclamation, but Mandes was gone, dissolved into the shadows by the hearth.

The prince tied the belt of his robe with angry, abrupt gestures. The Mist-Maker was obviously flinging false prophecies in hopes of saving his waning prestige. When Nazramin wore the crown of Ackal Ergot, his enemies would know true fear. Already he had a list of those who would not long survive his coronation. The list grew longer with each passing day.

He returned to his bedchamber. The rasping female snores and tangle of pale limbs in his bed filled him with revulsion. He strode back across the antechamber and flung open the doors to the upstairs hall.

The walls rang as Nazramin bellowed for his servants. Soon the calm was shattered again by the shrieks and protests of his former guests, driven out into the night with whatever bedclothes they could grab.

*

An uneventful day and night passed at Rumbold Villa. A steady stream of Elicarno’s apprentices came and went, bringing their master reports on the progress of the many projects underway at his workshop. The shop was in the New City, between the Old City and the canal district. A three-story barn-like structure housed Elicarno’s workshops on the ground floor, storerooms and studies on the second, home quarters on the third. Forty-two apprentices worked under the engineer; most were young men from provincial cities like Caergoth and Juramona.

Tol had taken an immediate liking to the brash engineer. A few years younger than Tol, Elicarno bristled with energy and enthusiasm. Like Tol, he was of low birth and had gone far by hard work. In between visits from his assistants, he, Tol, Egrin, and the Dom-shu sisters talked about what they’d seen of the wider world. Elicarno examined Number Six with keen interest, having never seen steel before.

Although based on common iron, steel required a forging process said to be so laborious only a few such blades were made each year. The dwarves fashioned small quantities of the hard metal mainly for their chiefs or to trade to the Silvanesti.

The day after the coronation, they were all enjoying dinner in the villa’s elevated garden. Late day sun washed the wooden table and benches in warm light as Elicarno described how his most successful invention, the rapid loading lever for catapults, had helped defeat a warlike clan of dwarves in the northern Harrow Sky Mountains. This brief campaign had occurred as the war with Tarsis raged. A small force of Riders under Lord Regobart’s nephew Heinax, accompanied by a corps of catapulteers trained to use Elicarno’s rapid loader, had caught the recalcitrant dwarf band in a high canyon and wiped them out.

“With my loading lever, a team can loose ten missiles where one used to go,” Elicarno explained.

Egrin shook his head. “It’s a sad thing for brave warriors to be slain by soulless machines.”

“There’s no honor in such a fight,” Kiya agreed. “Not for the victors or the victims.”

Elicarno’s black brows drew down in a confused frown. “Honor? Bravery? I thought the purpose of warfare was to win, inflicting the most damage on the enemy, while preserving your own men.”

Egrin was an old-fashioned warrior and proud of it. Kiya had been raised a warrior of her forest tribe, with all the sentiments of the primeval Dom-shu. Tol respected their beliefs, even if he thought them outmoded, and so made a diplomatic remark about progress. Miya, unburdened by considerations of subtlety, loudly proclaimed Elicarno’s point of view the only correct one.

“Pah!” her sister retorted. “You favor the speaker, not his words!”

Tol smothered a smile. Whatever Miya’s beliefs about the purpose of war, Kiya’s shot had been a true one. The younger Dom-shu hadn’t left Elicarno’s side all morning. Her fascination with him was all the more striking since, in all the years she’d been with Tol, she’d never shown a particular interest in any man. Tol loved Miya like a big sister and wanted her to be happy. Kiya was plainly put out by the whole situation.

Talk turned to the coming contest.

“The test must be a problem both magic and machines can address,” Elicarno mused. “Perhaps shifting a large boulder or erecting a length of wall.”

“Nothing so constructive, I’d wager,” Egrin remarked, tugging gently at his beard. “If I were you, Master Elicarno, I’d form my plans around destruction. His Majesty has always been taken with displays of power.”

It was true. No matter how subtle his purpose, Ackal IV usually favored overwhelming force to achieve his ends.

Taking their advice to heart, Elicarno decided not to bring a broad assembly of materials to the contest. Instead, he would have his men disassemble one of the larger catapults, outfitted with his famous rapid loading lever, and carry that to the duel, along with two wagonloads of missiles.

The character of Elicarno’s opponent was the next topic of conversation. Mandes was a wily and powerful sorcerer, but his repertory was limited, Tol advised the engineer. His specialties were mist and weather spells and potions. No matter what form the contest took, Mandes would be determined to win at any cost.

“Will he try to harm Elicarno?” Miya asked. She appeared ready to take on the sorcerer herself should that happen.

“He won’t try that in front of the emperor,” Tol said, “but expect a low blow. Win or lose, Mandes will strike back, whether a day later or forty.”

His sober warning cast a pall over the dinner. Elicarno withdrew to his room in the villa and spent the evening chalking calculations on a piece of slate. Miya stood watch over him at a distance, keeping interruptions to a minimum. As for Tol, he spent the night patrolling the grounds.

The sun set and night spread over the capital. A crispness flavored the air. Autumn was coming on cool wings, bringing with it the promise of many changes.

*

Despite the cool night, the day of the contest dawned sultry, with gray clouds clotting the morning sky. A heavy rain drenched the Field of Corij just before sunrise. Comprising several acres of flat meadow north of the city, the field served as a practice and training ground for the imperial army, and the heavy sod was much cut up by the hooves of thousands of horses.

True to his promise, Elicarno arrived one mark past dawn with his forty-two apprentices. They brought with them six wagonloads of material – timbers, metal brackets, and a league of cordage neatly wound in heavy hanks.

Under the master engineer’s watchful eye, the apprentices fell to assembling a great catapult of the type Elicarno referred to as a “two-armed ballista.” This proved to be a much larger version of the hand-held device he’d used to shatter Mandes’s crystal star. Two throwing arms installed sideways were set on a cross-shaped frame. This in turn was placed on a pedestal of stout timbers, so finely balanced a single man could pivot the heavy ballista in any direction.

Although the catapult was of unusually high quality – the wood seasoned and smoothly planed, and with iron brackets on every joint – the true curiosity lay in Elicarno’s loading device. Attached to the rear of the ballista were a pair of tall levers that pivoted on the frame itself. Hooks on the levers grabbed the thick bowstring, drawing it back when long ropes attached to the levers were pulled by a gang of apprentices. When the trigger was tripped, the bowstring sprang forward, propelling the missile (in this case an oversized arrow). Springs pulled the levers forward, and a wooden cam caused the hooks on them to lift and snap over the bowstring again. With a loading team hauling smartly on the lever ropes, the machine could be swiftly cocked again and a fresh dart laid in the launching trough. Operated by a strong and smart company, the ballista could throw a storm of missiles in a very short time.

At the appointed time the emperor arrived, accompanied by a large entourage of courtiers and warlords. A pavilion had been raised along the edge of the field, and the imperial party took their ease there while servants dispensed cider and sweetmeats.

Tol and Egrin rode over to pay their respects. They dismounted and surrendered their weapons to the bodyguards. Striding through knee-high grass, general and marshal made their way to the pavilion.

As they saluted the emperor, Tol was surprised to see Valaran had come. Gone was her usual court attire of flowing gown and starched headdress. She was dressed from neck to heels in dark green huntsman’s attire cunningly reworked for the female figure. A flat cap of velvet graced her head, with a single peacock feather raking back from the crown. The only imperial consort present, she stood at Ackal IV’s right hand, sipping cider from a porcelain cup.

Inclining his head to her, Tol said, “Highness. I am surprised to see you at something as coarse as a duel.”

Her green eyes blazed over the rim of her cup. “This is no ordinary combat, Lord Tolandruth,” she said. “Magic versus machinery – there’s a true contest!”

She was still the same Val, insatiably curious.

“Master Mandes has not shown himself,” said the emperor, shifting in his wide canvas chair. His face was flushed, his eyes rimmed with red. “Will he cry craven, do you think?”

Valdid, standing at Ackal IV’s left hand, did not think so. “He’s waiting to make an entrance, Your Majesty,” was the old chamberlain’s opinion.

So it proved. Only moments later, a peal of thunder rumbled across the sky, though no lightning had been seen. All looked up. Over the distant forest of city rooftops was a streak of cloud. White against the mixed gray of the unsettled sky, the wisp expanded and came boiling directly toward the Field of Corij.

“Here he comes,” muttered Valdid.

A thrill of concern raced through Tol. By rights this duel should be his – he had been gravely wronged by Mandes many times and should have dealt with him long ago. Did Elicarno realize what danger he was facing?

When eight legs appeared below the surging column of cloud, Tol wondered if any of them truly knew what Mandes was capable of. The legs churned as though galloping through the air. Strangely, the front pairs did not match the rear ones. The four legs in the front line were feathered in white and bore great talons. The rear four were covered in tawny fur.

Wings appeared, beating in unison, and two amazing beasts dropped from the clouds: griffins, harnessed to a white, egg-shaped coach.

The Ergothians gaped. Griffins were exceedingly rare, and this fine, fierce pair bore the markings of royal Silvanesti heritage. Only the Speaker of the Stars owned griffins with snow-white eagle plumage forward and golden lion hide behind.

The coach they drew had no wheels, only a pair of long skids on its underside. The fantastical conveyance swept overhead, turned, and came back, landing gently as an autumn leaf before the imperial pavilion.

Shaken by the spectacle, the guards were slow to muster on the plain between the aerial coach and their emperor. By the time they had, Mandes was emerging.

He looked as dazzling as his transport. Dressed entirely in cloth-of-gold, he wore a skullcap carved from a single piece of lapis lazuli. His gloves were of woven gold thread, and in his right hand he gripped a tall, black oaken staff, inlaid along its entire length with esoteric symbols in silver.

Walking through the flustered guards, Mandes spread his arms wide and halted before the emperor. He bowed his head.

“Your Majesty, your humble servant is here,” he said in a manner neither humble nor servile.

“There’s no mistake about that,” Ackal IV replied dryly.

Valaran exclaimed, “Where in the world did you find a pair of matched griffins?”

“In Silvanost, Highness – a gift from the Speaker of the Stars.”

“For services rendered?” Tol said bluntly.

“Just so, my lord,” was the sorcerer’s cool reply. “I performed a bit of rare art for the Speaker, and in gratitude he presented me with Lightning and Thunderbolt.”

Valaran began to ask about the care and feeding of griffins, but her father cut her off. Valdid urged the emperor to commence the contest.

A runner was dispatched to bring Elicarno. The engineer soon arrived, flanked by Egrin and Miya. Kiya limped behind the trio, a dour expression on her face.

Elicarno had washed and donned clean clothes that morning, but his work assembling the ballista had left him grease-stained once more. The tousled engineer looked the very antithesis of Mandes’s gilded splendor.

When everyone was arrayed before him, Ackal IV charged the combatants.

“You are here to try your purposes against one another – Mandes’s magic against Elicarno’s machinery. As you are both valued vassals of the empire, I will tolerate no harm directed by either of you against the other. This is a contest of power, not a duel to the death. Is that clear?”

Each man assured the emperor of his understanding. Ackal gestured to Valdid.

The chamberlain directed everyone’s attention to two sturdy posts being raised on the field by gangs of soldiers. Each post was a freshly cut elm tree trunk, four steps tall and two handspans thick.

“Those are your targets,” Valdid declared loudly. “The first man to destroy his will be the winner. The deed must he accomplished from a distance – the greater the distance, the greater the merit earned.”

He paused dramatically, then cried, “Commence!”

Elicarno sprinted to his waiting men. “Jacks and levers! Move the beast around and bear on the target!”

His apprentices jammed long levers under the frame of the catapult and began heaving it around. The engine could swing on a pivot in any direction, but the lay of the land prevented Elicarno from using his loading device effectively unless he turned the machine.

While the engineers grunted and shouted, Mandes walked quietly away from the imperial pavilion, golden robe rippling out behind him. Softly, he intoned the words of a spell. A dark cloud began to form over his head.

The engineers had the catapult in position. Elicarno called for a quadrant and plumb line, to make sure the frame of the device was level and true. When he was satisfied, he chose a straight, sturdy dart from a pile of similar missiles and laid it in the launching tray. An assistant banged on the thick end of a wedge jammed under the ballista’s arm. With each blow, the plumb line swung more and more to the perpendicular.

“There!” Elicarno set the trigger mechanism. “Draw the weapon!”

Eighteen strong young men hauled back on the loading levers. With a loud clack, the hooks dropped over the bowstring, and the device began to ratchet back.

Meanwhile, Mandes stood alone in the trampled grass. The sorcerer’s hands were over his head, gloved fingers flexing ever so slightly. The steady drone of his voice carried to the pavilion. The black cloud that had formed over his head was now hovering above his target, growing larger and larger.

“Steady!” Elicarno shouted. His men quickly cleared away from the ballista, now poised and cocked. The power captive in the skeins could take off a man’s head if he got in the way of the bowstring.

The trigger line was a simple length of cord, surprisingly light to trip so large a device. Elicarno wrapped the line around his hand. After a heartbeat’s pause, he pulled the trigger.

Cords shrieked, timbers thrashed, and the bowstring sprang forward. Everyone in the pavilion felt the shock of the machine through the soles of their feet. The dart, two paces of turned hardwood with a solid bronze head, whistled through the air. It sailed over the target post.

“Down, three taps!”

Elicarno’s man pushed the elevation wedge out with three distinct blows of the mallet. The ballista was reloaded, a second missile thrown. This one landed half a step in front of the post, burying itself in the rain-softened soil up to its fletching.

“Up, one!”

A column of light, brighter than a sun, lanced down from the cloud Mandes had conjured. It struck the target post and exploded. The resulting thunderclap rocked the entire assembly, collapsing half the emperor’s pavilion and setting the tethered horses rearing and neighing in terror. Tol felt a glare of heat on the left side of his face. His skin crawled, and the muscles beneath surged of their own accord. Blinded, he flailed one hand and felt Kiya’s strong arm.

The flash faded and vision returned. A veil of smoke drifted across the Field of Corij. Mandes’s target was now only a charred, smoldering stump.

Looking a trifle singed, the sorcerer presented himself to the emperor. Valdid and assorted palace lackeys were struggling to erect the collapsed portion of tent, while Valaran brushed ash and bits of blasted turf from the emperor’s shoulders.

Mandes bowed, straightened, then declaimed, “My target is gone, Your Majesty. I have won!”

Ackal IV held up a hand. “Master Elicarno, can you continue?”

“Yes, Your Majesty!” the engineer shouted, even as he rubbed the dazzle from his eyes.

With the ballista ready, Elicarno loosed another shot. The great arrow struck the center of the post, burying half its length through the elm trunk.

“Rapid, commence!”

The catapult’s arms threshed, hurling a second dart into the target. With a concerted shout, the loaders cocked the weapon again, and another missile was launched. More followed. In short order, Elicarno had deluged his target with forty darts. At times as many as a dozen missiles were in the air at the same time.

The whack of the catapult and the thrum of flying projectiles made a horrible menacing noise.

When Elicarno finally called a halt, no part of his target remained visible. The bronze heads of forty missiles had reduced the wooden post to a scattering of splinters.

Ackal IV rose from his seat, and Valaran braced him. Together, they inspected the targets, starting with Elicarno’s. Valdid, the imperial bodyguards, Tol, Egrin, and the Dom-shu sisters trailed behind.

When the emperor came to Mandes’s charred target, the sorcerer was standing proudly beside it. Ackal IV extended a pale, spotted hand to touch the still-smoking wood.

The silence lengthened, and the tension built. At last the emperor shattered the calm with two words.

“Elicarno wins.”

The engineer’s apprentices let out a wild shout of victory, and the courtiers began to talk excitedly about what they’d seen. Above the din a plaintive cry soared.

“Why, Majesty?”

Mandes hurried after Ackal IV, who was returning to the shade of the pavilion.

“Sire, I struck first, and I destroyed my target before this – this – person managed his first hit!”

The emperor halted and regarded him with unsympathetic eyes. “Your target is not destroyed. Some of it remains. Strike again. Call down the lightning and remove the last vestige of your target.”

Nonplussed, Mandes stammered, “As … as Your Majesty commands. We should remove to a safe distance, then I shall resume my invocation —”

Ackal IV looked beyond him to where Elicarno stood with his apprentices. “Master Engineer, destroy the wizard’s target! Immediately!”

Without hesitation, Elicarno commanded his helpers to swing the ballista around. They aimed down the loading tray and let fly a fresh dart. Ten more followed, pulverizing the stump while Mandes was still gathering himself to begin his lightning spell.

The emperor and his party were only five paces from the target. The loud whir and thump of missiles drove Mandes, Valdid, and assorted courtiers and servants to the ground in terror. Ackal IV remained steadfastly on his feet, with Valaran holding his hand.

A few paces further away, Tol also kept his feet. He was proud of Valaran for standing in the face of Elicarno’s missiles, but prouder still of his imperial patron. Prince Amaltar had never been the bravest of men, but he had apparently reached a limit with Mandes.

Echoes of the bombardment finally died away. Those on the ground picked themselves up.

Ackal IV said, “My forces must be ever ready to strike and must strike hard. No enemy will wait for his foe to make ready, and no battle is ended until the enemy has been completely destroyed. Do you see? Magic is a powerful art, Mandes, but on the battlefield, it must give way to machines – and the men who command them.”

Elicarno’s apprentices shouted and clapped each other on the back. Several seized their master and hoisted him onto their shoulders. The whole group paraded around the ballista, chanting, “Elicarno! Elicarno!”

The sorcerer stood up, his gloves and the front of his golden robe smeared with mud. His defeat, and the emperor’s implacable logic, left him speechless.

“Go from my sight,” Ackal said. “You are no longer our councilor.”

As Mandes stood frozen in shock, Tol whirled and hurried to the pavilion. Justice had been delayed far too long. Mandes no longer enjoyed the protection of his imperial patron. Tol would retrieve his saber and kill the evil sorcerer at last.

“Don’t!” said a breathless voice behind him.

He turned, fury gathering on his face. Valaran was running toward him, moving easily in her huntsman’s togs.

“Don’t,” she repeated.

“I’ll have his head!”

“Fool! Disgraced or no, he is not to be trifled with!”

He said nothing else, just turned away with a savage scowl and resumed his race to the tent. Long-legged Valaran passed him and planted herself squarely in his way.

“Stand aside, Val!”

She took a long stride forward, placing them nose to nose, and looked him squarely in the eye. “I love you, Tol,” she said, her voice barely audible. “I will not watch you die.”

He was so thunderstruck he forgot his thirst for vengeance. Surrounded as they were by servants, court functionaries, soldiers, and friends, her confession meant all the more to him, for the courage it had taken to make it.

Mandes had recovered from the shock of losing his royal patron and was hurrying to his griffin coach. Ackal had turned his back on the fleeing sorcerer, a last gesture of dismissal.

“Arrest him,” he told his guards then walked away, back toward the pavilion.

The guards tried to obey, but Mandes flung two silver vials on the ground in front of them. There was a silent flash, and every man fell to his knees, blinded. Mandes reached the door of his coach.

“Hear my prophecy, Emperor of Ergoth!” he shouted. “What you have will be divided among those closest to you! You will perish in poverty and shame!”

“You insult the throne of Ergoth!” Valdid said, “Tolan-druth, seize him!

Tol had been working his way up behind the sorcerer, taking advantage of his distraction. However, the chamberlain’s cry alerted Mandes, and Tol abandoned stealth to rush the sorcerer.

Elicarno and his apprentices stormed in as well. Mandes flung up his hands, and a blast of wind drove them back. Two of the brawny young men crashed into Tol, knocking him flat.

While his foes were thus hampered, Mandes ducked inside the coach and slammed the door. The griffins reared on leonine legs and uttered strange cries, sounding neither feline nor avian. They galloped away, wings working hard. In only a few bounds, they were airborne.

Elicarno tried to elevate the ballista to send a dart at Mandes, but the machine could not follow such a swiftly moving target. Meanwhile, Tol was hurrying to the emperor and Valaran, worried Mandes might try to avenge himself on his former protector.

His fear proved well founded. In the coach’s wake a whirlwind arose, flinging men and horses aside like dead leaves. The imperial pavilion was yanked from its moorings and took wing, soaring into the sky like a great bird. Tent stakes and lines swept over Ackal IV and Valaran. Tol pushed the emperor out of harm’s way, then grabbed Valaran and pulled her to him, turning his broad back to the flailing lines. Tent poles whacked him between the shoulders. Falling, he twisted to keep Valaran out of the mud. They landed hard, and her weight drove the breath from his chest.

“Let me go,” Valaran hissed, struggling in his arms. “People will see!”

By the time Kiya and Egrin had pulled them to their feet, Mandes was rapidly receding into the northern sky. His impromptu tornado had swept the sky clean of clouds, and sunlight flooded the muddy field.

“Thank you for saving my consort, Tolandruth,” Ackal IV said, coming up to them. Valaran returned to her husband, surreptitiously lending him her strength.

Mandes was gone, but no one standing in the Field of Corij doubted that the danger he represented was still very real.

Chapter 15

MISSION OF MENACE

There was no time to celebrate Mandes’s exile. Word had begun to circulate through the city that Enkian Tumult and his army were coming. With the usual entourage, the Warden of the Seascapes would have been in Daltigoth far sooner, but maneuvering five hordes (and associated camp followers and hangers-on) through the provinces northwest of the city was a laborious undertaking. The terrain was cut by numerous small streams, larger rivers, and irrigation canals.

The city garrison mustered, preparing itself for an attack. Couriers were dispatched with orders for Enkian to halt his army and proceed to Daltigoth with the proper small escort. The messengers never returned.

Tol found his former lord’s behavior puzzling. Lord Enkian was no hothead, bursting with fiery ambition. While Marshal of the Eastern Hundred, he’d seemed a cold man, a schemer and a plotter perhaps, but not the sort to mount a direct challenge to the succession.

News came that Enkian had halted his force five leagues from the city at a place called Verdant Isle. This “island” was in actuality a large triangular tract bounded on two sides by canals and on the third by Salamander Creek. It was a strong defensive position, and Enkian’s occupation of it increased everyone’s uncertainty. The warden could not storm the capital with only five thousand Riders, but he could raid the surrounding countryside from this stronghold, disrupting trade, terrorizing the population, and imposing a kind of long-range siege. Still, with the city supplied by the great canal, there was no way to starve Daltigoth into submission. What was in the warden’s mind? Did he seek to force concessions from the new emperor – or more frightening, was he waiting for allies to gather to his standard?

Speculation reached such a fever pitch the emperor could no longer ignore it. Late one evening, nine days after the fall of Mandes, Ackal IV sent for Tol.

Egrin and Kiya accompanied him to the palace. Miya had not been much in evidence around the Rumbold villa lately. Her sister laid these absences squarely at the feet of “that engineer,” Elicarno.

Arrayed in full battle gear (though weaponless, of course), Tol and Egrin knelt before the emperor. Kiya bowed her head briefly.

Most of the court had retired; only Chamberlain Valdid and a few guards were present. Valdid clucked his tongue at Kiya’s impertinence, but the emperor ignored the breach of protocol.

“Arise, my friends,” he said.

Ackal’s pallor was notable even in the flattering golden glow of the many candles burning in the audience hall. Deep hollows surrounded his eyes, his breathing was labored and noisy. He spoke slowly, as though forming words took a great effort.

“I have a mission for you, Lord Tolandruth. Once more I must send you into the unknown on my behalf.”

Jubilation surged through Tol, but he kept his voice respectfully low. “I will bring Mandes to justice, Majesty.”

Ackal IV’s brow furrowed. “No, there is a more pressing matter. I want you to search out Enkian Tumult and learn his intentions. It’s said he built a fortified camp at Verdant Isle. Go there in my name and find out what he’s up to.”

Tol nodded, but his disappointment was obvious. Egrin said quickly, “We’ll go at once, Majesty.”

Valdid cleared his throat significantly, and Ackal said, “No, Marshal. You shall remain. I would not send every loyal commander I possess into the hands of a possible usurper.”

“How many hordes shall I take?” Tol asked.

“None,” was Valdid’s surprising reply.

“That’s crazy!” Kiya exclaimed.

The imperial bodyguards stirred, moving closer to the brawny forester woman. Tol signaled her to hold her tongue.

“You must go alone, my lord,” Valdid said. “Yours is a mission of diplomacy, not combat. Enkian knows you, knows your fame and abilities. He will not dare deny you audience.”

“And if he does?” Kiya blurted angrily.

The chamberlain rapped his gold-capped staff smartly on the floor and glared at her but directed his response to Tol. “Should there be any trouble, we will send Lord Egrin with ten hordes to crush the rebel!”

Kiya continued to grumble, but there was shrewdness in the plan. If Enkian intended violence against the throne or had some less overt scheme in mind, Tol’s great popularity with the ordinary warriors of Ergoth made him the ideal candidate to persuade (or intimidate) the warden into abandoning his plans. The only problem was that Tol had slain Pelladrom Tumult, Enkian’s son.

All eyes were on Tol. If he refused the mission, what could they do?

For a long while he didn’t reply. The tension in the silent chamber had built to such a level that when Tol snapped his heels together the chamberlain and guards visibly flinched.

“I shall go at once, Your Majesty!” he said, saluting.

Ackal smiled at his champion. “I know the hazards you face,” he said quietly. “In token of a great task, I will give you a great reward.” He did not say what that reward would be.

The emperor asked Egrin to make ready ten hordes of the city garrison. Valdid rehearsed with Tol the exact questions the emperor wanted him to ask Enkian. When the finicky chamberlain was finally satisfied, Ackal dismissed the group.

No one spoke until they were outside the palace. On the broad steps, with the torchlit imperial plaza before them and stars above, Kiya could contain herself no longer.

“I’m going with you,” she stated.

“A fine idea,” said Egrin immediately. “Someone should guard your back. I am forbidden to go, but Kiya is a foreigner. She may do as she likes.”

As he descended the steps a little ahead of the other two, Egrin added, “I shall rest easier knowing Tol doesn’t enter this deathtrap alone.”

Tough soldier that he was, Tol was pleased to know the marshal’s affection hadn’t dimmed with time and distance. Having Egrin standing by with ten thousand men ready to sweep into Verdant Isle was a great comfort – almost as much as the presence of Kiya at his side and the nullstone in his pocket.

*

Dawn was still far distant when Tol and Kiya mounted up outside Rumbold villa. The air was crisp with a presentiment of autumn. A tapestry of stars glittered overhead. The white moon, Solin, was just setting among the rooftops and towers of the New City.

Kiya was unhappy, not because of their potentially dangerous mission, but because Miya still had not returned home.

“She’s a grown woman,” Tol said gently. “She has the right to be happy with the man of her choice.”

Kiya shook her head stubbornly. “Our father would be angry if he knew. She dishonors you, Husband.” She lowered her chin to her chest and added, “I will not desert you.”

Tol blinked. After all this time, had he acquired a wife in Kiya without noticing it?

Now was not the time for such thoughts, so he set them aside. Egrin and a handful of men from the Eagle horde had come to see them off.

“Watch your back,” Egrin said.

“Ah, I have a pair of eyes back there,” Tol answered, smiling toward Kiya.

They mounted. When their farewells were said, Tol touched heels to his mount’s sides.

“What happens after?” Kiya asked suddenly.

He pulled back on the reins and regarded her in confusion. “After what?”

“After we come back. The emperor is crowned, the old emperor sleeps with his ancestors. What happens to us after that?”

It was a question none of them had considered yet. With the great coronation ceremony concluded, and Pakin III buried, the warlords gathered in Daltigoth would soon disperse. Tol had been on campaign for ten years. His home had been a tent, pitched in field or forest. If there was no war to fight, what would he do? What about Valaran? Could he bring himself to leave her again?

The more he thought about it, the more bereft he felt. Struggling for an answer, he said, “Maybe I’ll travel – visit Juramona or the Great Green. Would you like to see the forest again?”

Kiya only shrugged and looked away.

One of the Eagle horde men overheard them and said, “If I were you, my lord, I’d ask for a foreign posting. Tarsis, maybe. With you in command of the garrison there, I’m sure the syndics would behave themselves.”

“All but one,” Kiya replied dryly, still looking toward the horizon.

“Let’s go.” Tol spurred his horse forward before Kiya revealed anything more.

The two clattered through the sleeping city, leaving the Quarry district for the New City. Here they found the first stirrings for the new day – vendors rolled out pushcarts or opened stalls, servants and housewives scrubbed their stoops. Since the death of Pelladrom Tumult in the market square riot, there had been markedly fewer disturbances in the streets, and the coronation of Ackal IV had diminished tensions over the succession still further. Of course, the arrival of Enkian Tumult had created a new cause for worry.

They left the city by the north gate, called Kanira’s Door by most folk. The eccentric Empress Kanira had built an elaborate ceremonial gate as the starting point of the great paved road she envisioned reaching all the way to the empire’s northern territories. The gate and fifty leagues of road were completed, then a bankrupt treasury had halted the entire enterprise. Such wild extravagance had precipitated her fall at the hands of her stepson, Ergothas II, widely considered one of the empire’s greatest rulers.

Kanira’s Door comprised columns of red granite, alternating with lofty cylinders of pink marble. The columns were placed so close together a sword blade could not fit between them. The line of columns curved outward from the city wall in a great half-circle to the gate proper: a massive slab of sculpted granite that hung over a deep pit in the road. The slab pivoted vertically, and when open, it rested flat on the ground, making a bridge over the pit. In the closed position, the vertical slab left a gaping chasm before it. Although a formidable defensive position, such a gate was so complex and expensive to build it had never been duplicated.

An ingenious mechanism lowered the ponderous stone platform while Tol and Kiya waited. Two ogres, legs shackled and bodies joined at the waists by another weighty chain, cranked furiously at a monstrous stone flywheel. The motion of the wheel turned pulleys and gears, and the gate swung down and open without the slightest scrape. Both horses cantered across the granite bridge, iron-shod hooves clattering loudly.

The land beyond Kanira’s Door was more hilly than the southern or eastern approaches to the capital. In the final bloom of summer, the fields and orchards were heavy with fruit and sparkled with dew. The fecund smell of ripeness was strong in the still morning air.

Kiya remarked it was not the warrior hordes of Ergoth but its fields that had first impressed her with the empire’s power.

“How so?” asked Tol.

“To clear and cultivate such vast amounts of land requires planning. Anyone can assemble a big army. Warriors can always be found when needed, but the effort required to feed an empire is a far surer gauge of a nation’s strength.”

As he stared out across the great fields, seeing the first workers come to tend the crops, Tol had to admit there was much truth in what she said.

Once they left the farm country near the city, the land became more wooded. The sun rose as they crossed and recrossed many small, winding streams.

The morning was glorious, bright and balmy, and they passed numerous farm carts laden with laborers. Tol was recognized frequently and hailed by the farmers. He always returned their greetings. No matter how far or how high he went, he would always be a farmer’s son.

The carters he questioned said they’d seen no riders in the area, no strange warriors. Their very presence testified to the truth of that. Farmers did not linger where mounted soldiers rode.

When Tol and Kiya reached the banks of Salamander Creek at the edge of Verdant Isle, they had to ride along the bank looking for a fording place. Despite its name, the “creek” was twenty paces wide and as much as eight to ten feet deep in spots.

In the quiet rush of flowing water, Kiya spoke after a long silence.

“Do you ever think about death?”

Tol continued to scan the water for a likely crossing. “What warrior doesn’t? “

“I mean, do you wonder how you will die?”

“Not really, no. Why?”

Kiya’s buff-colored horse shifted slightly beneath her, and she slackened the reins so it could put its head down to drink. Water splashed over boulders half-submerged in the creek. In the silence, the sound of the water seemed very loud.

“I know how I’m going to die,” she finally said. “I asked a shaman of the Riverside Tribe to divine it for me many years ago.”

Again there was a pause, and again Tol said nothing, letting her tell it in her own time. She rode slightly ahead of him and he could see only her profile. “He said I would die at the hands of my best friend, and it would be a great blessing that I did.”

The words shook Tol, and he frowned. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Two events were foretold to precede my death. First, I would leave the forest to dwell in a land of stone and iron.” She had certainly done that. “Second, my sister would leave me for a man of smoke and fire.”

That description certainly suggested Elicarno. More often than not, his hands and clothes were stained with soot from his workshop forge.

“How much time is supposed to pass between these events and your death?”

“The wise one did not say.”

“They seldom do!” he declared, moving his mount up alongside hers. “Don’t dwell on it, Kiya. Prophesies are cheap entertainment. It will be years before the gods claim you.”

“Or it might be today” She turned to him and said with sudden intensity, “When the time comes, will you end my life?”

Tol recoiled. “The friend the shaman mentioned may be someone you haven’t even met yet!”

She didn’t reply but continued to stare at him intently. Gently, he said, “We can cross there. Come, Kiya. Neither of us is going to die today.”

Her sister would have had a sharp rejoinder to such a bold statement, but Kiya merely said, “How do you know, ‘my lord’?”

“Maybe I’m a shaman, too.”

When they were halfway across, four riders appeared on the other side of the creek. They were indeed part of Enkian Tumult’s army, for they were dressed as men of the northwest coast in stiff canvas brigandines covered with bronze scales. Their helmets were bronze also and resembled cloth caps with the peaks pushed back. On the wild shore of the Seascapes, the omnipresent winds drove salt spray inland for leagues. The salt air ate iron the way moths consumed old cloth, so warriors there still wore bronze.

The riders did not seem hostile. They waited patiently for Tol and Kiya to reach shore. This end of Verdant Isle was a sea of lush marsh grass brushing the horses’ bellies. Further from shore, the ground sloped up and was covered with vineyards and orchards. Verdant Isle apples were well known in Daltigoth.

As Tol and Kiya splashed ashore, the Seascapers surrounded them. The men were armed with long spears, but they kept these pointed in the air, not toward the newcomers.

A rider with a silver chevron welded to the brow of his helmet spoke. “Halt! Who are you and where are you bound?”

Tol was relieved not to be recognized. The northerners probably knew the name of Lord Tolandruth but not his face.

“We are couriers from Daltigoth,” he replied. “We come with a message for Lord Enkian.”

The corporal exchanged a significant look with his fellows then bade Tol to follow him.

The riders made no move to disarm Kiya or Tol but rode within spear reach on all four sides. Their manner was curious and cautious but not threatening.

The party crested the brow of the hill, and the greenish waters of the Hokun Canal on the north side of the isle came into view. More men appeared, some on foot, some mounted. Verdant Isle was not very large, and Enkian had quartered five thousand men here, plus an unknown number of camp followers and other noncombatants.

They zigzagged through a long line of sharpened stakes, set to impede a cavalry charge, and crossed a line of trenches being dug by impressed local farmers. It seemed Enkian was indeed preparing to resist a serious attack.

On the wider end of the isle was a small village. Here Enkian had made his camp, pitching tents between farmers’ huts. Many eyes watched Tol and Kiya as they rode slowly toward the largest tent, sited in the center of the tiny village square. Spindly platforms of lashed poles had been erected among the leafy apple trees, and archers perched atop them. Guards with bared blades stood at the entrance to Enkian’s tent. If trouble started, Tol and Kiya would not get away unscathed.

A boy came forward to hold their horses. They dismounted and followed the corporal into the tent.

The enclosure was modest. Enkian’s tent was divided by a canvas wall into two rooms. The larger front room was the warden’s command post; the smaller space, his private quarters.

The warden sat at a table in the middle of the front room. The tabletop was covered by a scattering of maps. The corporal saluted and called the warden by name, for which Tol was grateful. It was hard to recognize his lean, dark-haired former commander in the stooped, gray-bearded old man before him. Enkian, however, knew him at once.

“Tolandruth! They told me another courier had come!”

“I am here as the emperor’s personal emissary,” Tol replied. He indicated Kiya. “You remember Kiya of the Dom-shu?”

The revelation of Tol’s name brought the other warriors present to their feet. They were true frontier soldiers, baked by sun and burned by wind, lean and clear-eyed. The scene, though tense, did not feel dangerous – not yet at least.

Enkian dismissed the assembled officers, wanting to speak with Tol alone. When they were gone, he poured two brass cups of wine, handing one to Tol. He did not offer Kiya any.

Dropping into a chair he said wearily, “What news do you bring me?”

Puzzled, Tol said, “I am here at the command of His Majesty, Ackal IV, whom you once knew as Prince Amaltar. He wants to know your intentions, my lord.”

Now it was Enkian’s turn to look confused. “I have followed his instructions to the letter,” he said with a frown. “Have the rebels made their move yet?”

“Rebels?”

“The Pakins – the plotters inside the city who seek to overthrow the emperor!”

The two men stared at each other. When Tol proclaimed ignorance of any plot, Enkian leaped to his feet and struck a small gong hanging by his chair. Guards entered, swords drawn.

“Send for Jarabee,” Enkian snapped.

Jarabee proved to be a youngish man, with a mop of curly blond hair and downy cheeks. His homespun gray robe and silver medallion of faith proclaimed him a priest of Gilean.

“Test them,” Enkian commanded.

Kiya and Tol tensed, but the armed guards closed in a step, forestalling any action.

Jarabee carried a large chunk of white crystal. Two of its sides had been ground flat and polished. Holding this before his eyes, the priest regarded Enkian’s visitors through it. He chanted an incantation under his breath and surveyed Kiya from head to toe. Moving to Tol, he made two passes. After the second he flushed and muttered something distinctly un-magical under his breath.

“Well?” Enkian said sharply.

“The woman is who she says she is. She is under no compulsion.” Jarabee’s voice was high and reedy. “The man is heavily warded. I cannot see inside him.”

Enkian raised a single gray eyebrow and turned to Tol, obviously wanting an explanation.

Tol shrugged. “If I am so heavily warded, I can’t be under a spell, can I?”

Jarabee agreed. After a moment’s thought, Enkian demanded Tol’s weapons.

Half a span of steel snapped out of the scabbard. The guards tensed. Kiya muttered, “Don’t do it, husband.”

Tol placed his sword and dagger in Enkian’s outstretched hands.

“Take them away,” the warden said, putting the weapons on the table.

“Why?” demanded Tol.

Enkian looked at him stonily.. “Put them under guard, but carefully! I must consider what this means.”

Kiya was likewise disarmed, and she and Tol were marched out. In the village square they were separated. Tol was taken to a small, stoutly built shed. The interior was dark, and the air smelled strongly of savory meat. A smokehouse.

The typical sounds of an army camp did not provide Tol with any clues as to what was going on. He wondered where Kiya was and what had happened to the couriers Enkian said had come before them. Having no answers, he soon fell asleep, his back against the smokehouse wall.

He awoke when a squeak told him the peg barring the door was being withdrawn. Orange flame blossomed in the doorway, revealing two warriors. One bore a torch, the other a drawn sword.

Tol was led from the shed into the fading light of dusk. The glow of Daltigoth was visible on the southern horizon. There, Egrin and his hordes waited, not so far away, but no help at all for Tol if Enkian decided to kill him.

His destination proved to be a modest farmhouse on the west side of the village square. The interior was a single room, similar to the hut Tol had grown up in, but larger. A meal was laid on the only table, and two chairs faced each other across the dinner. Enkian Tumult arrived just behind Tol.

“My lord,” he said. “You must be hungry. Sit.”

“Where is Kiya?” Tol asked tersely.

“She is well. My word on that.”

Tol studied the warden for a moment, then took the chair facing the door. Enkian tugged off his canvas gauntlets and sat opposite him.

“There are four guards outside. We won’t be disturbed. It’s time you knew what I know,” he said, pouring dark red wine for them both. “Shortly after word reached the Seascapes of the old emperor’s death, I received a second message, warning me of a plot by the Pakins to seize the throne. I was told to bring all the force I could muster to the capital. The plot was said to be deeply imbedded in the court, so I was to ignore all couriers and commands purporting to come from there and wait for the arrival of one trusted contact.”

“Warden, there is no Pakin plot. At least, none that I know of.”

Enkian’s dark eyes darted to him and back to the farmer’s clay pitcher. He set the pitcher down, his face a mask of doubt.

“The promised messenger has not come,” he said. “I thought you might have been sent in his place.”

“Who was supposed to meet you?”

“My son, Pelladrom.”

Tol set the wooden cup of wine down carefully and looked Enkian in the eye. “My lord, I have terrible news. Your son will not be coming. He is dead.”

Shock bloomed on the warden’s face, and Tol added, “Yes, dead – by my hand.”

Frigid silence. Enkian raised his own cup to his lips. His hand was shaking.

“Before —” His words came out hoarse, and he cleared his throat. “Before I summon the guards, tell me how it happened.”

Tol spoke of the riots, the unrest in the city, the various factions trying to influence the new emperor to favor their causes. He described the market square fight, and how he’d slain a masked rioter who later proved to be Pelladrom.

“I don’t understand. Why would my son embrace the Skylanders’ ridiculous cause?” Enkian demanded. “He lived his whole life in Daltigoth. Why should he care for the grievances of the provincial nobility?”

“I don’t think he did. I think he was using them for his own ends – or the ends of his unknown patron.” Tol chose his next words with care. “Your son was young, my lord, young and ardent. I believe he was part of a wider conspiracy to subvert the new emperor.”

He related the story of Ackal IV’s lingering illness and named Mandes as its likely source.

“My son would never submit to a sorcerer’s whim!” Enkian’s hands were clenched into white-knuckled fists.

Tol didn’t dare give voice to his idea that Prince Nazramin was the true head of the conspiracy. He said only that he didn’t think Mandes was the leader and then told of the sorcerer’s defeat by Elicarno, and Ackal’s order for his arrest, which resulted in Mandes fleeing the capital.

Enkian rose abruptly, sending his wooden chair toppling over backward. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. Slowly he drew himself up, folding his arms across his chest.

“As the head of an ancient and noble family, I should challenge you to a duel to avenge the death of my son,” he said.

The idea was gallant, but ridiculous. Enkian was twice Tol’s age, and had never been known as a fighter. It had been thirty years or more since he’d wielded a sword.

“However,” he continued in a weary voice, “my first duty is to the throne of Ergoth, and the rightful emperor who sits upon it.” The warden’s proud, pained tone softened. “I am aware that life in the capital corrupted my son. You have carefully avoided blaming anyone for leading him astray, and I won’t ask who you suspect. I am not without influence in Daltigoth. I myself will discover who is responsible!”

The knot of tension in Tol’s stomach relaxed slightly. “Then you believe me?”

“I’ve known you many years, Tolandruth. You’re clever, like most peasants, but you’re painfully honest, too. I shall make inquiries about my son’s demise, but I accept your basic account.”

For the first time in their acquaintance, Tol pitied the haughty warlord. Enkian plainly cared about his wayward son, but his loyalty to the empire was greater than his desire for revenge. Sadness welled in Tol’s heart. He asked what Enkian intended to do.

“Eat dinner,” was the reply, as the warden seated himself. “Tomorrow I shall send the Army of the Seascapes home, but I shall remain. Those who used my son will have cause to regret my coming to Daltigoth.”

Knowing his welcome was at an end, Tol excused himself. He inquired where he might find Kiya. The warden gulped wine and told him to ask the captain of the guard.

With a stiff salute, Tol departed. Outside, in the cooling air of evening, he let out the breath he’d been holding. He couldn’t believe he’d come out of this unscathed. Perhaps the Dom-shu sisters were right – maybe the gods did love him.

The captain of the guard detailed a man to lead him to Kiya. Enkian shouted for the captain as Tol and his guide departed.

Opening the door to the hut, the captain asked, “What do you require, my lord?”

“Wine. More wine.”

A soldier was sent to fetch a fresh pitcher. Given the look on his warden’s face, the captain knew it would be a long, sodden night. He wondered what ill news had arrived with Lord Tolandruth.

Alone, Enkian hacked at the capons on the trencher before him. They were underdone, flesh pink with blood. The sight sickened him, and he pushed the plate away. He drained his wine cup for the fifth time. Since his guest had left his own portion untouched, he drained Tol’s cup, too.

The door creaked open behind him. “About time,” he growled. “I hope you brought a cask!”

A hand clamped over his mouth, and a powerful arm encircled his neck. Startled, the warden tried to rise, but a dagger suddenly plunged into his side. The comfortable velvet tunic was no barrier to the keen point. Enkian’s scream was muffled against the clutching hand.

Twice more the dagger struck, and with the last thrust, something gave way. Enkian went limp. His attacker released him. The door rasped open, then quietly shut again.

The warden was slumped on the table, eyes staring at the undercooked birds. A faint hiss of breath escaped his lips one last time.

The captain of the guard returned moments later with the farmer who owned the hut. The farmer bore a small cask of berry wine in his arms.

“My lord,” the captain called, rapping his knuckles on the door. “Your wine is here.”

There was no sound from inside. The captain called again, with the same result. He opened the door.

*

Tol found Kiya as well as the missing Daltigoth couriers. They were in a tent together, sitting cross-legged on the floor enjoying their simple rations. When he told them they were to be released, the couriers raised a cheer.

“You see?” he said, pulling Kiya to her feet. “We didn’t get killed!”

She nearly smiled, but smothered it with her characteristic tribal stoicism.

He related Enkian’s tale of having been duped into bringing his army to Daltigoth on the pretext of protecting the emperor. Although the warden hadn’t said who he suspected as the author of the deception, Tol had an idea.

Before he could share it, however, shouts sounded outside. A band of soldiers burst into the tent, wild eyed and waving swords and knives. They swarmed over Tol with cries of “Murderer!” and “Hold him!”

The six couriers and Kiya grappled with the warriors, trying to protect Tol. Before anyone was seriously hurt, Tol roared for order in his best battlefield voice. The combatants drew apart reluctantly, each side glaring at the other.

“Our lord is killed!” one Seascaper cried.

“Lord Enkian, slain? When?” Tol asked, dumbfounded by the news.

“You should know, murderer! We found his body after you left him!”

“Don’t be stupid! Lord Enkian was alive when I left. Ask the captain of his guard!”

“We will!”

They seized him roughly, propelling him outside. Kiya and the couriers again tried to intervene, but they were held off by a hedge of sword points.

The whole camp was boiling. Swarms of angry soldiers stormed this way and that, blindly seeking the murderer of their commander. Unlucky peasants were pummeled and questioned. When Tol appeared, the Seascapers converged on him, howling for his head.

He was taken to the hut where he’d last seen the warden. Enkian was laid out on the ground and covered with a cloth. Tol recognized the captain of the guard, kneeling beside his fallen leader, as well as the gray-robed priest, Jarabee. The cleric looked deeply shocked and, to Tol’s eye, quite ill.

“We have the killer!” cried one of the men who held Tol’s arms.

The grieving captain paled visibly. “Release Lord Tolandruth!” he snapped. “I saw the warden after Lord Tolandruth left him. Lord Enkian ordered more wine. Someone stabbed him before I returned.”

The captain shouted for Corporal Thanehill, who’d guided Tol to Kiya. Thanehill, near the rear of the angry mob, came forward. When asked whether the general had ever left his sight, Thanehill admitted he had not.

The hands gripping Tol slowly let go. The mob of soldiers dispersed reluctantly, their thirst for revenge unslaked, their anger unresolved. Kiya shoved her way through to Tol’s side. Soon only Tol, Kiya, the six couriers, the captain of the guard, and Jarabee remained standing over the slain warden.

“Who is second-in-command?” Tol asked.

“I am,” said the captain. “Havoc is my name. Havoc Tumult, nephew to Lord Enkian.”

Tol clasped the captain’s arm. “I regret your uncle’s death. He was a loyal sword of the emperor.”

He explained that the supposed Pakin plot, which had caused Enkian to bring his forces, was all a fabrication.

“But why?” Havoc asked. “And what shall we do now, my lord?”

With no answer for the first question, Tol replied to the second. “You must lead the Army of the Seascapes home, Captain. I will see to it justice is done for your uncle.”

The word of the famous Lord Tolandruth was good enough for young Havoc. He saluted then departed to instruct the officers. Jarabee followed him. The young priest had been silent throughout the confrontation, his gaze fixed on his murdered lord.

Standing in the center of the agitated camp, Tol sighed. “I’m wrestling with enemies made of smoke!” he muttered to Kiya. “There’s nothing to grasp!”

She shrugged. “We survived, Husband. That’s victory enough for now.”

Tol sent the couriers to find horses. He wanted to be back in Daltigoth before dawn. This camp, where Enkian Tumult had died, was in no wise a safe place to remain.

*

By methods of his own, the assassin appeared before his master.

“It is done, Your Highness. Lord Enkian is dead,” he reported, bowing his head low.

“Good. Was the farmer blamed, as I wished?”

The assassin’s downy cheek twitched. “Not – ah, no, great prince.”

Nazramin leaned forward into the firelight. At his feet, his great wolfhounds sensed his anger and growled low in their throats.

“And why not?”

“It was Enkian’s own doing, Highness. He called for wine after Lord Tolandruth left, and so was seen alive. Still, I thought it best to slay him at once, for the good of Your Highness’s cause.”

For a heart-stopping moment, Nazramin regarded the assassin with a narrow-eyed gaze. Finally, he sank back into his deep chair and said dismissively, “It’s as well. Enkian would have revealed my part in the plot soon enough.”

Jarabee bowed, legs shaking slightly. He asked, “Shall I return to the Seascapes, Highness? Or may I remain in the city as your loyal servant?”

Though he tried to conceal it, his desire to take the disgraced Mandes’s position was apparent.

“Neither,” Nazramin told him, and yawned. The prince raised a finger. Both hounds leaped to their feet, fangs bared.

Jarabee’s heart skipped a beat. “No, great prince! Please!” he cried, voice shrill.

An expectant smile lifted Nazramin’s thin lips. His upraised finger twitched slightly.

Jarabee turned and ran, sandals flapping. Iron-limbed wolfhounds sprang. The terrified priest threw the one spell he had at the ready. The nearer dog dropped to the floor, paralyzed, but there was no time to cast again. The second dog tore out Jarabee’s throat before he could scream.

Chapter 16

SUNLIGHT AND SHADOWS

Lord Enkian’s murder was never solved. The common assumption was that the young priest Jarabee had something to do with it, because Jarabee disappeared the same night Enkian died and was never seen again. No motive was ever discovered as to why he would want to harm his lord, but Enkian was notoriously close-fisted, and many assumed the two men had quarreled over Jarabee’s pay.

With the problem of Enkian’s army resolved, peace seemed to have returned at last. Mandes was gone, the succession was settled, and the first tribute from Tarsis did much to bolster the imperial coffers.

For the household at Villa Rumbold, life went on, even as great changes stirred the companions living there. First, Egrin and his retinue returned to Juramona. It was harvest time back home, and that meant taxes had to be collected. Ten days after Enkian’s death, Tol gave the Juramona men a farewell banquet the night before they were scheduled to depart. It turned out to be a rather muted affair, but it ended with an eye-opening revelation for Tol.

The household was gathered around the long dining table. Egrin filled a mug with the best beer in Daltigoth and handed it to Tol. “To the victor over Tarsis,” he declared.

Tol downed a hearty swallow. “That seems a hundred years ago.”

“You’re much too young to talk like that,” Egrin replied genially. “Wait until you’ve outlived all your enemies, then you’ll miss them.”

Kiya said, “Why should anyone miss their enemies?” She’d grown morose since Miya had left the villa to become Elicarno’s wife.

“For a warrior, life is measured by the enemies you best.” Egrin swirled the remnants of beer in his own mug, watching the foam break on the glazed clay sides. “Or by those who best you.”

Tol arched an eyebrow. “Oho! Are there any foes you’ve never defeated, Egrin?”

“Certainly I’m not invincible. No one is.”

A fresh platter of ribs arrived from the kitchen. Egrin’s men eagerly took the steaming platter from the servants hired for the banquet. Kiya growled a warning that some ribs had better make their way to her end of the table.

“Husband was won all his battles,” she said, when the platter finally reached her. “Monsters, pirates, soldiers – it’s all the same to him.”

Tol insisted he had enemies still. He thought of Mandes, who had disappeared, but particularly of Prince Nazramin, an utterly untouchable foe.

Egrin brought up the question that had begun to dominate Tol’s thoughts of late: What were his plans, now the war was over and the crown rested securely on the emperor’s brow?

Tol had no idea and said so. Egrin spoke of the pirates still active in the southern and western seas, saying Tol might summon Darpo and the fleet and deal with the brigands. Kiya countered with the Silvanesti outposts making incursions into the South Plains, the sparsely populated territory east of the Great Green.

Her comment ignited a long discussion about the elves and their capabilities. Since their plot to arm the forest tribes and block Ergoth’s eastward expansion had been foiled a decade earlier, the Silvanesti had remained remarkably quiet. That alone was grounds to suspect mischief, Egrin intoned darkly. Long-lived and incredibly patient, the elves could wait decades to allow a plot to mature.

The banquet went late, and in true warrior fashion, most of the Juramona men eventually fell asleep at the table. Even Egrin dozed in his chair. Tol scrubbed the sleep from his eyes, rose, and draped a woolen mantle around his old friend’s shoulders.

Egrin shifted slightly and began to mutter. “Killers … Silvanesti …” was all Tol made out before the marshal jerked awake with a gasp.

Tol put a hand on his shoulder.

It took Egrin a moment to recall his surroundings. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. You were talking in your sleep.” Tol told what he’d heard, then said, “Reliving an old battle? I guess elves are the one enemy none of us can outlive.”

To his surprise, Egrin stood abruptly and walked out of the room. Tol followed. In a room across the entry hall, on the villa’s north side, Egrin stood before a large window, staring out at the cloudy night. Old Rumbold had been rich enough to afford real glass, and the window opening was filled with individual panes, each no bigger than the palm of Tol’s hand, held together by narrow strips of lead.

Egrin was rubbing one ear absently, a sure sign he was lost in thought. Tol seated himself on the carved arm of a heavy wooden chair, and waited. The villa was so quiet he could hear the faint hiss of the misty rain collecting on the windowpanes, yet he nearly missed Egrin’s first words, so softly were they spoken.

“The harder we run from the past, the closer it comes.” After a moment, he added, “I haven’t had that nightmare in a long time. I must be feeling my age, or perhaps it’s a reminder of my mortality.”

He turned to face Tol at last. “I’m very proud of you, you know. You’ve surpassed any dreams I ever had for you.”

The old warrior had never spoken in such direct terms. Tol was deeply moved, but before he could reply, Egrin went on.

“And because I’m proud of you, because there should be no lies between us, I need to tell you something about myself.”

Slowly, the marshal pushed his thick, gray-streaked auburn hair behind his left ear. Tol frowned. In the dim light it was difficult to make out, but there seemed to be something wrong with the ear. Its top was oddly flat, the skin puckered. A painful wound, Tol was certain, yet he had seen worse battle scars and said so.

“These came from no battle,” Egrin said. Lifting his other hand, he revealed his right ear was identically scarred.

“Then what —?”

“I was born in the forest. When I was very young, my mother was killed. My father, unable or unwilling to care for a small child, left me with a couple in a nearby village. They were kind enough, in their own fashion. They told me this” — Egrin brushed an ear — “was for my own good, to protect me from the kind of people who had attacked our settlement and murdered my mother. It was necessary, they said. A necessary lie.”

Tol sat frozen. Egrin rarely mentioned his past, and Tol was keen to learn whatever he might share. However, the implication of his words suddenly struck like cold water on a chill morning. When Tol spoke, his voice was hoarse with shock.

“You’re a half-elf?”

Egrin’s hazel eyes were direct. “My mother was human; my father Silvanesti.”

Tol’s mind reeled. He had met only two or three half-elves over the years. Shunned and reviled by Silvanesti society, viewed with suspicion by their human families, they lived on society’s margins like the former pirate Wandervere, captain of Quarrel, who’d brought Tol to Daltigoth. For Egrin, a Rider of the Great Horde, discovery of his true roots would mean exile from the Empire, perhaps even death.

Tol had never suspected a thing.

Suddenly, his eyes narrowed, his fists coming up to rest on his hips.

“I knew you didn’t look that much older!” Half-elves aged more slowly than humans, though they were not quite as long-lived as full-blooded Silvanesti.

Egrin blinked in surprise, and Tol grinned suddenly. “Did you honestly think it would matter to me?” he demanded.

Relief coursed through the marshal. He sat heavily on a low table. Tol gripped his shoulder, and Egrin rested his hand briefly on Tol’s.

As they walked back to the banquet room, Tol leaned close. “So,” he whispered, “exactly how old are you, old friend?”

*

From time to time Tol was summoned to the imperial palace to give advice to the emperor and his councilors. He greatly valued these visits, not only for the access it granted him, but for the chance to glimpse Valaran.

Valaran’s prestige had suffered since Amaltar ascended to the throne. As long she was married to a crown prince, her status depended only on her husband’s interest and goodwill. Now that she was an emperor’s wife what mattered most was child bearing – bringing forth sons and daughters to ensure the continuation of the imperial line. Amaltar had no special love of children, nor was he an especially ardent lover, but all his wives except Valaran had borne him children. She was ostracized by the household, now run with total authority by the emperor’s first wife, Thura. Likewise, Valaran found herself belittled in the Consorts’ Circle; her bookishness as a girl had made her the subject of gossip, but this situation was far more serious: the dire word “barren” was even being whispered.

Tol had thought this would be unimportant to Valaran. He learned the true state of her feelings during a brief conversation in an anteroom of the audience hall.

Seated in an ornately carved chair, she was splendidly attired in a midnight blue gown trimmed at neck and shoulders with lapis lazuli. She’d discarded her fashionable headdress and her chestnut hair was tied back from her face with a simple length of ribbon.

She looked up suddenly from the scroll she was reading to find him standing there, staring. A smile curved her lips, and Tol’s throat went dry at the sight. He crossed the room to her and bowed.

They exchanged bland public greetings. “What brings you here this day, Lord Tolandruth?” she said, letting the scroll she was reading coil shut.

“A consultation with your imperial husband, lady,” he replied. “There’s some dispute about how best to employ Admiral Darpo’s squadron of warships.”

The flare of interest on her face faded. “Sounds deathly dull. Like everything else around here.”

When he politely inquired what she meant, he got an earful of her long-held rancor over her treatment by the other consorts.

“And all because I haven’t given Amaltar a child,” she fumed. “Doesn’t he have enough brats as it is?”

“It’s only an excuse,” Tol said. “An easy stick to beat you with because you’re an outsider.”

“Me? Outsider? I’ve lived my whole life in the Inner City! Not one of those other nags can say as much!”

He reminded her to keep her voice down, then added, “That’s not what I meant. You’re not like them, Val. You never have been. You’re a thinker and scholar, not a flighty court decoration.” He smiled. “How many books have you written?”

Her eyes flashed. “No one’s supposed to know that!”

“How many?”

“Four, counting the critique of Silvanesti poetry I finished last spring.”

Her pride was evident and he nodded. “That was a good one,” he said. “I liked it better than the history of the gnomes, or your biography of Ergothas II.”

“You read my books?”

He shrugged. “I needed to hear your voice, even written on a roll of foolscap.”

Valaran looked away, blinking. She muttered something about deceitful men.

Before he could ask what she meant, a herald arrived, telling Tol the emperor would see him now.

Reluctantly Tol started to take his leave of her, but Valaran caught his hand. The unexpected contact startled him.

“Thank you, Lord Tolandruth.”

The urge to sweep her into his arms was frighteningly strong. He had to settle for a brief caress of her hand.

The emperor’s council was contentious. The former Blood Fleet, now reconstituted under Admiral Darpo as the first squadron of the Ergothian Navy, had chased most of its former piratical comrades out of the Gulf of Ergoth. Trade was flowing across the bay in startling strength, and bulging coffers of tax money arrived daily from Lord Tremond in Thorngoth. Excited by the flow of gold, Ackal IV’s advisors wanted to send the fleet west to suppress the pirates prowling the seas between Sancrist Isle and Hylo.

“If I may speak, my lords!” Tol all but shouted over the wrangling warlords. It was poor manners, and a bad sign that he should have to shout at all. Ackal IV could not control these sessions. He sat in his father’s chair saying little, face gray, eyes squinted against his constant pain. Although propped up by his stiff court robes, he still leaned slightly to one side.

Tol repeated his request. Rymont, Valdid, and the rest slowly fell silent. “My thanks,” Tol said ironically. “I feel it would be a grave mistake to send the fleet out of the gulf.”

“Why?” Lord Rymont demanded.

Tol gestured to a heap of scrolls on the table. “From Tremond’s reports, it seems the pirates in the gulf have been suppressed, not wiped out. Send Admiral Darpo away, and they’ll fall upon the merchant shipping like a pack of starving wolves.”

“This fleet costs the imperial treasury 3,000 gold pieces a month,” Valdid complained.

“And how much in taxes did Lord Tremond send this last time?”

They knew the figure as well as he did. Twenty thousand crowns of gold and silver had just arrived in Daltigoth under heavy guard/Eight days earlier another twelve thousand had come, and before that, eight thousand. Tol admonished them not to endanger the stream of money by sending the fleet away.

Some were in favor of doing just that. The arguments went on until the light of the setting sun slanted into the council chamber at a sharp angle. Rymont, stubbornly insisting the fleet would secure even more money by making sea trade safe in the north and west, was arguing with Valdid, who’d come around to Tol’s point of view. The chamberlain noticed Ackal IV was nodding and broke off in mid-sentence. Rapping on the polished tabletop, he announced the council session was over.

The noise woke the emperor. He sagged back wearily, breath rattling in his chest. Oropash quietly offered to summon healers from the temple of Mishas, but Ackal IV waved the suggestion aside.

“It is only a congestion of the lungs,” he said hoarsely. “It will pass.” No one believed that. The “congestion” had lasted half a year.

He dismissed his advisors without asking for a final decision on the dispensation of the fleet. As the warlords, wizards, and officials rose to go, Ackal IV asked Tol to stay. Lord Rymont and his faction departed slowly, unhappy to concede the emperor’s ear to their rival.

When only Tol and Valdid remained, the emperor dismissed his chamberlain, too. Surprised, Valdid obeyed.

“Sit by me,” said Ackal IV, patting the arm of an adjacent chair. With a bow, Tol seated himself at the emperor’s right hand.

“You are right about the fleet,” Ackal said, letting his head rest against the padded wing of his chair. “Tomorrow I will issue orders confirming Admiral Darpo’s stay in the gulf.”

“I believe that to be the wisest course, Your Majesty.”

Tol waited. The emperor hadn’t asked him to stay to tell him about the fleet.

“I think I must be dying, Tolandruth.”

The announcement was not wholly unexpected. “Your Majesty has his choice of the finest healers in the empire. Can they not find the root of your strange illness?”

Ackal shook his head. “There is a broken strain in the dynasty, a thread of madness and decay. I fear it has found me this time.”

“Surely not, Majesty! You always enjoyed good health as crown prince. Why —”

Tol stopped, but his expression plainly showed he had more to say. Ackal urged him to speak freely.

“Majesty, there are those who would like your reign to be a brief one. Some … some are very close to the throne.”

Ackal laughed, provoking a fit of coughing. “Nazramin? He’s been undermining me ever since we were children.”

There were many safeguards in place, the emperor explained, to protect him from poison, and the palace was heavily warded against malign magic, more so than any other place in Ergoth.

Still, it was possible that a subtle chink could exist in the emperor’s magical armor, some tiny hole in his defenses that might allow a small spell to penetrate. Ackal IV admitted this himself.

Tol related how he’d found Nazramin at Mandes’s mansion late one night. The prince and the sorcerer were in cahoots, he said.

“Mandes is gone,” the emperor replied, waving a thin hand. “His influence is over and his spells dispersed. Oropash has seen to that personally.”

Oropash was a wizard of wide experience, but overly trusting. Although he knew little enough about magic, Tol was certain that a cunning rogue like Mandes could evade his counter-spells.

Even as they talked, Tol was waging a silent battle with himself over one question: should he give the nullstone to Ackal IV? If the emperor was indeed the target of malign magic, the Irda artifact would soak it up like blotting paper drinking in spilled ink.

If he loaned it to the emperor, it might save him, but would Tol ever get it back? Years ago, Yoralyn had warned him nullstones were so rare and so powerful that ruthless villains would raze entire cities to possess one. He had kept his secret a long time.

If Ackal IV took possession of it, knowledge of its existence would spread quickly. The emperor of Ergoth lived his life like a carp in a fishpond, under the eyes of hundreds every day. The secret would be a secret no longer.

Ackal IV might be saved from his sickness, but then what?

The nullstone was no defense against a knife in the back. By adding the Irda artifact to the equation, Tol might encourage outright assassination of the emperor. For the chance to capture such a prize, the ambitious and the greedy from every level of Daltigoth society would line up like buyers in the meat market. Blood would flow. It could mean civil war, and the end of the empire.

Tol asked himself if his reasoning was fair. Were his fears justified, or did he simply seek excuses to keep the nullstone to himself?

Ackal was still talking, but only when he coughed, spattering the front of his robe with tiny drops of blood was Tol jerked from his tangled thoughts.

“I am Your Majesty’s Champion. What can I do to help you?” he said earnestly.

Ackal dabbed at his lips with a swatch of white silk. “Was I not just saying?” Though not an old man, the emperor smiled like one, lips tight together, wrinkles piling up around his fevered eyes.

“Stay by me, Tolandruth. Take rooms in the palace. I feel that with you close by, my powers will soon return.”

Tol’s heart beat faster. Here was an admirable compromise. His presence might ward off dangers, magical and temporal. And he would be near Valaran —

The emperor’s next words shocked Tol to his very core.

“My wife would be glad of your company.”

Tol couldn’t speak, could barely control his expression. At last he said, “Wife, Majesty?”

“Yes, Valdid’s daughter. You two are old friends, are you not? She will be happy to have you about. My other wives are not kind to her, despite my admonitions.”

Tol could think of nothing at all to say, but fortunately the emperor was going on.

“You two have been friends a long time, I know. She taught you reading, yes?” Tol nodded dumbly. “Yes. In spite of what most people think, there is nothing that goes on in the Inner City about which I do not know. From charming secrets to vicious gossip, I hear it all.”

At that moment Tol realized Ackal must know about him and Valaran; he knew and was not outraged. Tol’s heart was pounding so hard, he felt it must be audible to the emperor.

“Sometimes I believe the gossip,” Ackal said quietly, “and sometimes I don’t. When I assumed the mantle of Ergoth, I learned a most important fact.”

Prompted, Tol said, “What is that, Majesty?”

“What the emperor wishes to be true is true.”

Their eyes met, and Tol understood. He’d always blamed his ten-year exile on Mandes’s lies and Nazramin’s treachery, but the truth, it seemed, was more complicated. The sorcerer had stolen his honor for the destruction of XimXim, and Nazramin had undermined his glory for winning the war in Hylo – but it had been Crown Prince Amaltar who kept him away from Daltigoth for a decade. Away from the city, and away from Valaran. He could have had them both punished for their infidelity, but he needed Tol, needed him the way a warrior needs a fine sword to battle his enemies, and Amaltar was genuinely fond of Valaran.

Now the stakes were higher than a husband’s honor. Ackal IV needed Tol to keep him alive and on the throne of Ergoth. If that meant turning a blind eye to the fact his wife and his champion were lovers, so be it. It was cold-blooded reasoning, but Tol didn’t care. A tremendous burden had been raised from his soul. He knelt before Ackal IV.

“I am your man, Majesty. Body, soul, flesh, and blood, I am yours,” he said, lowering his head.

“Your soul you may keep. The rest I can use.”

*

The Rumbold Villa was soon vacant again. Egrin and his men had departed for Juramona, and Tol and Kiya took a small suite in the palace’s south wing.

The transition was not an easy one. Kiya’s melancholy over her separation from Miya deepened. She took to drinking too much and sleeping too little, haunting the kitchens and servants’ quarters, where she felt more at home than among the haughty courtiers. As for Tol, access to Valaran and the emperor’s tacit approval did not guarantee a new blossoming of love. Resuming their affair, once a secret and dangerous passion, seemed somehow sordid and selfish. When they met, talk was difficult, the atmosphere awkward and strained.

“I’m not that impetuous girl any longer,” Valaran confessed. “I’m not seventeen and full of fire.”

She and Tol were seated on a marble bench in one of the many gardens, large and small, scattered throughout the imperial dwelling. This one was tiny, located on a narrow terrace, but a favorite of Valaran’s for the autumn crocuses blooming there now.

Staring down at the purple flowers in her hand, she added, “For ten years I tried to purge you from my thoughts, to forget how it felt to love you, to touch you. I can’t in the space of a few score days go back to the way I was long ago!”

Tol had never stopped loving her, hut he understood her quandary. So much had happened while they were apart, they had become different people. They no longer knew each other.

“This feels like the end, not a new beginning,” she murmured.

He stood quickly, needing to move. The terrace allowed only ten steps from one side to the other. He paced back and forth several times, then halted in front of her.

“I can’t give you up,” he said. “Any more than I can give up a hand or a leg! “

She flushed and looked away. “I never wanted to leave you.”

“Then don’t!” He dropped beside her again and took her hand. “We can begin again,” he whispered. “There’s been too much longing between us since I returned. That will stop.” Her expression was skeptical. “I shall court you.”

She almost laughed, but the serious glint in his eyes stopped her.

“Tol, we’re not children any more.”

“No, and I won’t act like one.” He released her hand but the resolve in his face never faltered.

Her doubts began to waver. “We’d have to be careful. Even if my husband knows about us, we cannot flaunt his honor.”

“Of course not. We’ll be as discreet as owls.”

Now she did laugh. “Is that some rustic expression?”

The mirth was balm to the ache in his heart. “Just so. Owls pass their lives shielded by darkness. Stands to reason they’re discreet.”

The dimple he’d long missed reappeared when she smiled. “I’ll write that down.” Her light expression faded, replaced by a thoughtful frown. Her eyes grew distant. “I could collect an entire book’s worth of unknown and forgotten similes —”

“Later,” he said, and leaned closer.

She recoiled a little, unsure of his intentions, but he only reached into the leather case at her feet. She never went anywhere without her collection of books. He drew out a short, tightly wound scroll and held it out to her.

“Read to me?”

By such small steps they learned to know each other again. They met often, but to no set schedule, in out-of-the-way corners of the great, rambling palace. In time they even dared the ghosts of their past and met by the centaur fountain, in the grove below the Tower of High Sorcery – the place they’d first found love many years before. Valaran would read to Tol, or they would talk about the events that had transpired while they were apart. Tol described the campaign against Tarsis. He spared her nothing, from the bloodiest battles, to the final victory, to his dalliance with Hanira.

He feared she might be jealous of this last, but Valaran shrugged off such a notion.

“I’d be more worried if you professed celibacy,” she said. “This woman interests me. She wields power, you say?”

“She’s a syndic, one of the city’s leaders.”

“I see the Tarsans are ahead of us in some ways. I’d like to meet her someday.”

Tol found the prospect alarming. He felt equal to either woman separately; together, they would put him at a distinct disadvantage.

*

The golden phase of autumn was quickly over, yielding the land to the drying, dying days before winter. The harvest was good; for the first time in many years the empire basked in prosperity and peace.

However, all was not quiet beyond the borders of Ergoth. From the east came odd rumors of invasion and migration. Tribes of nomadic humans and centaurs moved west, displaced by other tribes, who in turn had been driven from their homes by distant, vaguely described invaders. Muddled tales of “foreigners” arriving on the northeast coast reached Daltigoth. Those in power weren’t worried. Such migrations did happen. Opinion in the capital was that dark-skinned seafarers had come down from the northern ocean, driven there by storms or migratory pressures of their own. Ridiculous stories of the invaders being “monsters” were not believed. Beaten people often claimed to have been overwhelmed by supernatural forces.

Miya formally wed Elicarno that fall, with Tol’s blessing and Kiya’s sulking acceptance. Their household, on the floor above Elicarno’s workshop, was the talk of the city’s working folk. Miya took over the business side of her husband’s work, procuring timber and metal with the same ruthless bargaining tactics she had so long used to keep Tol and her sister fed. Patrons who came to seek the engineer’s expertise now found they had to deal with the formidable Dom-shu woman, half a head taller than her husband and fiercely protective of him. Far from diminishing Elicarno’s trade, Miya’s blunt and honest manner won him many new clients. Machines bearing Elicarno’s stamp were soon in use all over Daltigoth. New buildings designed by him rose in every quarter save the Inner City.

Miya was soon with child. If Elicarno’s suppliers thought this would slow the forester woman, they were soon sorely disappointed. Elicarno built her a sedan chair, and Miya rode forth on the arms of six sturdy yeomen, ready to do battle with skinflint quarrymen, forgemasters, and lumber factors.

Ackal IV’s health took a surprising turn for the better, and he slowly recovered from the catarrh that had gripped him for so long. His cough eased, and he no longer awakened each morning with blood on his pillow. Some of the scheming glint returned to his eye, and he sat up straighter and stronger at the lengthy council sessions. Valaran, having more intimate access to the emperor than any warlord or courtier, told Tol her husband was sleeping through the night again for the first time in more than a year, though he did mutter and groan most of the time. It seemed he was emerging from the slow, strangling spell that had been sapping his life.

Tol thought the emperor’s revived health might be linked to the fact that his scheming brother, Prince Nazramin, left the city not long after Enkian Tumult’s army returned to the Seascapes. The prince went without fanfare, taking two hundred of his personal retainers, Nazramin’s Wolves, with him. Retiring to a large estate eleven leagues from Daltigoth, the emperor’s brother received a steady stream of visitors from the capital and outlying provinces. At first Nazramin’s departure looked like the start of some new plot, but as the days stretched into months and nothing untoward happened, most of the imperial court relaxed.

Tol did not believe that Nazramin had given up his machinations. He was waiting for something, biding his time. Ackal IV had spies planted within the household and kept close watch on his brother’s doings. Because of her discretion (and skill at reading), he chose Valaran to read the spies’ lengthy reports to him.

Other strange things were afoot. Fierce storms scoured the western coastal provinces, destroying seaside towns and wrecking ships. A strong squadron of imperial warships, chasing the fleeing flotilla of pirate chief Morojin, entered the Sancrist Channel one evening and never emerged from the north end. Twenty-three warships and their crews vanished without a trace. The shoreline from Cape Zol to Dice Bay was scoured for traces. None were found. Word was sent to the gnomes of Sancrist Isle to search their beaches for jetsam from the missing fleet. The gnomes invented several new machines for the task but found nothing.

The litany of ominous disasters grew longer. A murrain broke out among the enormous cattle herds of central Ergoth. Frightened ranchers broke up their herds, dispersing them to halt the spread of the disease, but it didn’t help. Fifty thousand head of cattle died that fall. The price of beef tripled in Daltigoth, and the leather market collapsed as thousands of fresh hides flooded in from tanners.

Forest fires ravaged the Ropunt district, destroying much valuable timber. Juramona was infested with a plague of bats. Thousands of the small, leathery creatures descended on the town, stopping up chimneys and fouling wells. Sickness followed.

A drought gripped the Eastern Hundred. Landslides blocked the southern pass through the Thel Mountains, cutting off trade between Hylo and the sparsely settled lands east of the kender kingdom.

Rumors of unnatural invaders persisted. They weren’t human … they were on the borders of Thoradin … the dwarves were arming themselves to resist …

Like a drumbeat, the pulse of disaster grew steadily louder in the halls of power in Daltigoth, until one day Tol was summoned from bed to the imperial council chambers.

It was cold that morning. He threw back the fur blankets and drew on a thick, quilted robe. Eyes bleary with sleep, he went to the basin by the door, where the lackey who’d summoned him waited. When he dipped his hands in the bowl, they bounced back. The basin had a crust of ice on it.

“Make haste, my lord!” said the servant. “The emperor expects you!”

Wordlessly, Tol broke the ice with an elbow and splashed the water on his face. The frigid water instantly cut through the soft, heavy layers of sleep still clinging to him.

“What’s it about?” he asked, blotting his face.

“I know not, my lord.”

Tol eyed the fellow skeptically. Palace servants were renowned for their eagle eyes, bloodhound noses, and cat-like hearing.

Under Lord Tolandruth’s iron gaze, the man shifted uncomfortably. “Visitors arrived early this morning,” he finally admitted. “From the north. With ill tidings.”

“Visitors?”

“Kender, my lord, with an escort of Riders from the Marshal of the Eastern Hundred.”

Something serious must be afoot if Egrin deemed it important enough to pass the kender along to Daltigoth. Tol hastily combed his hair and beard and propelled the servant out the door before him.

As they passed through an open breezeway between wings of the palace, Tol saw it was a brilliant morning. The sky was as bright and clear as only an early winter morning could make it. Bold blue stood out against the shaded white walls of the Inner City. In another month the gray season of snow would settle over the city, but for now the sky was as clear as the eyes of the gods.

A smaller than usual collection of councilors was waiting when Tol arrived. Lord Rymont and his aides, Valdid the chamberlain, Oropash (looking sleep-tousled), and his sleek counterpart Helbin were present. Four road-stained Riders flanked a single, carroty-haired kender, who was busily munching on a round loaf of brown bread. The council table was strewn with maps, some rolled, some anchored open with brass cups of mulled cider.

“My apologies,” Tol said, tugging the sash of his robe tighter. “Am I the last to arrive?”

“We’re awaiting the emperor,” Rymont said. He was impeccably attired and must have been awakened first.

The doors to the emperor’s private quarters opened, and Ackal IV appeared, looking pale and thin in a burgundy velvet robe made for his robust father. He was trailed by his personal healer, a priest of Mishas named Klaraf, and Empress Thura.

Valdid announced his entrance, and everyone knelt, except the kender, who blithely continued eating. Ackal eased himself into his great chair at the head of the table. A golden chalice of steaming cider was put in his hand.

“Well?” he said.

Lord Rymont stepped forward, and all eyes went to him. He paused, briefly enjoying the attention then said, “Your Majesty, this fellow arrived a short time ago.” He gestured at the kender. “He was sent to us by Marshal Egrin with a guard of ten Riders.”

One of the soldiers saluted. “Begging your pardon, Your Majesty, my lord, but we were twenty strong when we left Lord Egrin. The others were killed on the way here.”

In clipped words the Juramona man explained that a contingent of six kender had arrived, seeking help from Marshal Egrin. They’d been sent by the King of Hylo, Lucklyn the First. The kender realm, a protectorate of the empire, was beset. A strange, thick fog had filled Hylo Bay from end to end, stopping all traffic in and out of its busy ports. Worse, plague had broken out in all the port towns.

“Let me guess,” Tol said grimly. “The Red Wrack?”

The kender paused in his eating and drinking long enough to say, “Funny, that’s just how ol’ Egrin put it when we told him.”

“We’ve seen this before, he and I. We know who the author is!”

The kender rubbed a butter-smeared palm against his jerkin, then extended the hand to Tol. “Stumpwater’s the name, your generalship. Early Stumpwater.”

“Hold your tongue!” Rymont said irritably. “You’re in the presence of the Emperor of Ergoth!”

The Rider from Juramona continued his tale. Lord Egrin had indeed immediately recognized the hand of the rogue Mandes. Scouts were dispatched to locate his hideout. Nothing was found in the north, west, or south, but those sent to explore east of Hylo, in the foothills of the Thel Mountains, never returned.

Kender wanderers crossing the mountains from east to west reported finding a solid wall of white mist around the highest peaks in the range, some thirty leagues east of Old Port. Fog in the mountains wasn’t abnormal, but this mist was. It clung to the slopes of Mount Axas in the very teeth of a strong south wind. Kender being kender, some of them entered the mist. They passed into the whiteness easily enough, but none came back out again.

“The marshal believes Mandes is responsible for the fog and plague in Hylo, and that he has taken refuge on Mount Axas,” the Rider finished.

Leaning over a spread map, Valdid squinted and placed a fingertip on one spot. “There’s a ruined keep on the escarpment below the peak,” he said. “Very ancient – from before the days of Ackal Ergot.”

“Mandes must be stopped, Majesty. He’s daring us to come get him!”

The emperor regarded Tol curiously. “Why do you say that, my lord?”

“Because his attack is so obvious! Years ago, Mandes lent his mist-making skills to a band of marauding bakali in the same region. The numbing fog carried a disease within it, the same Red Wrack that is now gripping Hylo. You remember how it scourged the army of Lord Urakan in the campaign against Tylocost?” There were nods all around. “Mandes is repeating his method deliberately, I believe, as a direct challenge to us.” A direct challenge to me, he thought, but did not say.

Helbin, chief of the Red Robes in Ergoth, spoke up. “I fear Lord Tolandruth is correct, Majesty. Our order has been watching Mandes closely since he fled. At first he was quiet, shunning notoriety. Lately he’s become bolder. We have reason to think he’s responsible for many of the misfortunes currently afflicting the empire.”

“The murrain? Fires and avalanches?”

Helbin nodded gravely. “Perhaps the disappearance of the imperial squadron off Sancrist, too.”

“Impudent wretch! Say the word, Your Majesty, and I will dispatch two hordes to the Thel and bring back this wizard’s head!” Lord Rymont declared.

Oropash took umbrage with Rymont’s characterization of Mandes. “He is no wizard, my lord,” he said.

His mild voice was all but drowned out by Rymont’s anger. “Insults cannot be tolerated!” Rymont cried. “The emperor’s honor has been besmirched!”

“More than honor is at stake,” Ackal IV said slowly. “We hear whispers of invaders coming from the east. The tribes they displace come west to escape. Soon our borders will feel the first waves of this migration. There will be war, not for conquest or glory, but to defend our homes and lands against hordes of frightened, desperate immigrants – and all that before the main invasion from the east arrives.”

Everyone regarded the emperor with respect. He was surprisingly lucid these days.

He added, “Mandes could have made trouble for us at any time since his exile. Why now? It’s obvious, my lords. He’s seen the trouble coming, and he’s using it to compound the difficulties we face.”

“What could he want?” Empress Thura asked.

“Revenge?” The emperor smiled wanly. “Maybe he simply wants his old position in Daltigoth back.”

“That could never happen!” Oropash said, voice quavering.

Rymont repeated his demand that two hordes of the imperial army be sent to the mountains to root out the troublesome sorcerer. Helbin countered that Mandes’s befuddling mists, coupled with the treacherous paths in the high mountains, made such a venture suicidal.

Two camps slowly took shape. On one side were Lord Rymont, Valdid, and Thura, who favored a direct attack on Mandes. On the other side were the wizards, who proposed magical measures to isolate and contain Mandes.

“What say you, Master Stumpwater?” asked the emperor.

The kender had finished his eating and was resting his chin on his crossed arms on the table. His green eyes had flicked back and forth, following the heated discussion with interest. When Ackal spoke, the others’ eyes now went to him.

“A boil’s gotta be lanced, Your Mightiness,” the kender piped. “Leave one too long, and you get a fever.”

“I agree,” Tol said, but Helbin and Oropash immediately objected. An assault would be costly in lives and would surely fail, they said.

“I agree,” Tol repeated, “and under the circumstances, every Rider will be needed to guard the frontier if invaders do come.”

Rymont’s face was eloquent of disgust. “Lord Tolandruth is speaking in riddles,” he said. “We can’t do both – attack Mandes and keep the army out of the mountains.”

“Yes, we can. I will go myself. Alone.”

Silence greeted this startling statement, yet Tol noted that no one objected.

“What makes you think you can succeed?” asked the emperor at last.

“I know Mandes, Majesty. I know his tricks, his vanity, and how to reach him.” Tol’s hands closed into fists. “And I have a heavy score to settle with him. Give me leave, and I pledge upon my life that I will not fail!”

Helbin and Oropash, knowing Tol possessed the millstone, did not challenge him, but Rymont asked Tol how he expected to evade Mandes’s stupefying mist.

“I’m certain the masters of the Tower can provide me with protection – protection not available to two entire hordes,” Tol said blandly. Oropash looked confused for a heartbeat then slowly nodded agreement.

Debate began over the size of the escort that should accompany him, but Tol cut it off. “No, I must go alone. An escort will only draw unwanted attention.”

“You’ll need a guide,” Ackal IV said. “Will you undertake that task, Master Stumpwater?”

The kender tugged absently on his long carrot-colored topknot, thinking. “I suppose I could take Lord Tolandruth to the foot of the misty pass,” he opined, “but my skill don’t come cheap. Will you pay me in gold?”

Payment was promised, and Early accepted the job. Nods of satisfaction along with more than a few raised eyebrows greeted this proposed arrangement.

The emperor rose stiffly, pushing himself up with both hands until he was standing, then issued his orders. Lord Tolandruth would go forth to the Thel Mountains and investigate the fog-filled peak. If he found Mandes there, he would administer imperial high justice.

“What’s that?” asked Early.

“Bring back the sorcerer’s head,” said Rymont coldly.

Having ruled, the emperor sank back into his chair. He dismissed all present, asking only Tol to remain behind. Thura and the healer, Klaraf, wanted to stay, but Ackal irritably ordered them both out.

With only a quartet of bodyguards at the far doors of the chamber, Ackal beckoned Tol to him.

“When will you leave?” he asked.

“Whenever Your Majesty requires.”

“Tomorrow morning then. Draw whatever supplies you need from imperial stores. Get a pony for Master Stumpwater, too,” Ackal said. “You’ll need a map of the high Thel.” Tol glanced at the array scattered across the table, but the emperor shook his head. “There are better charts in the library. I’ll send Lady Valaran to you. She knows the library better than the chief archivist.”

Tol tried to gauge the emperor’s purpose. Ackal IV provided the answer.

“You know how dangerous this mission will be, don’t you?” he said. “Mandes won’t be sitting on that mountain-top unprotected. He had considerable treasure, and none was found in his house after he fled. He’ll have hired guards, so you’ll be contending with swords as well as sorcery.”

Tol nodded. He had surmised as much on his own. The emperor said, “This may be the single most important deed you’ll ever do for your country, Tolandruth. No other man in the empire would have a hope of success.”

“Thank you, Majesty. I shall not fail.”

Ackal extended his hand. Surprised, Tol reached out uncertainly. Ackal’s hand was dry and feverishly hot.

“Go with the gods, my lord.”

Once Tol was gone, Ackal IV let his head loll against the wing of the great padded chair. So weary … he was so weary, yet he was filled with hope, too. If anyone, Tolandruth could do it. He was a great warrior, and a loyal Hade. His strength would carry the day against any foe —

The itching began again. All over his fingers and toes, the maddening sensation of tiny, spiked feet and glistening pincers began.

“Ants!”

Ackal IV clutched at his fingers, trying to scrape off insects only he could see. His feet burned with their bites. Drawing one leg up, he tore off the velvet slipper and flung it across the room. Already his pale feet were scored with long scratches, crusted with dried blood.

“Ants! Ants!” he gasped, clawing at his feet anew.

At the doors, the guards heard the emperor’s hoarse exclamations and witnessed his mad gyrations. They did nothing. They saw this spectacle less often nowadays, but when it came it was fiercer and wilder than before; anyway they had been warned not to interfere. Gold in their pockets assured their compliance. Prince Nazramin could be very generous when he chose.

Ackal’s voice rose to a shriek as the burning, stinging pain increased. “Can no one stop the ants?” he cried.

In this lonely struggle, the Emperor of Ergoth had no champion.

*

It took all afternoon and most of the evening for Tol and Valaran to find the best map of the Thel Mountains. According to the catalog, the particular map they needed had been made one hundred fifty years earlier by surveyors working for Empress Kanira, as part of her mad dream of building a road from Daltigoth to Hylo. However, finding the terse entry in the catalog was one thing; finding the actual map on the dusty, ill-maintained, seemingly endless shelves was quite another.

“Look at this!” Valaran said, drawing out an unusually large roll of parchment.

She was crouched at the foot of a tall shelf, surrounded by loose scrolls. Hair looped behind her ears, she’d hitched up the hem of her fine silk gown without hesitation to search among the dusty books on the bottommost shelves.

Sitting on the floor close by, and moving the four-flame oil lamp as she commanded, Tol watched her with frank affection. They were alone; the ancient librarian, an old friend of Valaran’s, had long since abandoned them to their quest and was snoring in his cubicle.

“I’ve heard of this!” she said, shaking the scroll excitedly. “Scholars claimed it was a myth, but here it is!”

“The map?”

“No, Kanira’s plan for a new capital city!”

They unrolled the heavy parchment. In fantastic detail, the vainglorious empress’s plans for her new capital were laid out. The city was circular and was to have been built at the end of Hylo Bay, approximately where Old Port was located. Kanira’s palace would have occupied a flat-topped artificial mountain in its center. The terraced mound would have been almost as big as the entire Inner City of Daltigoth now was.

“Merciful gods,” Tol breathed. “No wonder they deposed her!”

Valaran pointed. “Look here – a canal encircling the city’s outer wall, both banks paved with granite … twelve temples, evenly spaced around the circumference of the city … and the gardens! The gardens are tremendous, built on the terraced sides of the palace mountain!”

Tol sat back, shaking his head. “She was mad.”

“But what vision!”

Her profile, gilded by the warm lamplight, was vision enough for Tol. He never wanted to look away.

She felt his gaze, and a faint blush colored her cheeks.

“You know the dangers I’m facing, don’t you?” he said quietly.

Valaran concentrated on rolling up the large scroll. “All I know is that you are going away again,” she said ruefully. “You love danger more than – more than anything.”

“All the days since I returned, we’ve been so chaste,” Tol said, catching her wrist.

“I’ve told you. We’re not love-addled youths any longer.”

“No, we’re not, but I can’t go to my possible death like this, hollowed out and empty of you.” He tugged on her wrist, drawing her to him. She did not resist. “Will you let me go again, perhaps never to return, without a single embrace?”

“Can we stop at one?”

Tol fervently hoped not. He put his arm around her waist. Valaran touched her cheek to his.

Chapter 17

THE WALL OF MIST

The next morning, after a whirlwind of preparations, Tol rode out with Early Stumpwater as his only companion. It was brilliantly cold, the sky clear as a dome of polished sapphire. All around them the land glittered under a heavy frost, every weed, every tree limb, and every sheaf of grain silvered with frozen dew. Tol was astride a tall black war-horse chosen from the imperial stables for his formidable strength and stamina, and in spite of the prickly temper that had earned him the nickname Tetchy. He led a pack horse laden with gear and provisions. Early was mounted on a white-maned sorrel pony he’d christened Longhound, after a dog, he’d ridden as a child.

After the fashion of his race, the kender’s name seemed a slippery issue. When, at the Inner City gate, guards asked his name for the daily log; he told them, “Early Thistledown.” A short time later, after regaling Tol with a wild tale about his adventures in the eastern lands beyond the Thel Mountains, the kender declared, “And that’s the true story of how I rescued the chief of the Karad-shu tribe, or my name isn’t Early Foxfire!”

Kiya was still asleep as Tol prepared to depart, after haranguing him late into the evening about risking this mission without her; he didn’t wake her. He left her a goodly purse of gold to live on in his absence, as well as two scrolls. The one sealed with red wax was a legal document, giving Kiya her freedom and absolving her of all obligations to him. Under Ergothian law a widow was liable for her spouse’s debts, monetary and social. It was not unheard of for a surviving wife to be forced into marriage with a man to whom her late husband owed money. Tol had no such debts, but he wanted to be certain Kiya would be unencumbered.

The second document was closed with white wax, as was customary with wills. Over the years Tol had amassed quite a fortune in war bounties and imperial largesse. In the will, drawn up by Felryn over a year ago while they were still fighting the Tarsans, he left everything to Miya, Kiya, and Egrin, and made bequests of gold to certain old comrades like Darpo. The millstone, listed among his possessions as “a decorative metal-and-glass artifact of ancient origin,” he left to Valaran. The night before he departed, he had revealed its power to her.

“This is the means by which you’ve always escaped enchantments?” she’d said, staring at the trinket resting in her palm. “It looks like a brooch, and a rather dull one at that!”

He took it back. “Yoralyn told me many lives could be lost if word of its existence got out.”

“She’s right.” Valaran the historian put a hand to her chin, thinking hard. “Pakin Zan himself once owned a nullstone. He sacked the city of Ulladu on the western coast to obtain it from its owner, the priest Gomian.”

“Ulladu? I’ve never heard of it.”

“That’s because Pakin Zan razed it to the ground. Sixty hordes breeched the defenses. Those inhabitants not slain in the battle – men and women, young and old – were forced to sift the wreckage of their city with sieves until Gomian’s treasure was found, then they were executed. Burned alive, if I recall correctly.”

Once again, he was struck by the calmness with which she could relate the most horrific information. He didn’t know if this was due to her scholarly detachment or to her upbringing in the imperial palace, where plots, assassinations, and massacres were common occurrences. Perhaps it was a little of both.

“What became of Pakin Zan’s nullstone?” he asked.

She looped a stray strand of hair behind her left ear, and for a moment was again the bookish girl hiding in an alcove, reading dusty tomes.

“A rook stole it from him.”

As Pakin Zan lay on his deathbed in the palace, a large Mack rook had flown in a window and plucked the millstone from the dying emperor’s neck. Onlookers could only watch helplessly; Pakin Zan’s strictest edict decreed death to anyone who touched his amulet. The rook flew away with the ancient artifact, never to be seen again.

Some authorities, Valaran said, held the bird was simply attracted by the shiny metal. Others believed the rook was the familiar of a sorcerer or rogue spellcaster, perhaps even the Silvanesti mage Vedvedsica himself. In the intervening twelve decades, no millstones had surfaced. Until Tol’s.

Tol gripped her hands tightly and stared into her green eyes. “You will keep this secret?”

She did not wince or shrink away. “I have forgotten it already,” she replied calmly.

As he and Early clopped through the frozen farmland in the cold light of morning, Tol was melancholy. Departing without saying good-bye to Kiya had left him with an odd, unfinished feeling. Through strange turns of fate, she was the only companion of his youth still with him. Miya was married and soon would bear Elicarno’s child. Egrin ruled in the emperor’s name back in Juramona. Darpo scoured the seas in command of the imperial fleet. And so many of his other brothers in arms were dead – Narren, Felryn, Frez —

For the first time in his life, Tol felt old. Though wrapped in fur, his knees ached and old wounds pained him. The deep stab wound in his side, courtesy of his one-time friend Crake, was particularly troublesome when the air was this chilly. More than that, he felt lonely. He’d survived so many of his friends, and so many enemies, too. Surprising how much a fellow could miss his enemies.

“— until the whole house collapsed!”

Tol’s wandering attention returned. “What?”

“That’s how I became chief food taster for King Lucklyn. Weren’t you listening?” Early said, a little exasperated. Tufts of hair, stiff as broomstraw, protruded from his fur hood, framing his face with an orange fringe.

“Remarkable,” Tol replied, though he’d heard none of the tale. “How fares Lucklyn’s queen, Casberry? I met her once.”

He’d made the acquaintance of the wizened kender queen when he and his men had gone to Hylo to find XimXim. Upon learning they had vanquished the monster, Queen Casberry fined Tol for hunting out of season.

“Oh, Cas is gone.”

“Gone? You mean dead?”

“No, no. She left on a tour of Balifor the same day Lucklyn returned from his long walkabout.”

“Was it affairs of state that separated them again, after they’d been apart so long?”

Early gave him a disbelieving look. “I thought you said you’d met Queen Casberry?” Tol laughed.

Putting aside his own worries, Tol found the kender a diverting companion. Early had an endless supply of droll, bizarre, and amusing stories, including one explaining the origin of the topknot hairstyle so many of his people wore. Tol blushed like a new bride when he heard that one.

They rode northeast all day, through empty orchards and harvested fields. Tol stayed off the main road, wanting to make it more difficult for spies to track their progress. Well after sunset, Tol finally called a halt, and they camped in a windbreak of pines. The woods were silent. All sensible creatures were either hibernating or had shifted to warmer climes. Early settled on the other side of the small campfire, making a tent of his blanket. Only the tip of his nose and frosty puffs of breath betrayed his presence. Frost formed on the horsehair blanket Tol draped over his head.

Hypnotized by the flickering flames, Tol slept sitting up, Number Six lying across his lap. In the oblique, abrupt way of dreams, he found himself sharing the fire with two robed figures, one seated on each side of him.

At first the two seemed identical, cowled in dark gray fabric, their faces invisible. Tol tried to speak but could make no sound. Even so, he was not afraid. There was no telltale flicker of heat, so magic wasn’t at work. This was only a dream.

The figure on his left slowly leaned forward, hands extending from the sleeves of his heavy gray robe. The right hand was white, with short fingers, the left dark and lean. A memory of the apparition on the bowsprit of the galleot Quarrel flashed into Tol’s mind; it too had had mismatched hands. After a slight hesitation, the phantom on the right made the same motion; his hands were both dark.

The fire hissed and popped. Sparks lofted skyward, winking out against a background of brilliant stars. Rising above the sputter of burning wood came other sounds – indistinct, rapid whispers. Gradually, the scratchy sounds resolved into words.

Go back! Go back!

The words came from the specter on his left, the one with mismatched hands.

Tol tried again to speak, and this time he could. “I will not go back! “He stated.

There is grave danger. This came from the apparition on the right, yet its voice seemed identical to the first.

“I will not turn back,” Tol repeated. “Many wrongs must be righted.”

From his left: Go back, or all you love will suffer.

“Who are you?”

The figure with two dark hands pointed through the leaping flames at the other phantom: He is the one you seek.

Tol gripped his sword hilt, and glared at the phantom with mismatched hands. Mandes, of course! The sorcerer must have replaced his lost arm with a limb belonging to someone else.

The shade with mismatched hands gestured sharply. Pay no attention to him. He is dead!

Tol’s heart raced. A name surfaced in his mind, the name of one cherished and lost, one who had dark skin. “Felryn? Felryn, is that you?”

Go back, or all you love will suffer!

The words came from the Mandes figure, and this time there was no doubt they were not a warning, but a threat. Although his limbs felt oddly leaden, Tol shifted the heavy saber off his lap.

Mandes spoke again. Go back, Tol of Juramona. Give up this quest, or each night someone you care about will die!

“No! This matter is between us, Mandes! Leave everyone else out of it!”

He’s afraid, whispered the Felryn shade. You are his doom.

“Protect them, Felryn! Protect Valaran and the rest!”

He can do nothing! He is dead! Mandes said.

With a mighty effort, Tol swung the saber up, laying the blade flat on his right shoulder.

“Nothing short of my own death will keep me from seeing justice done. You will submit to the emperor’s judgment. If you harm anyone else, nothing will prevent me from taking your life – and it won’t be easily done! You’ll die by moments, traitor! I promise you!”

With that, he managed a wild swing of his sword. It swept through the campfire and into the figure with the mismatched hands. There was no sensation of striking cloth or flesh. The blade passed through the specter as through smoke.

Tol lost his balance and pitched headfirst into the fire. He clenched his eyes shut, expecting to feel searing flame.

With a jerk, he came awake. He was sitting upright under his blanket, Number Six cold across his legs. The fire had died to a few glowing embers. By this feeble light he saw his kender companion curled up across from him, frost heavy on his blanket. The horses drowsed nearby, standing so close together their sides touched.

The quiescent horses as much as the undisturbed dirt around the fire told Tol that no one had been present. The millstone was safe in its pouch in the waistband of his smallclothes. Had it been only an ordinary dream, or was Felryn truly warning him?

He stood and stretched his stiffened limbs. With the constellations as his guide, he looked back in the direction of Daltigoth, out of sight below the horizon. Did Valaran sleep peacefully tonight? Were Kiya and Miya well? Would Egrin be safe?

Early shifted in his sleep, snorting as he settled back into deeper slumber. Tol added wood to the fire and listened to his companion’s steady breathing.

Ah, to be a kender and never fret about anything.

*

As dawn began to brighten the eastern sky, they broke camp and reached the Dalti River just as the sun was clearing the tops of the trees. The simple dirt track they followed, used by cattle herders and itinerant peddlers, ended at the broad, slow-flowing Dalti. There was no bridge, only an anchored ferry. The ferryman’s hut stood on a knoll overlooking the waterway. It was surrounded by empty cattle pens and a ramshackle stable. Smoke seeped from the hut’s chimney. Tol rode up, dismounted, and knocked on the door.

The ferryman was a centaur. Gray-bearded, with a seamed, leathery face, he emerged from the snug house pulling a blanket over his shoulders. His horse’s body was a brown roan color.

“Early,” he grumbled, wiping sleep from his dark eyes.

“That’s me,” replied the kender.

The centaur looked confused. “Early to be travelin’,” he clarified.

Early nodded vigorously, “I am, and this is my partner, Lor —”

“Name’s Loric,” Tol said loudly, not wanting to announce his identity to all and sundry. “My kender friend’s Early.”

“You both are,” the centaur answered, stamping a hoof.

Tol let it drop. They followed the centaur into the ferry station.

The station had been built for a human operator, but the centaur, whose name was Edzar, had long occupied it. The house now resembled a horse barn, devoid of any furniture, its packed dirt floor covered with hay. A fire burned on the hearth, and two iron kettles bubbled there. Edzar offered them oat porridge and sweet cider. Tol gladly accepted the cider. Early had both.

The centaur clamped a gnarled hand around the handle and lifted the cider pot off the fire to fill Tol’s clay cup. Tol was amazed. The twisted iron bale was hot enough to raise blisters on a human hand.

“Where you headed?” asked Edzar.

Fortunately, Early was spooning gray porridge in his mouth and couldn’t answer. “Caergoth,” Tol said.

“Soldier, eh?”

An obvious assumption, what with his war-horse and sword, so he nodded. “Reporting back to my horde in Caergoth.” Edzar’s meager curiosity was satisfied.

He told them they couldn’t depart right away hut must wait to see whether others might come wanting to cross the river. As it was winter and traffic was light, no one else had arrived by midmorning, so the centaur agreed to ferry them alone.

The ferry was ten paces square, worn from many years of use, but a sturdy craft. Still, Tetchy snorted and shook his black head, nervous about leaving solid ground. Early’s mount moved closer to him, and Tetchy quieted instantly. Tol was amused to see the muscular war-horse walk docilely aboard beside the much smaller pony. Longhound obviously had a calming effect.

Edzar watched them from the cupola of the station. Thick cables linked a treadmill on which he stood to pulleys on the far shore. The cables were also attached to the ferry, so as the centaur walked, the craft was drawn across the river.

During the crossing, Early pointed ahead to a thin rim of clouds on the eastern horizon.

“Gonna snow,” he said.

“Are you a weather seer as well as an official taster?” Tol asked.

“Nope. Just know snow clouds when I see’em. Gonna snow.”

So it did. The plain west of Caergoth was largely empty, as crops had been harvested and herds driven in for the winter, and they made good progress all day. However, the low line of clouds grew steadily until the sky was uniformly gray and furrowed like a farmer’s field. Snow began to fall in late afternoon. Darkness came early, hastened by the heavy pall of clouds.

They camped on the lee side of an outcropping of boulders. Tol rigged a canvas fly to keep the snow off. They built a fire and pooled their simple rations: salt beef from Tol and “go-far” from Early. This was a concoction of potatoes, carrots, onions, peas, and other things which had been lightly cooked, then pounded into a lumpy paste. It could be fried in a pan, or simply eaten as it was. Tol found the kender rations surprisingly tasty.

As they ate, Early talked about his forebears (whether these were Stumpwaters or Thistledowns or Foxfires, Tol wasn’t sure). They hailed from Balifor originally, he said. His great-great-grandfather had been the right-hand kender to the famed Balif.

“So what was the truth about Balif – was he kender or elf?” Tol asked, biting seared beef from a skewer.

“We do not speak of that awful tragedy.”

Tol blinked at the uncharacteristically laconic response. A subject kender would not speak of? He was intrigued and tried to wheedle the tale out of Early. Surprisingly, the kender would not be persuaded.

Early soon succumbed to slumber, leaving Tol to watch the soft flakes of snow falling in the still air. The blanket of white was already ankle-deep. At this rate it would be knee-high by morning.

Tol found himself reluctant to sleep. His dream of the night before (if dream it was) filled him with a dread of closing his eyes. Stupid and illogical, of course. If Mandes meant mischief, he could do it whether Tol was asleep or awake.

Still, he kept his eyes off the fire, the dance of flames being notoriously hypnotic. Leaning back, with Number Six resting across his lap, he propped his head on the cold boulder behind him, the canvas fly keeping the snow off his face. His eyes were gritty with fatigue, so he blinked to clear them.

A gray-wrapped figure appeared between one blink and the next. It stood a little ways off in the snow, at the very edge of the campfire’s circle of light.

Not taking his eyes from the gray figure, Tol called out to rouse Early. The kender snored on. Tol pushed himself to his feet, pulling his saber from its sheath, and presenting the point to the phantom.

“Name yourself, stranger!” he said hoarsely.

I have stopped his mouth.

Tol whirled. The words had come from behind him. Much closer to him, directly over the sleeping kender in fact, stood an identically garbed phantom.

Go back to Daltigoth.

“Go to your grave, trickster!” Tol shouted.

He leaped over the fire and slashed through the Mandes phantom with his saber. His blade passed harmlessly through the specter. Tol kept moving forward, arms spread wide, intending to let the millstone’s influence disperse the spell. Sure enough, as he passed through it, the image disappeared.

Stumbling in the snow, Tol turned back toward the fire. The second ghost – Felryn? – was still there, immobile as a statue. Early was curled up as close to the fire as he could get. He’d not stirred a muscle through all the alarums. Mandes must’ve used a soporific spell on him. Of the Mandes phantom there was no sign.

Something flickered in the smoke rising from the fire. At first Tol thought it was a trick of the flames, but the amorphous shape resolved itself into the façade of a building, translucent to the smoke rising around it. The building was a familiar one. It was Elicarno’s workshop in Daltigoth.

The image shifted, as though the magical eyes through which Tol was seeing the scene were rushing toward the front door. No guards stood watch, but the heavy portal was secured by one of Elicarno’s sturdy iron locks. It proved no barrier. The scene changed to the inner room beyond.

The great room was only dimly lit, filled with Elicarno’s many machines. Unerringly the image tracked through the gears, pulleys, and standing frames until it found the stairs leading to the living quarters. With dizzying effect, the scene swung up, rising into the pitch-black stairwell.

“Stop!” Tol cried.

He raised his sword but made no other move. Whatever Mandes was doing, he was doing it from his lair. This image was intended as a mirror of what was happening in far-off Daltigoth. He could do nothing but stand and watch.

The magical invader moved along the second story, passing several open doorways and peering into each as it ghosted by. Elicarno’s crew, apprentices and journeymen alike, were sleeping four to six to a room. Although he could plainly see mouths gaping from snores, no sound came to Tol’s ears.

At the end of the upstairs hall was a closed door. Again the phantom pierced the locked panel effortlessly. This room was lit by the soft blue glow of a lamp atop a shelf near the door; the lamp’s chimney was a polished, hollowed out lump of lapis. A curtained bed stood by the far wall.

The scene halted for a moment, and for the first time Tol glimpsed the intruder – a heavy, hairy paw, tipped with ivory claws like a bear’s, came into his field of view. No longer an incorporeal wraith, the thing moved forward with deadly deliberation, reached out a claw, and parted the velvet curtains surrounding the bed.

Tol shouted with frustrated rage, advancing a step toward the fire. Plainly visible by the azure light were the sleeping forms of Miya and Elicarno. Heavy with child, Miya slept on her side, facing the intruder. Her husband lay close behind, one arm draped around the curve of her swelling belly.

Claws reached for Miya’s throat.

Tol clenched his eyes shut, praying to the gods this was not a real occurrence. It must be an illusion, designed to frighten him into giving up his mission. Mandes was a powerful sorcerer, but even he couldn’t send murderous phantoms to do his bidding from so far away, could he? Yet the golems had been sent to Tarsis to kill Tol —

Something brushed Tol’s shoulder, and he threw himself away from the odd, feathery contact. To his surprise, he saw the second gray-robed phantom had come forward out of the snow and now was standing beside him. Even at close range, he couldn’t make out the phantom’s face, but he felt a presence behind the cowl, a presence he somehow knew was both benign and terribly angry.

“Felryn, help them!” he cried, gesturing to the smoky vision.

As he continued to watch, Elicarno awakened just before the monstrous claws reached Miya’s neck. He shouted soundlessly as he grappled with the hairy paws. Miya awoke, thrashing, her throat taut with unheard cries. She rolled aside and fell out of bed. Elicarno, clad only in a breechcloth, braced a foot against his attacker’s chest. Ivory claws raked down his arms. Blood flowed.

Miya snatched up a stool from beside the bed and pounded the invader with it. The image jounced and shook with every blow she landed.

Tol cheered, but what she really needed was a blade – a table knife, a pointed tool, anything! He called upon every god he could name to send her assistance.

The monster dragged Elicarno off the bed and held him up. The engineer’s feet dangled above the floor. After raking his face and chest with its claws, the intruder hurled him against the wall. Elicarno slid down and did not move. Miya was next.

The view shifted suddenly from Miya’s horrified face to the doorway. Wild-eyed apprentices were spilling into the room, armed with whatever came to hand – staves, hammers, a carpenter’s square. When they beheld the monster attacking their master and his mate, their faces went pale as candle wax.

“Don’t stare – fight!” Tol bellowed. He edged forward.

The terrified workmen mustered their courage and attacked. Forming a protective line between the monster and Miya, they held off the nightmare beast as best they could. Lightning-fast claws tore into them time and again, and the brave engineers went down bleeding, battered, eyeless. Only one still stood when more help arrived. These were older men, Elicarno’s journeymen, armed with halberds. They jabbed and hacked at the beast, its blood spattering their spearpoints.

Now the image began to shimmer, like a view distorted by heat. Miya snatched a halberd from one man and swung the thick blade at the monster’s head.

The monster drew away. The bloody paws it held up were no longer solid; Tol could see the carpet through them. It retreated from the valiant Dom-shu woman.

Leaving the remaining men to fend off the injured beast, Miya knelt awkwardly by her husband. Tears coursed down her cheeks. She lifted her face and let out a long shriek of grief.

A log in the fire broke, and the image dissolved in a tide of sparks.

Tol turned. “Felryn! Is Elicarno alive —?”

He woke up. He wasn’t standing by the fire, sword in hand, but sitting with his back to the chill boulder. His weapon, still sheathed, lay across his lap. The fire was only a pile of dimly glowing embers. Tol’s hands and legs were numb with cold.

“Early! Early, get up!”

A brief mumble was the kender’s only reply.

Tol forced himself to his feet, willing his icy limbs to move.

“The fire’s going out!” he said. “If it dies, we die!”

He stirred the coals, adding more deadfall wood. The embers blazed into life.

“What’s the matter?” Early asked, sitting up and blinking at Tol who was wildly circling the snowy clearing. “We bein’ attacked?”

Tol related the experience – dream? – he’d just had. He mentioned the one of the night before as well.

“There’s no sign anyone else was here,” he finished. “I don’t even know if what I’m seeing is real!”

The kender drew his fur collar up close to his eyes. “Oh, it’s real enough. If the Mist-Maker was throwing illusions at you, they’d be a lot worse. You say your woman friend lived, but her husband, this builder-fella, seemed bad hurt, maybe dead? Probably true, I say. If it was only an illusion, everything would’ve gone Mandes’s way, wouldn’t it?”

Early’s logic made horrible sense. On the other hand, Mandes was wily and might not overplay his hand. He knew Tol well enough to tailor his phantasms.

Tol drove a fist into the palm of his hand; This uncertainty was maddening! How could he know for sure?

Early was regarding him with surprising sobriety. “You’re going to have to kill him, you know,” the kender said. “Taking him back to your emperor ain’t gonna be enough.”

Snow hissed down around them, and the fire crackled with renewed life. Early was right. They couldn’t possibly take the rogue wizard all the way back to Daltigoth safely. No one Tol cared for would be safe until Mandes had drawn his last breath.

“I’ll stand by you,” Early added solemnly. “All the way.”

Now Tol was truly taken aback. While kender could be foolishly brave in the face of terrible peril, they weren’t noted for selflessness, or for sticking to a plainly dangerous course.

In Early’s green eyes Tol saw something he hadn’t before: determination. Moreover, the kender’s face seemed different somehow, its lines subtly altered.

“I’d like to finish this with you.”

“I’d welcome your company,” Tol said even as the odd phrasing, the tone of the words, stirred something within him.

Before Tol could say more, Early’s chin dropped to his chest and he muttered, “The passes’ll be treacherous. What we need are snowshoes …”

The words trailed off into raspy breathing. The kender had fallen asleep.

Tol slept no more that night. The cold was merciless, held at bay only by the little fire he tended. Conditions promised to be even harsher in the higher elevations ahead.

*

They skirted Caergoth the next day, keeping well clear of the flow of travelers drawn to the city. They saw smoke rising from myriad chimneys and knew snug hostels and a hot meal waited within the city’s walls, but also within were potential informers and assassins. The wizard’s gold could buy a great deal of trouble in Caergoth, so they were forced to pass it by, keeping to the gray shadows in the snowy woods.

The cold and lack of sleep wore on Tol, but he pushed onward even harder. Echo Pass, the gateway to Mount Axas, was eighty-odd leagues from Daltigoth, an eight-day journey under the best conditions. The deep snow would make the going even slower, but Tol was determined to make the pass in five days. Mandes’s dreams tormented him only by night, when he slept. If night and slumber were required for the attacks on his friends, Tol wanted to reduce the number of opportunities Mandes had to strike at them.

They turned north, following the west bank of the Caer River. Once they were through the Forest of Aposh, north of Caergoth, the snow eased. By late afternoon they had reached the fork of the Caer, where Tol had found the millstone in the Irda ruins half a lifetime ago.

The sky north and east was a band of bright blue, shining under the wooly mantle of clouds behind them. Across the fork was the Eastern Hundred, Tol’s old homeland. The high plain was dry, only lightly dusted with snow, but a bitter wind scoured down from the north, bringing tears to their eyes and cracking their parched lips. Early taught Tol an old kender trick: he smeared butter on their faces. The grease would protect them from the desiccating wind.

They camped on the bluff overlooking the confluence of the east and west branches of the Caer. Their short day ended, with Early laying the night’s campfire as Tol gazed down at the Irda ruins, almost invisible beneath the vines and brambles. He would like to visit the ruins but feared Mandes might be watching from afar. He didn’t dare betray any knowledge of the Irda. Mandes might connect that with Tol’s puzzling immunity to magic and infer the existence of the millstone.

The horses, tethered in the lee of the icy wind, huddled together for warmth. Tol fed and watered them, noting how they trembled with cold and fatigue, even his stalwart Tetchy. Tol felt as miserable as they looked.

Early, lying in his bedroll, groaned loudly. Though a seasoned wanderer, he’d never ridden so hard or so long in a single day before. He claimed to be too tired to sleep.

Tol, loath to fall asleep and leave himself open to Mandes’s manipulations, kept himself awake by regaling Early about his past, relating his adventures in the Great Green as a youth, how he had defeated the Dom-shu chief in single combat and thus earned his two “wives,” Miya and Kiya. He’d just begun to speak of XimXim and the Tarsis war when the kender interrupted him with a piping snore.

Tol sighed. He drained the last of the broth from his cup and hunkered down, facing the fire. His eyelids slowly closed.

Instead of the dreaded sound of Mandes’s voice, instead of the bitter, icy wind, Tol dreamt of warmth. He was on the Bay of Ergoth, the Blood Fleet under his command. The thumping of oars, the salt breeze, the hot sun were balm to his soul. He leaned against the mast of the quinquireme Thunderer and let the wonderful heat penetrate his bones.

“Ship to starboard, two points off the beam! A merchantman!”

Tol shifted his gaze. Though he’d given no order, the helm was put over, and the galley churned toward the tubby merchant ship. Sailors spilled out on deck, distributing cutlasses and pikes. A springald catapult on the poop was winched around and quickly cleared for action.

“Stand down!” Tol said. “We’re not attacking.”

No one paid him the slightest heed. Indeed, the pirates rushed past him as if he wasn’t even there. He tried to grab the nearest fellow and found he couldn’t. His reaching hands passed through the pirate’s sun-browned arms without hindrance.

The merchant ship piled on more sail and turned, trying to run from the powerful galley. The pirates unfurled a sail of their own, adding the wind’s power to their oars. Inexorably, Thunderer overhauled the clumsy trader. Soon Tol could see men stirring on its deck. Bronze glinted in the ship’s waist. They were preparing to resist.

The galley could have rammed the fleeing ship easily, but that would’ve destroyed the pirates’ plunder. They had to board her. Pulling parallel to the merchant, separated by only the length of the portside oars, the pirates trained the catapult on their prey and let fly.

Instead of a wooden javelin or stone ball, they flung a bronze-tipped arrow tied to. A long line. It buried itself deeply in the merchant’s hull. The galley’s portside oars were run in, and a dozen pirates hauled away on the line, drawing the two ships together.

A horn blared. Pirates swarmed over the galley’s side and onto the merchant ship’s deck. Iron clashed, blood flowed, and men toppled into the sea. Tol dashed back and forth, shouting for the pirates to cease, but he was a phantom to them, unseen and unheard.

— and then he was on the deck of the merchant ship. The ship’s waist was a busy battlefield, with sailors from both ships locked in fierce combat. On the sterncastle, men in Ergothian armor fended off twice their number in pirates. In the midst of the frantic throng, Tol spotted a familiar face.

“Darpo!”

Tol tried to go to his comrade, but his feet were sluggish, as though mired in mud. He could barely make any headway.

Bowstrings twanged. Pirates had gained the rigging of the merchant ship. Holding on with their legs, they drew and loosed arrows into the defenders. Tol watched in horror as one archer took deliberate aim at Darpo, unaccountably the only Ergothian warrior who wasn’t sporting a helmet.

“Darpo! Look out!”

With awful clarity, Tol saw the archer release. The arrow hummed forward, twisting through the air as the fletching caught the wind.

Darpo cut down a bare-chested pirate and stood back to draw a breath. At that instant he must have heard the arrow’s thrum, because he turned toward it —

— and received the broadhead in one eye.

Tol bolted upright, shouting hoarsely. Early sat, legs folded, staring across the small fire at him.

Uncharacteristically, Tol began to curse. Disheveled, the sweat rapidly cooling on him in the frigid night air, he clenched his hands into fists and cursed.

“What did you see this time?” Early asked. His voice was strange, low and deep.

“Darpo – my old friend Darpo, commanding the imperial fleet. I was on a pirate ship that attacked him.” Tol swallowed hard. “He was shot by an arrow —”

He shivered, then was struck by several thoughts. It was winter now, yet in his vision the weather had been warm. That could not be. Besides, Darpo was in command of Thunderer, not plying the seas on a merchant vessel being attacked by Thunderer.

“It must’ve been only a bad dream,” he said, forcing himself to breathe deeply, forcing himself to believe his own words. “Only a dream!”

“I fear not. What you saw was truth, disguised as memory and dream. Something grave may have befallen Darpo.”

The kender sounded so unlike his usual breezy self Tol said sharply, “How do you know all this, little one?”

“Sometimes I see far.”

Early’s face had taken on a completely different cast, more serious, more powerful – and was his skin darker than before?

Tol shook off the strange impression. Lack of sleep and raw nerves were affecting his judgment. Wasn’t that just what Mandes wanted?

He had intended to avoid all towns, but his peace of mind demanded otherwise.

“We’ll stop in Juramona tomorrow,” he told Early. “I want to warn Egrin myself of the danger he faces.”

It could be only a matter of time before Mandes turned his malign attentions to the marshal.

*

The high plain had turned from summer green to harvest gold and thence to winter brown. Beneath a leaden sky, an ocean of grass spread out before them, dry and stiff. Here and there, copses of trees lifted bare limbs sharp as talons to the sky.

As they rode briskly toward Tol’s old home, they spoke little. The wind of their passage was bitter on their faces. Gloved, caped, and hooded with furs, eyes squinted against the icy breeze, they cantered across the silent plain.

Late afternoon had come on the short winter day when they finally beheld Juramona. Tol hadn’t been back since leaving for Daltigoth with Enkian Tumult when he was but eighteen years old. The provincial town had grown steadily in his absence. The old wooden wall now sported stone towers, and the spans of timbered bulwark in between were slowly acquiring a thick skin of cut stone blocks. The marshal’s High House, on its mound overlooking the town, had been whitewashed. It stood out starkly against the slate roofs and unpainted houses below it.

Footmen were closing the western gate for the night when Tol hailed them. Shading their eyes against the rays of the setting sun, the soldiers delayed until Tol and the kender rode through the gate.

Riding down the dusty lane, Tol was assailed by a deluge of odors, some sweet, some foul, but all with meaning from the past. Frying meat and local beer, livestock and garbage mingled with vigorous, unwashed humanity. Tol drifted in a nostalgic haze. Only when he saw Early had halted ahead and was waiting for him to catch up did he snap out of it. This wasn’t the time to reminisce.

Guards challenged them at the foot of the ramp leading up to High House. They were young, local boys, cold and bored with guard duty, but they crossed poleaxes in front of Tol’s horse and recited the required challenge: Who was he? What business did he have in the High House?

Tol pushed back his fur hood. “I am Lord Tolandruth of Juramona. This is my companion, Early Stumpwater.”

The young soldiers gaped. If the emperor himself had appeared before them, they couldn’t have been more surprised.

“My lord!” stammered one, a stoutish fellow. “We didn’t know you!”

“I have business with Marshal Egrin.”

The soldiers hastily backed away, and Tol spurred Tetchy forward. Early followed close behind. They galloped up the spiral ramp, drawing curious stares.

At the door of the marshal’s residence, Tol leaped from his horse before the beast had stopped. He dashed inside, ignoring the challenges of the soldiers on the door.

No one tried to stop him as he stormed through the halls, shedding gloves and heavy fur cape. Within High House there were many who knew him.

The sight of an elderly healer standing before the marshal’s quarters finally brought him up short. He recognized Ossant, a priestess of Mishas. She was an old acquaintance and a woman of conviction. Years ago, the then marshal, Odovar, had ordered Egrin to behead the Pakin rebel, Vakka Zan. Odovar intended the headless corpse be put on display as a warning to all Pakin sympathizers, but Ossant used her status as priestess and healer to have the body removed – “to prevent disease,” she had said.

His arrival obviously startled her. “I must speak with the marshal,” he said. “Where is he?”

Ossant’s pale blue eyes and the nimbus of white hair framing her round face gave her a deceptively gentle appearance: she was not one to mince words.

“Lord Egrin has withdrawn for the evening. A man his age needs rest.”

“My business is important. You come too, lady. There may be need for your services.”

“Is someone ill, my lord?” she asked, but Tol moved past her to push open the door and did not answer.

The marshal’s bedchamber was close and warm, the effect of an oversized fireplace blazing in the room. Egrin, dressed in a heavy brocade robe, sat before the fire in a large chair.

Head resting against the chair’s high back, he snored gently.

Tol paused. He suddenly thought of his father – his real father – and wondered where he slept this night. It was a bad son who let his parent fall into old age unsupported.

Ossant approached Egrin but did not touch him. “My lord marshal, Lord Tolandruth is here.”

Egrin jerked awake with a snort. He looked past the priestess and saw Tol. Immediately he sat up, and Ossant stepped back. The marshal cleared his throat, face reddening slightly at being caught napping.

“This can’t be good news,” he muttered, voice rough with sleep.

“No.” Tol’s smile was fleeting. “There are grave matters stirring, my friend.”

Egrin arose to greet Tol properly, his movements stiff. He drew up a chair before the fire, facing the marshal. Ossant stood at Egrin’s back and Early at Tol’s. The kender had sidled in unnoticed. Though he’d never been in High House, he’d somehow found his way to the marshal’s bedchamber unescorted.

After Tol explained his mission, Egrin said gravely, “So it has-come at last. You mean to slay the sorcerer.”

“I do.”

“I have reports from the mountains of his activities.” Egrin poured milky liquid from a brass pitcher into two clay cups. Tol was surprised to find it was barley water, a tipple associated with the old.

After downing a large swallow, Egrin said, “Mandes is on Mount Axas. He has hired between two hundred and four hundred mercenaries, mostly nomads from the east side of the mountains. His recruiters tried to enlist men from the Juramona garrison.”

Tol’s task suddenly seemed much harder, but he put on a bold face, saying, “Good. At least I won’t have to chase him around the country!”

“Not good,” Egrin countered. “He knows you’re coming. You’re walking into a trap.”

The fire snapped and popped, bits of glowing bark falling into the dark bed of ashes. Egrin refilled their cups, and Tol rested his chin on his fist.

“What I need is cover, like the Mist-Maker’s clouds,” he mused.

“Diversions,” said Early.

Everyone turned to the kender. He been so silent and still and unkenderlike, they’d nearly forgotten he was present.

“Why not a cloud of Tolandruths to befuddle the Mist-Maker?” he suggested.

A number of Tol impersonators, he explained, men from the Juramona garrison, could lead phony expeditions toward Mount Axas along different routes. Mandes and his hired army wouldn’t know which threat was real.

“A man of his talent won’t be fooled long,” Ossant cautioned.

“I don’t need long,” Tol said. “Three days, maybe four.”

Egrin rose. “I’ll give the order.”

While he was gone, Tol said to Ossant, “Mandes will do anything to stop me. So far he’s sent terrifying dreams which seem to show my friends and comrades being killed. He’s bound to try and harm Lord Egrin. Can you protect him?”

“I am only a humble priestess of Mishas,” she answered. “No one in Juramona can contend with the Mist-Maker.”

“You don’t have to trade blows with him, just do your best to protect the marshal!”

The anxiety in his voice caused her to relent. “The wards of the temple of Mishas are the strongest in town. I will convince the lord marshal to spend each night there until you return.”

Tol smiled. He clasped her hands and wrung them gratefully. “You’re the best rear guard I’ve got, lady. I love Egrin like a father. Keep him safe and I’ll build you a new temple of Mishas, as fine as any in Daltigoth!”

Egrin returned, and he and Tol walked out together.

As she followed them, Ossant caught Early’s eye. Although the two had never met, a curious recognition flowed between them.

No one noticed when the elderly, revered priestess of Mishas bowed her head respectfully to King Lucklyn’s royal food taster.

*

Smoke curled around ancient beams, coating the heavy slate roof slabs with soot. Far below, by the open hearth, Mandes sat in a canvas chair. A tripod supporting a brazen pan of clear oil stood before him. He gazed into the still surface of the oil. The silence was absolute.

A door flew open, thudding against the wall, and a fur-clad man stomped in. Wind howled through the open portal, nearly extinguishing the fire and sending ripples across the oil.

“What word, Wadag?” Mandes grunted.

The nomad warrior closed the door and shook out his wild, tangled hair. “We got word of your man Tolandruth, Chief. He’s leading forty men up Wildcat Creek, coming this way!”

“Is he? Yesterday you told me he was coming from the west, through Anvil Pass, with twenty-two riders.”

“Some of the men still think that, but this is fresh information, Chief.” The young warrior waited, expecting praise and new orders.

Mandes pondered the new information for a long interval.

“You must investigate, I know,” he said at last. “I leave it to you, Wadag. Trouble me no more about it. Whatever you hear about Lord Tolandruth’s movements, you handle it. Yes?

Wadag thumped his chest with one fist. “Yes, Chief! I’ll bring you the head of that fancy flatlander!”

Plainly excited by the prospect, Wadag departed as loudly as he’d entered.

Mandes sat back in his chair. Not every bird in the sky was an eagle, the saying went. Not every Tolandruth in the mountains was the real one. None of his stratagems to rid himself of the vengeful warlord had worked so far – not the death of the engineer Elicarno nor of the sailor in the far-off sea. Perhaps he had miscalculated. Maybe Tolandruth was not the sort of man who could be diverted by threats.

Now what? What could he do?

Violent trembling seized him. Tolandruth intended his death. If he, the Mist-Maker, who’d once held the great and mighty of Daltigoth in his thrall, could not defeat this one man, all his plots and plans would come to nothing. He would surely die.

Old Yoralyn, leader of the White Robes when Mandes first arrived in the capital, had prophesied on her deathbed that a silent man would seek to slay Mandes, and even if forestalled, his coming would mean the Mist-Maker’s end.

The sorcerer reached out with quaking hands to the oil-filled pan. So great was his trembling he knocked the tripod over, sending rivulets of golden oil across the worn stone floor.

Chapter 18

STEEL OR STONE

The night passed without incident. Performing magic at great distances had to be incredibly draining, but if Mandes had overtaxed himself in striking at Miya and Darpo on successive nights, if those things actually had happened (and Tol prayed they had not), Tol knew the rogue wizard would strike again as soon as he was able.

During the night, eight different Lord Tolandruths, leading bands of Riders from the Juramona garrison, set out for Mandes’s lair along different routes. At each village and every river crossing the bands would openly proclaim themselves Lord Tolandruth’s men out to bring Mandes to justice. Tol was amused at just how easy it was to handpick a few soldiers, and disguise them to resemble himself.

With renewed provisions, Tol and Early left Juramona just after dawn. A marble vault of clouds still hid the sky, a bitter wind from the north playing on their faces. They were only twenty leagues from the Thel Mountains, thirty from Mount Axas proper – two days’ hard riding there, and two days back to the safety of Juramona.

Once they crossed the border into Hylo Early perked up as of old, becoming talkative again. There were gaps in the kender’s memories of the past few days, and Tol had an inkling why. Felryn’s spirit must have taken possession of Early the night Darpo was attacked then stayed with him until they left Juramona. Mandes said he’d stopped Felryn’s mouth, preventing him from speaking to Tol, but the sorcerer couldn’t prevent Felryn from entering another body.

In spite of his grief, Tol found the notion of the orderly, precise Felryn sharing the untidy mind of a kender as amusing as his many counterfeits roaming the countryside. Yet it was enormously comforting to know a part of his friend survived, and that Felryn was going to such lengths to aid him.

The easiest route to Mandes’s stronghold, according to Valaran’s map, was to ride along the western edge of the Thel range, paralleling the mountains, until they came abreast of Mount Axas. Remaining in the lower elevations for as long as possible ensured a more comfortable journey.

As they rode through patches of scrub pine, they heard other horses nearby, quite a few horses in fact. Reining up, they sat quietly and listened.

“Ten riders,” Tol finally murmured.

“Twelve,” countered Early. “Humans.”

“Egrin’s decoys?”

The kender shook his head.

Tol eyed him skeptically. Early was well traveled, but no scout. “How do you know?”

“I can see them,” he said, flicking his eyes.

Turning in the saddle, Tol saw them, too.

Twelve mounted men wearing furs and leather were approaching. They galloped by, forty paces away and heading in the same direction that Early and Tol were taking. They rode in good order, keeping a formation of twos, marking them as professionals. The plains nomads had been hiring out as fighters to Tarsis for generations; they knew how to ride and fight.

Such patrols grew more frequent as they rode north. Several times Tol and Early had to hide to avoid columns of riders. They counted several hundred armed men crisscrossing the western approaches. Their grim presence appeared to have cleared the countryside of local kender, depriving Tol of friendly eyes and ears.

The winter day was almost over when they first beheld Mount Axas. It rose in the gap between two lesser mountains, Kembra to the north and Bluetooth to the south. Compared to the rocky peaks around it, Axas looked earthy and dark, as if the stones of its slopes were stained. The lower reaches were completely enshrouded by a wall of white mist. There could be no more certain sign the Mist-Maker had indeed taken up residence there.

“According to the maps I saw in Daltigoth, the fortress stands on a plateau on the southwest side of the peak,” Tol said, squinting into the distance. The mountains were highlighted by the setting sun, but he couldn’t make out any structures from so far away. “With luck, we’ll reach it tomorrow night.”

In a shallow ravine, they crossed a trail showing signs of recent, heavy travel. The earth had been ground to powder by the hooves of many horses.

Ten steps into the scattered pines on the east side of the ravine, an arrow whistled out of the trees and lodged in a tree by Tol’s face.

Out came his saber. “Here we go!”

Four axe-wielding riders burst through the underbrush and rode at them, shouting.

“Keep close to me!” Tol said. Though he looked unhappy doing it, Early pulled his stubby sword and followed.

Tol impaled the first man he came to, the point of his saber punching through the man’s heavy furs. His axe blade whisked by Tol’s ear, but the mercenary toppled from his horse, dead. Tol fended off an overhand chop from a second rider. Using his longer reach, he kept clear of the man’s axe and landed several cuts on his chest and shoulders. Number Six scored bloody gouges in the man’s leather vest.

The clang of iron behind him showed Early was likewise engaged. Confident his back was secure, Tol plunged in.

Axes were not good weapons to use from horseback, so Tol forced a third man back, whirled, and lopped the hands off the rider behind him. The fourth enemy had a strung bow over his head, but Early’s intervention kept him from loosing an arrow. As Early now traded cuts with the third rider, Tol took on the axe-wielding bowman.

The blond-bearded mercenary tried to catch Tol’s saber with the hooks curling from each end of his broadhead axe. Realizing the danger, Tol drew back. The bowman immediately raised a ram’s horn to his lips.

Tol drove straight at him. The ram’s horn was on a lanyard, so the mercenary let it fall from his fingers and took his axe in both hands to ward off Tol’s attack. Moving the axe in a tight loop, he caught Number Six with his upper hook. He swung the thick blade in a tight circle, grinning. Bent like this, an iron saber would quickly snap, leaving Tol at his mercy.

However, the dwarf-forged blade wasn’t iron. The steel flexed further and further as the broad-shouldered nomad swung his axe in another tight circle. Tol exerted all his strength against the hilt, driving the long curved blade forward. It scraped over the axe handle and took the mercenary in the throat, just below his chin. His blue eyes widened in disbelief, and the axe fell from his fingers.

Freed from the binding hook, Tol’s saber twanged like a plucked lyre string. The blade now had a slight but distinct bend in it.

The last mercenary tried to flee when he saw his comrade fall. He broke off fighting Early and spurred for the ravine trail. Tol’s Ergothian war-horse easily overhauled the northerner’s stubbier animal. A single stroke laid open the man’s unprotected back. He slid off his horse and was dead when he hit the ground.

Breathing hard, Tol turned his mount around and rode back to Early. The kender was sweating in his furs.

“You did well,” Tol said. “My thanks.”

Early was pale. “I’ve never seen such quick deaths!”

“Had to be done. They would have killed us if we hadn’t fought to the finish.”

Far away, a horn sounded. More horns answered on every side. As Early scattered the mercenaries’ horses, Tol took the ram’s horn from the dead man’s neck and blew a flat, booming note. It echoed across the valley to the slopes of the mountains.

“Why’d you do that?” Early demanded.

“They’ll know there’s trouble as soon as they find any of the horses. Hearing the horn might make them think some of their people are still alive. Maybe it’ll buy us some time.”

He tossed the horn into the brush and they hurried on. The white bulwark of mist waited ahead.

*

Twilight had come. The last rays of the setting sun clung to the wall of unnatural mist. This pallid glow washed the land in eerie, shadowless light. The strange illumination affected life in the valley below. Birds, normally at roost this time of day, circled overhead in confusion, unable to settle and rest. Nocturnal beasts came out to prowl although their daytime brethren still had not retired.

Tol and Early found themselves riding under a huge flock of screeching starlings. The noise was unnerving, not only for its own sake, but because it kept them from hearing anything else – like the warning signs of approaching horsemen.

When darkness finally claimed the valley and the birds and beasts settled into normal patterns, Tol and Early took shelter beneath a canopy of snow-covered cedars. Since morning, they’d been ascending the western slopes of the mountains, entering the frostier climate of the uplands. With their backs against a stout old tree, they ate cold rations and shared a gourd of cider.

Talk was kept to a minimum. As soon as he’d eaten, Early rested his head back against the shaggy bark. His breathing slowed into a shallow, steady rhythm.

Tol meant to resume their trek and reach the wall of mist by dawn, but he too felt the leaden weight of sleep. He struggled against it. Getting to one knee, he breathed deeply of the chill air. The cold was bracing and burned away his fatigue like a tonic. He stood.

Stars winked in and out of the black branches overhead. To the northeast, Mandes’s veil of fog stood out starkly against the black night. The starlight showed imperfections in its surface, ripples and whorls where the wind at higher altitudes tried to tear the mist away.

Maintaining such a Spell must take constant energy. When did Mandes rest? Perhaps he couldn’t. Perhaps that was why his soul wandered the night, tormenting others.

Solin appeared above the trees. Its pearly sheen warmed the dead color of the cloud-wall, and washed the woods in soft light. Shadows appeared among the widely spaced cedars.

The shadows moved.

“Early,” Tol whispered sharply. The kender did not respond, not even when Tol kicked his foot. Blast it if he wasn’t a heavy sleeper.

Brightness filled the woods behind Tol. He turned, shading his night-adapted eyes from the intense light.

In a heartbeat, his surroundings were transformed. Cedar trees became stone columns, rusty brown needles became a lush woolen carpet. Tol knew this place. This was the audience hall of the imperial palace, in Daltigoth.

A humming sound drew Tol’s attention to the ancient throne of Ackal Ergot. Ackal IV sat in the ornate gilded chair, his hair unkempt and tangled, his robes dirty. He held an odd-looking doll – not a child’s toy, sewn of soft cloth and stuffed with rags, but a stiff gray statuette.

Tol tried to speak, but no sound escaped his lips. He could see and hear perfectly, but Ackal seemed not to realize he was there.

The emperor continued to croon tunelessly to himself as he ran his fingers over the statuette’s face. His vacant eyes revealed the truth: Ackal IV wasn’t ill, he was mad. His mind was lost in some secret, distant vale.

At the far end of the dimly lit room, one of the tall doors opened, and a man entered. With a swirl of his floor-sweeping cape, the man traversed the long hall briskly. When he entered the wash of light from a pair of flickering braziers, the features of Prince Nazramin were revealed.

Instinctively, Tol’s hand went to his sword hilt, but the emperor’s brother strode past him, not seeing him at all.

Beneath his long cape, Nazramin wore a black leather riding habit, as though he’d just arrived from his country estate. He paused at the foot of the throne. The jeweled pommel of a large dagger glittered in his belt. Ackal IV would never have tolerated a weapon in his presence, had he been in his right mind.

“Brother?” Nazramin said.

The emperor continued to sing softly to himself, scraping a thumbnail over the dull gray statuette.

Nazramin took the statuette from him. Ackal whimpered slightly, reaching for it, but Nazramin pulled it away.

“A passable likeness,” said the red-haired prince, smiling unpleasantly at the figure’s face. “Not a striking one, but still, it served its purpose.”

Drawing closer, Tol realized the statuette bore the emperor’s face.

“Not the best medium, either,” continued Nazramin, “but lead is traditional.”

He dropped the statuette. It landed on its head with a fiat thud. Immediately, Ackal cringed and grasped his temples with both hands.

Tol felt sick. Image magic! Ackal was the victim of the lowest, vilest form of sorcery. It was Nazramin all along, pulling Mandes’s strings.

Nazramin paced slowly before the throne, still talking. Ackal’s clouded gaze tracked him with obvious difficulty.

“It’s taken a long time, but I’ve finally gotten everything in place. I bided my time. I endured your regency, brother, but I do not intend to suffer your reign any longer than necessary.”

The prince halted in front of the throne. “A coup would have been risky. Too many idiots in this city are loyal to that chair you sit on.” He drove a gauntleted fist into his palm. “Imbeciles! The throne of Ergoth is not a piece of furniture for any fool to occupy! Why should I risk myself to seize what rightfully belongs to me? I watched those idiot Pakins try to take the crown from our uncle and our father, and what did it get them? Pointless warfare and their heads on spikes decorating the city wall! There was no need to bloody myself. I could get what I wanted without such risk.”

Without preamble, Nazramin brought his booted heel down hard on the statuette’s middle. Ackal screamed piteously, grasping his ribs and writhing on the throne. Tol took a step forward, furious at his inability to intervene or even to vent his anger in words.

“Your wandering mind has been well recorded,” the prince went on more calmly. “I left the city so no one could connect me with your growing madness. In many way you cooperated splendidly. Banishing Mandes was timely – it removed any suspicion that magic was being used against you.”

He picked up the statuette. “He made this for me, you know. Sixty-six days of continual spellcasting it required, and Mandes was so weakened that another ten days passed before he could attach the first clamp. It was well worth the trouble, don’t you think, brother?”

The hair on Tol’s neck prickled as he listened to Nazramin’s recitation of the horrors he’d visited upon his own flesh and blood.

“I summoned Enkian Tumult here with a false tale about an insurrection. I thought you would take fright and send the hordes to destroy him, creating an impression in the people’s mind of cruelty and ruthlessness, but instead” — Nazramin’s brows drew down in anger — “you sent that peasant to talk to him. You forced me to have Enkian killed, so my plot would not be exposed.”

Ackal’s attention was wandering. He began to croon again. Nazramin closed the distance between them in two long strides and slapped him hard. Ackal’s head snapped back, and Tol could have sworn that, for a moment, awareness came to his eyes. It quickly faded.

“Listen to me, fool!” Nazramin snarled. “I want you to know who brought about your downfall!”

After a pause to collect himself, he continued. “You obliged me by sending Farmer Tol to settle accounts with Mandes. That was perfect. I’ve been freer to act with the peasant away, and Mandes knows too much. It would have been necessary to silence him eventually, so why not let Lord Pigsty do it? If by chance the wizard prevails, that will save me having the farmer’s throat cut in the future.”

Nazramin moved to the table next to the throne. It held an ornate golden goblet, bearing the arms of Ackal Ergot. The prince lifted it and drank deeply of the cider it contained.

While Nazramin quenched his thirst, Tol pondered the reality of what he was seeing. It could be an illusion, but he doubted it. Now that he stood on the sorcerer’s very doorstep, Mandes was pulling out all the stops, revealing to him the true instigator of the evil that had befallen him. Tol was the Emperor’s Champion, sworn to defend Ackal IV, and Mandes hoped to send him racing back to Daltigoth to save the emperor.

Tol knew the first step in saving Ackal IV was putting a halt to Mandes’s depredations. Once the treacherous sorcerer was gone, Tol would settle accounts with Nazramin for once and all.

The red-haired prince was talking again. He certainly enjoyed the sound of his own voice.

“— invited a few senior lords of the empire to see you. Reports of your aberrant behavior have been spreading. The situation has become so dire, your chamberlain summoned me from my estate.” Nazramin smiled, and Tol went cold. “I’ve come to protect you, dear brother, you and the empire.”

Nazramin walked to the rear of the throne. He pressed one of the many ornamental studs on the chair’s back and a small section of wood swung open at the base. After inserting the gray statuette into the ingenious niche, Nazramin closed it up again.

He left the room, only to return moments later with a somber delegation. Valaran was among them, as were Empress Thura and Ackal IV’s other wives, Chamberlain Valdid, Lord Rymont, and the heads of the magical orders, Oropash and Helbin. The rest were mainly local horde commanders and representatives of the city’s guilds. Nazramin was taking no chances. He wanted as broad an audience as he could get.

Nazramin’s face was a study in grave concern. “I’ve talked with my brother at some length,” he said somberly.

“How fares the emperor?” Rymont asked.

“I fear his illness has taken his mind. See for yourselves.”

The delegation moved forward cautiously. Ackal IV, belatedly becoming aware of them, lifted his head. Spittle ran down his chin, his eyes were bloodshot and unfocused. Gentle Thura gasped and rushed forward.

“Amaltar!” she said, grasping his slack hand. “Amaltar, do you know me? Why did you send me away?”

Smiling weakly, the emperor raised a gaunt hand to caress her face. His smile rapidly changed to a contorted grimace of pain. His nails dug into his consort’s soft cheek. Thura screamed.

Lord Rymont and Prince Nazramin struggled to restrain the emperor. Thura reeled away, blood dripping down her chin. Oropash, deeply shocked, tried to comfort the weeping empress.

“Ants!” Ackal cried, struggling against the two men. “Can’t you see? Her flesh is infested with ants!”

Valaran said sharply to Helbin, “Do something!”

“I’m not a healer,” he protested.

“Where is the emperor’s physician?”

In a stricken voice, Valdid reported that His Majesty had dismissed Klaraf two days earlier.

Ackal continued to howl about ants. He raved they were crawling over him, in his clothing, going into his ears, nose, and eyes. He could feel their hot pincers tearing at his flesh.

He struggled to his feet, seeming to throw off Nazramin’s hold on his left arm. In fact, the prince released his brother intentionally. Ackal clawed at his own face, scoring bloody lines across his cheek before Lord Rymont locked both arms behind his back. Ackal screamed and wept uncontrollably.

Tol had seen men die in a hundred unpleasant ways, but he had never seen anything like the torment Prince Nazramin was inflicting on his own brother. He had to try and stop it.

Instantly, the palace scene vanished. Once again, Tol was sitting with his back against the cedar tree. Early lay sleeping beside him. The two of them were no longer alone.

Ringing them round were twelve mounted nomads, spears leveled.

Mandes’s vision had distracted him from his watch, but there was no help for it now. He shook Early awake. The sight of the dozen intruders caused the kender to sigh.

“Oh. And here I was dreaming of the hills of Balifor.”

A warrior with a heavy northern accent ordered them to stand. Four nomads dismounted, stripping them of their weapons. Then, under the iron gaze of the mercenaries’ chief, Tol and Early were soundly beaten.

When he thought they’d had enough, the leader ordered their hands bound. A length of rope attached their wrists to a ring on a mercenary’s saddle. The troop formed up and put spurs to their mounts, forcing the captives to jog to keep up.

Although they were in considerable pain, neither of them suffered any broken bones. Both had expected the beating to end only with their deaths, but obviously Mandes wanted them alive for his own reasons – and none of the reasons that came to Tol’s mind were pleasant.

Still, they were alive. He still might be able to save Ackal IV. He knew where the lead image was hidden. Once its hold was broken, surely Helbin, Oropash, and the combined wisdom of the College of Wizards could repair the damage that had been done to the emperor’s mind.

A tree root snagged his foot and he fell. Early instantly dug in his heels, but he couldn’t stop the moving horse and was yanked off his feet. The two of them were thus dragged over rough ground several hundred feet, the mercenaries laughing all the while, until the leader halted.

Nose to nose with the kender in the dirt, Tol muttered, “Four legs may be faster, but two legs are nimbler. Follow my lead!”

The chief cursed and ordered them to stand. Early got to his knees. Tol gestured with a jerk of his head toward the chief’s horse. Early’s left eye was swollen shut; his right widened as Tol mouthed the word Go!

Before the chief could snatch at the leashes, Early scrambled forward. The nomad’s horse had short, thick legs, but there was ample room for a kender underneath. Since their hands had been bound together in front of them, Early had no problem getting his nimble fingers on the cinch of the chief’s saddle girth.

The nomad calmed his unnerved horse and shouted for a man to haul Early out. The kender was dragged out by his ankles and kicked a few times.

“I’m supposed to bring you in alive,” the chief growled, “but nobody said you had to have eyes when you get there! Any more trouble and I’ll have them out, both pair!”

The ride resumed with Tol trotting on the chief’s left, and Early on the right. After a league, when both thought they would expire from the effort of keeping up the pace, the chief reined up.

“You men without talismans continue the patrol.” Half the band turned and rode away. The chief tugged the leash connected to Tol’s bound wrists. “Come’ere!”

Tol shuffled forward. A loop of string was placed around his neck. Dangling from it was a square of parchment; on the square were drawn arcane symbols in an elaborate design. Tol asked its purpose.

“Gets you through the mist,” was the brusque reply. The chief and the five remaining riders wore identical talismans, as did their horses. Talismans were placed around the necks of Tol’s war-horse and Early’s pony.

Tol didn’t need the talisman, since he had the nullstone, but the mercenaries didn’t know that. When the time was right, he would act.

Ahead, the grade steepened as the trees thinned out. The stony slope was divided down the center by a well-worn path. This was the foot of the Axas Pass. The mountain itself loomed above, walled off by bulwarks of white fog. The mist rose to a great height, at least a thousand paces. Although made of vapor, it was an impressive barrier, pearlescent by starlight.

They headed up the trail in single file. The chief, leading Tol and Early, was second in line. Barbarian though he was, the man was not a fool. As they neared the mist wall, he ordered the men following to level their spears at the captives’ backs.

“Don’t try to bolt in the fog,” he said. “Make trouble, and you’ll be spitted like partridges.”

“Doesn’t your master want us alive?”

The chief sniffed. “If I bring you in lifeless, Ergoth, I’ll lose a large part of the bounty, but you’ll be dead!”

They rounded a bend and the trail steepened dramatically. The mercenaries’ stocky horses picked their way carefully along a path never meant for four-legged beasts. The going was awkward for Tol and Early, too, not only because their hands were tied, but because dampness from the fog had frozen on the slate floor of the high pass. Captives and horses alike slipped and stumbled on the frosty stones.

The line of mercenaries halted as the lead rider reached the sharply delineated wall of mist and reined up. The stuff looked impenetrable. He checked his talisman, and his horse’s, then drew a deep breath and thumped heels against his horse’s flanks. He entered the white void and vanished.

“Move,” said the chief, jerking at their ropes.

Early caught Tol’s eye, brows rising: Now?

Tol’s head shake was barely perceptible.

They moved slowly into the mist. Tol closed his eyes, expecting a chill or dampness like fog. Instead, he felt a caress of warmth. He opened his eyes.

Inside the barrier, the air was clear. More, it was warm and bright, like daylight. No sun was visible (it was night after all), yet neither were there stars. The vault above was white, illuminated by a soft glow with no obvious origin. Strange magic indeed!

The mercenary chief laughed at their reactions. “Never fails!” he said, looking up at the oddly colored sky.

Tol seized the moment. There was some slack in his leash. He grasped the loose rope in both hands. Early did likewise. They planted their feet and hauled back on the ropes with all their strength. The loosed girth cinch did the rest.

The chief was sliding backward over his horse’s rump, saddle and all, before he could react. He hit the ground hard. In a flash his captives were on him, wrapping the rope around his thick neck.

The next rider came through the mist wall and saw his leader’s predicament. He lowered his spear to charge, but Tol tightened the rope around his hostage’s throat.

“Keep off!” he shouted. “Make a move and I’ll wring his neck!”

All the mercenaries hesitated. Blades for hire knew little of loyalty, but Tol counted on them caring about their commander.

“Early, get their talismans.”

Grinning, the kender tore the parchment wards first from the horses’ necks. The beasts were instantly blinded by the unnatural fog. They stood stock still, afraid to move, and Early quickly deprived their riders’ of the protection as well. As the remaining nomads entered, he collected more talismans.

The formerly fierce mercenaries were so thrown off balance, they could do nothing but grip their animals’ manes tightly. Their terror rendered them as immobile as their mounts.

Tol dropped the chief to the ground, yanked off his talisman, and planted a boot on his back.

“You men, listen!” he shouted. “You’ve seen this pass. Go too far and you’ll fall to your deaths!”

The captured chief would say nothing about the defenses that lay ahead. There was no time to question him properly, so Tol and Early retrieved their weapons and mounted their own horses, which were still protected by talismans. They left behind a bizarre tableau: unhorsed soldiers, mounted men, and their animals frozen in place. The horses were shaking, the men cursing, all too frightened to move.

The peculiar half-light cast no shadows, as if the air itself was the source of the illumination. Riding cautiously up the steep slope, they still could not see their destination. The escarpment frowned above them, but the fortress itself was set back so far it wasn’t yet visible.

“That wasn’t so hard,” said the kender cheerfully. “Getting away from the soldiers and through the wall of fog. Not so hard at all.”

Tol stared at him in disbelief. Blotchy purple bruises covered Early’s face. He had only one good eye and had lost two front teeth. Tol knew he himself must look at least as bad.

“Not hard at all,” he agreed, grinning back.

The path abruptly leveled out. Brown granite, deeply fluted by years of wind and rain, rose like a wall in front of them. Flanking the path were two huge statues. Each was more than twice the height of a man. They appeared to be lions, sitting on their haunches, but their features were so eroded it was hard to know for certain. Something about the statues nagged at Tol; they seemed oddly familiar.

As he came abreast of the two figures, he felt a sharp sensation of warmth. The nullstone was hot against his belly. He reined up, realizing why the statues looked familiar. They were carved from the same bluestone as the ruins he’d explored at the confluence of the Caer River, the ruins where he’d found the nullstone. These statues must be Irda-made as well. Why else would the nullstone react this way?

Early doubled back, asking why Tol had stopped.

“This place is very old,” Tol murmured, staring up at the colossal lions. The nullstone was pulsing now, first hot, then cooler, then hot again. It had never behaved this way before.

“Trust in the gods and your sword of steel.”

Tol gave Early a sharp look. The kender’s voice sounded deeper than usual. Beneath the bruises, his usual carefree expression was gone. He seemed calm, composed – and not himself.

“Felryn?”

“You’re not alone,” was the reply, “nor is the kinder, but do not speak any names. The stones have ears.”

A surge of confidence filled Tol. With the gallant healer at his side, even in spirit form, he felt he could handle anything Mandes threw at him. They rode on. Once they’d left the lions behind, the millstone’s pulsations ended.

The trail became more and more narrow until they were forced to proceed single file. Walls of stone closed in on either side. The clop of the horses’ iron shoes echoed loudly against the stark stone surroundings.

The path ended at stairs cut into the living rock. Wide, shallow steps ascended, curving to the left and disappearing into a cleft in the escarpment.

There was nothing on which to tether their horses, and Tol wondered how they could be certain the animals would remain, in case they needed to make a fast departure.

Possessed by Felryn’s soul or no, Early shrugged in typical kender fashion and plucked the paper talismans from both animals’ necks. Immediately stricken by the blinding mist, Tetchy and Longhound stood rooted to the spot. Unless led away, they would be there when Tol and Early returned.

Tol drew his saber. The hiss of steel against the scabbard’s brass throat seemed terribly loud in the silence. Early didn’t draw his weapon but started, unconcerned, up the steps. Was it Felryn’s courage or kender impetuosity that was guiding him?

Mist flowed down the steps, curling around their ankles. They ignored it until Tol noticed the kender was flagging. A few steps more, and Early sat down hard on a stair.

“Sleepy,” he muttered. “Need sleep —”

This new mist must be some of Mandes’s sleeping fog. Tol grabbed the front of Early’s vest and dragged him to his feet, trying to rouse him with the nullstone’s influence. The kender began to snore.

Tol cursed silently. Sighing, he boosted the limp Early over his shoulder. It was an absurd way to enter a hostile fortress, but he wouldn’t abandon a comrade. He started up the steps again.

The staircase seemed endless. There seemed to be thousands of steps. Valaran could probably tell him the exact number. As a girl she’d calculated the number of stone blocks in the Inner City wall. Her computations had filled a scroll five paces long.

Thoughts of Valaran ignited a shameful notion in his mind: with the emperor stricken, perhaps dying, would Val be free to marry him? Could they at last live honorably as husband and wife?

The selfish dream helped him ignore the fatigue in his burning limbs. For all his small size, Early was surprisingly heavy.

Unexpectedly, it grew brighter as he climbed. Warmer, too. By the time he reached a broad landing, Tol was sweating inside his furs. Above him, the ancient castle appeared clearly for the first time.

Made of the same brown granite as the mountain, the fortress looked as though it had been carved from the living rock. It was terraced in three levels, one above the other, the sides merging into the face of Mount Axas. The style was unfamiliar to Tol, and judging by the weathering, the castle was very old. No curtain wall encircled it, but the citadel was studded with towers and turrets. Recent work by Mandes was evident – new battens on the tower windows, a freshly painted gate.

Tol lowered Early to the ground and removed his own furs and the kender’s. Sweat was beaded on the slumbering kender’s face.

The landing was fifty paces square, paved with alternating slabs of obsidian and white granite. Many were cracked with age, and tufts of stiff, brown grass sprouted through the gaps. A path had been worn across the landing; it led from where Tol stood to another set of ascending stairs. Another pair of eroded statues flanked the path. Winged creatures of indistinct form, they reminded Tol of the griffins Mandes had used to flee Daltigoth. The bluestone colossi were of an age with the lions he’d seen earlier. It was clear the ancient Irda had walked this way.

Hoisting Early to his shoulder again, he followed the well-worn path across the landing. He’d made it only halfway before a rapid flicker of heat on his face warned him that magic was at work. Fearing an ambush, he spun in half-circle, searching for the source.

A blur at the edge of his vision caught his eye. Tremors echoed through the ancient stone pavement. Something was moving around him – something big.

Unceremoniously, he dropped Early, and drew Number Six. There were two blurs, moving fast on his extreme left and right. Rather than attempt to follow their preternaturally quick movements, Tol stood still, both hands on his sword, facing forward. What horrors had Mandes conjured for him now?

— and then he saw it, huge and powerful, on his left. An ogre! Moving so quickly, it was invisible until just before attacking. Tol brought his sword up and received a crushing blow from the creature’s stone mace. He staggered backward.

The blur on his right resolved into a second ogre, armed with a saw-toothed sword as long as Tol was tall. Tol ducked the wicked blade and swung low. His saber caught the creature at the elbow. A man would have lost his arm, but the ogre wore slabs of nephrite sewn onto a crude leather jerkin. The pale green stone turned aside the dwarf-forged steel. Alarmed, Tol leaped back, dodging another blow from the first ogre’s mace. His massive opponents blurred into motion and disappeared.

No ogre was so fast! Mandes must have cast a spell on them.

Tol swept the air with his blade, backing rapidly away from the center of the open square. He was too slow. The sword-wielding ogre flashed into sight just behind him. His saw-toothed weapon raked down Tol’s back, tearing open his tunic. The mail shirt he wore underneath saved his life, but his right shoulder was badly cut. He staggered and fell.

The second ogre’s mace passed through the space Tol’s head had just occupied. Tol felt the wind of its passing tug at his hair.

He rolled, thrusting awkwardly at the mace-bearer. The saber found a gap in the ogre’s stone armor, below his waist, and plunged in deep. The ogre bellowed and swatted at his tormentor.

Blood running down his shoulder, Tol recovered and got to his feet in one motion. He held his sword, stained with blood, straight out in front of him.

The mace-wielder howled in fury and launched himself at his smaller foe. The wound in his gut scarcely slowed him as he blurred to a gray shadow. Tol moved to meet him. They collided, and Tol found his face buried in stinking ogre hide. He gasped with the impact. The hulk grunted as well, in astonishment. Number Six had penetrated his torso front to back, piercing his heart along the way. The ogre teetered, then collapsed, taking Tol down with it.

He levered the enormous corpse off even as the second monster attacked. Tol rolled left and right as the saw-toothed sword came down again and again, gouging chips from the paving with every blow. Tol slashed hard at the creature’s blunt, hideous face, destroying an eye and laying open the flesh to the bone.

The ogre screamed with pain and fury. He thrust his weapon at Tol. It had a blunt tip, but backed by the muscle of the enraged ogre, made a powerful bludgeon. The thrust caught Tol square in the chest. The impact was terrific. He flew backward several paces, landed flat on his back, and slid across the pavers.

Tol tried to rise but couldn’t. Nor could he breathe; the blow had driven all the breath from his body. Gasping frantically, he heard the heavy tread of the ogre’s approach.

Get up, get up! Do you want to die?

In his mind Tol heard the disgusted voice of Egrin exhorting him, back when he was a raw recruit. He managed to roll onto his side, but that was all he could do. The dark bulk of the ogre blotted out the weird white light of the cloud-veiled sky-Instead of delivering the killing blow, the creature let out a surprisingly high-pitched shriek and reeled away, clawing at its back. It spun wildly in a circle, howling like a demon.

Clinging to the ogre’s back was Early Stumpwater, who had awoken with a vengeance. The kender gripped the ogre’s stiff gray hair with one hand; with the other, he drove his short saber repeatedly into the monster’s neck.

Tol recovered his sword and charged, roaring defiance. He had to parry several ferocious swipes of the saw-toothed sword, but succeeded in getting on the ogre’s blind side, and thrust home. His point took the monster under the arm. The ogre shuddered violently and collapsed face down on the ancient pavement.

Panting in the thin mountain air, chest deeply bruised from the blow he’d taken, Tol pulled Early off the ogre’s carcass. Only then did he see the awful wound across the kender’s back made by a desperate swipe of the ogre’s sword.

“Early!” he said frantically. “Can you speak?”

“Whatcha want to talk about?” Early’s voice was weak and blood flecked his lips.

“Hold on! I’ll bind your wound —”

“Don’t bother. He cannot survive.”

The voice came from Early’s mouth but it was Felryn’s deep, rich tones. Tol regarded the kender with anguish.

“I’m sorry!” he said. “I meant to protect you – both of you!”

“Don’t be foolish,” his old friend replied. “You can’t protect the entire world.” The kender’s back arched in a flash of sudden agony, and Felryn added, “I must go. He hasn’t long … you’ll be on your own soon, my friend. Farewell!”

“Wait, don’t go! I need you!”

Early’s eyes closed. When they opened again, Tol knew Felryn’s spirit had departed and Early was himself again.

“Ain’t that a pain?” Early muttered. “All messed up, and I don’t remember how I got this way.”

“You saved my life.”

“I did?” The kender uttered a cheerful obscenity. “What a story that’ll make. Tell everyone …”

His voice trailed away.

“I will,” Tol vowed and closed Early’s lifeless eyes.

The wound on his shoulder was burning and his ribs ached, but Tol got stiffly to his feet. Sword firmly in hand, he started up the last set of steps. Mist flowed around his ankles. A profound stillness covered the plateau. All he could hear was his own labored breathing and the hollow echo of his booted feet striking stone. This set of steps seemed as long as the first, but they ended at last on a landing smaller than the one before. The fortress loomed just across the landing.

The main gate stood open.

Bright steel flashed to and fro as Tol swept his blade ahead of him in search of unseen enemies. He found only empty air.

Beyond the darkened doorway was a narrow courtyard.

Tall, rounded doorways were cut from the native stone on both sides of the passage. Along the walls were sconces, empty of torches. The sconces seemed of a piece with the walls. The entire fortress had that look, and Tol recalled legends that said the Irda were able to soften stone, mold it to any shape, then harden it again.

A low, indistinct sound from behind one of the doors on his right drew his attention. He kicked open the door. A quartet of shabbily dressed humans, servants by the look of them, were cowering on the floor of the small room. The sight of the bloodstained swordsman set them all to screaming and wailing.

Tol asked them about Mandes but couldn’t make himself heard over their distress. He grabbed the nearest fellow, a man about his own age, shook him hard and repeated his demand for information.

The man ceased his cries but only stared at Tol in mute horror. One of the elder women spoke.

“The aerie, sir! The aerie!” She pointed behind Tol at a collection of towers sprouting from the highest tier of the fortress.

He released his grip, and the hapless servant crumpled bonelessly to the floor. To them all, Tol said, “If you want to live, get out.”

The woman whimpered something about ogres, and Tol told her the two guards were dead. He turned to go as she began organizing her compatriots to flee.

Tol crossed the courtyard and entered the center door in the middle tier of the fortress. Room after room he traversed, all filled with Mandes’s possessions. Rolls of tapestries and carpets, golden bowls, silver pitchers, richly appointed furniture – the ill-gotten gains extorted from the noblest families in Daltigoth piled in careless heaps, seemingly without plan.

Most of the rooms had magical globes to illuminate the way, but these darkened one by one as Tol passed by and the nullstone drained them of power. When he found a corridor lit with simple flaming torches, he took one.

The silence of the fortress wore on his nerves. No whisper of sound penetrated the thick walls; all he heard was his own breathing and the echo of his footsteps. He found himself alternately creeping quietly or stomping deliberately through the empty halls. At one point, he accidentally knocked over a marble statue. It crashed to the floor and broke into large pieces.

“Hear that, wizard? Tol of Juramona is here!” he shouted.

Smashing the figure was so satisfying, he attacked the rest of the statues lining the passage ahead of him. All were female figures, delicately draped or fully nude. He broke one after another, planting a booted foot on the pedestals and sending the alabaster bodies toppling. His destructive fury abated when he reached the final statue. Glancing up at the face of the lone statue standing in a sea of broken alabaster and drifting dust, he paused. Its features reminded him of Valaran, right down to the dimpled smile and the small notch at the top of its left ear.

He looked back over shattered statuary filling the passageway. The heads of two other figures lay nearby – they resembled Valaran as well. All the statues bore her features! Worse, the stumps of broken arms and headless necks were oozing beads of red liquid, exactly the color of blood.

Repulsed, Tol fought free of the debris. It must be an illusion. But the nullstone protected him against illusions, didn’t it? Perhaps Mandes had caused the statues to be filled with real blood in a bizarre attempt to distract Tol from his purpose, but how could he have known that Tol would break them?

Ridding his mind of the distracting questions, Tol knocked the head from the last statue. “Next you, Mandes!”

At the end of the passage, a tightly curved stair rose through a hole cut in the floor above. A glimmer of red was visible beyond the rim of the opening. Tol drew his saber and climbed slowly, keeping the torch low.

The red glow was strange. It quivered like a reflection on a pool of water. A gust of air rushed by Tol’s face and, wary, he halted halfway up the steep stair.

An oozing mass of gel came out of the darkness at the top of the stair. Translucent and thick like the white of an egg, the quaking mass poured down the steps straight at him.

He dropped the torch and fled, wounded shoulder and battered ribs screaming with every hasty footfall. A faint hissing told him the wall of gel was close on his heels. He had no idea whether it was poisonous or if Mandes simply intended to drown him in a gelatinous flood.

Two steps from the bottom, Tol hurled himself into space, landing on the only statue still standing. The heavy statue rocked with the force of the impact but remained upright. Tol wrapped his arms around the headless figure. Clear gelatin, as cold as the deep sea, surged around the pedestal. The level rose higher and higher, but there was no place for Tol to go. He could only watch as waves of cloudy albumen flowed beneath him.

Fortunately, the magical flood never rose above his knees, and soon the flow down the stairs ceased, and the frigid gel vanished entirely. Neither Tol’s clothing nor the stones of the passageway around him showed any signs of dampness. It was as though the stuff had never existed at all.

Tol climbed down gingerly. He took another torch from a sconce and mounted the stairs again. This time the distant red light did not quiver; no murderous gel stood between it and him. He ascended cautiously.

The air in the chamber above was dank and chill. With his torch, he lit sconces along the near wall. Their light revealed a vast, low-ceilinged hall. In contrast to the cluttered rooms below, it was empty. The floor was covered in native slate, and an elaborate design of circles and lines had been drawn in dark red paint on the bluish-gray stone. The red light emanated from the design. In its center, facing away from Tol, sat a high-backed chair. The top of a balding pate was visible over the chair’s back.

Tol strode around the chair, eager to face his old foe, but with every step he took, the chair moved, always keeping its back to him. He picked up the pace until he was almost jogging, but he made no better headway. Halting abruptly, he realized it wasn’t the chair that moved, but rather the design on the floor – the circles within circles were rotating the chair away from him.

Furious at the childish delaying ploy, Tol drove the point of his saber into a joint between two stone slabs. The floor shuddered briefly then was still.

He took a tentative step, then another. The floor did not move. He left Number Six where it was, anchoring the room, then, moving quickly around the high chair, he came face to face with Mandes.

The sorcerer sat stiffly upright in the high-backed chair. His eyes were closed. He wore a cloth-of-gold robe much like the one Tol had seen him in at the contest on the Field of Corij. His hair, now more gray than brown, hung loose past his shoulders. His ungloved hands rested on the chair’s curving arms – the right hand was pale, the left dark.

Tol drew his dagger.

“In the name of the Emperor of Ergoth, I charge you, Mandes the Mist-Maker! Surrender at once and face the empire’s justice!”

There was no response at all. Tol moved closer. Mandes’s eyelids snapped open. In the reddish light, his pale blue eyes looked black.

“You’re a fool, Tolandruth,” he intoned. “You came despite my warnings. Even if you don’t care for your friends’ lives, I thought you did care about the empire you claim to serve!”

“I know my duty!”

Tol moved closer still, traversing the invisible protection Mandes had woven around himself. Time and again he felt the flicker of heat on his face, but the nullstone dispelled the magic as he pierced one sorcerous layer after another.

This easy, even contemptuous disregard of his spells left Mandes open-mouthed with shock. He began to tremble. Close to him now, Tol saw the whites of his eyes were completely covered with a web of fine, bloody lines. Tiny droplets of moisture gleamed on his high forehead, pinkish blood-sweat.

“This is impossible!” Mandes’s voice cracked. “What are you? No man could do what you do!”

“I’m only a man, not even nobly born, remember?” Tol pointed his dagger at the sorcerer. “Stand up, Mandes, and face what’s due you!”

When he didn’t comply, Tol raised the blade high to strike. Mandes flung out his white hand, crying, “Wait! If I am to die, at least tell me how you can withstand every spell I cast, every supernatural creature I raise to stop you?”

Tol smiled. It was not an expression of happiness, but of savage pleasure, and Mandes flinched visibly.

“I have a millstone.”

Mandes blinked, brow furrowing at the unfamiliar word. He palmed pink sweat from his face with a trembling hand.

“I’ve heard rumors … tall tales,” Mandes finally said. “Waramanthus, the elf sage, tried his entire life to fashion such a thing and failed! The great Vedvedsica wrote of such devices, but he said none had survived the Age of Dreams.”

Tol’s level gaze transfixed the shaken sorcerer. “He was wrong.”

Mandes’s chin dropped to his chest. Twisting his mismatched hands in his lap, he began to sob.

Before Tol could react, the sorcerer yanked his swarthy hand hard. The dark limb came out of its sleeve. As it rose in the air, Mandes snatched a saber from beside his chair and tossed it toward the disembodied limb. The dark hand caught the weapon deftly, fingers closing tightly on the hilt.

The muscular arm drove Tol back with viciously precise thrusts, and while he was engaged, Mandes escaped.

The levitating limb was far nimbler than any opponent Tol had ever fought, and its saber far outreached Tol’s dagger. He could do nothing but parry again and again. A precisely timed slash laid open Tol’s cheek, and the next came within a hair’s breadth of his eyes.

It required all Tol’s training and wit to hold his own. The ensorcelled arm was lightning-fast.

He had a desperate idea, and worked feverishly to retrieve the nullstone from its secret pocket while holding the arm at bay.

The limb beat him back all the way across the vast hall, to the very door through which Mandes had escaped. Tol’s ribs ached. Blood from his cheek was smeared across his face, mixing with sweat, stinging his eyes —

The arm made a simple but shockingly fast lunge at the spot between Tol’s eyes. Tol dropped, and the curved iron blade slid through his hair. The sword tip pierced the door panel behind and hung up there, just for a instant.

That was all the time Tol needed. From below, he rammed his dagger through the palm of the flying limb. There was a momentary tug of resistance, then the point passed through. He had the hand!

He continued the motion, driving his dagger into the door panel. The hand dropped its sword, and the arm hung, impaled, flailing, fingers flexing madly.

The severed limb did not bleed. To Tol’s horror, the fingers ceased their furious motion and closed on the blade. The hand drew itself forward, forcing more of the iron shaft through the flesh of its palm.

Keeping pressure on the hilt, Tol touched the millstone to the dagger blade. There was no effect on the writhing hand, but when he pressed the braided metal directly on the brown fingers, the grotesque parody of life was finally over; the limb went limp.

Instantly, the stench of putrefaction filled Tol’s nostrils. He freed his blade and stepped quickly back. The years of lifelessness, held at bay by Mandes’s magic, overwhelmed the limb, and it began to decay before Tol’s eyes. In moments it was little more than bones and stray bits of rotted flesh.

He flung open the door to follow the sorcerer.

Although Mandes had fled the hall, he couldn’t easily escape this isolated peak. The corridor beyond the door was dark, but Tol felt a faint breeze on his face. The air wasn’t musty or dank, but fresh, with the tang of the mountain in it. He followed the draft.

It led him to another spiral stair, narrower but longer than the one he’d climbed earlier. He ascended cautiously. The breeze grew steadily stronger as he rose.

The stair ended on a tiny landing where a plain wooden door barred his way. Fresh air blew in through a gap between the bottom of the door and the stone floor.

Tol’s booted foot lashed out. “Mandes! I have you!” Another kick. “You can’t escape me!” A third kick.

The fifth blow broke the iron latch, and the door swung open. Beyond was a turret room, the very highest of the old fortress’s many towers. A window opening gaped opposite the door. Mandes stood in the opening.

Wind whipped the magician’s golden robe around his legs and flung his hair wildly about his head. Beholding the bloodstained avenging fury in the doorway, Mandes fairly convulsed with terror.

“You can’t kill me!” he said shrilly. “I am the greatest sorcerer of this age!”

“You’re nothing but a murderer many times over. Your head will decorate the wall of the Inner City!”

Beyond the rogue sorcerer, Tol could see the wizard’s paired griffins circling, pulling their flying golden coach, trying to approach the tower. They were confounded by the mountain, which severely limited their room to maneuver, and by the howling wind, which alternately threatened to dash them against the fortress and lift them high above it.

Mandes rested his forehead against the stone. His shoulders shook. Tol thought he was weeping, but when the wizard lifted his head, Tol realized he was laughing.

Mandes declared, “With me dies your life as you know it, Tolandruth! Your emperor, your army, and all the things you love shall pass away!”

“Your threats are meaningless, betrayer!”

“No, it happens even now. A greater evil than anything I ever dreamt of will sit upon the throne of Ergoth!”

Tol hesitated. “Is it possible to undo what Nazramin has done?”

Mandes mastered himself again. “Only I could undo it, if I live.”

Tol weighed the possibilities. Spare the evil he’d finally cornered to fight worse evil elsewhere? Mandes was a conniving villain, and Tol’s credo had always been a simple one: destroy the enemy when you find him; don’t worry about one you may meet tomorrow.

Mandes saw the judgment in Tol’s countenance. He knew his fate was sealed.

Only two paces separated them. Tol lunged just as Mandes leaped away, arms outspread, trying to catch the side rails as the flying coach whisked past. Tol felt golden fabric whisper through his fingers, but it was too late.

Mandes laughed. He was gone!

For the space of two heartbeats, he believed it. Then the shifting winds lifted the passing coach, his hands closed only on air, and the terror of his mistake struck home. Mouth stretched wide, Mandes shrieked all the way down to the craggy rocks far, far below.

The griffins, freed of Mandes’s hold, broke their traces and flew off, trumpeting their freedom. Moments later, the flying coach shattered to glittering fragments in the crevasse below the fortress.

Tol sagged to the floor, his rage spent.

He didn’t know how long he sat, unmoving, his mind an exhausted blank, but it was the coldness of the wind that finally broke through his stupor.

With Mandes’s death, the mist wall and the unnatural warmth protecting the summit had dissolved. Sundown was coming, and the normal cold was swiftly reclaiming the citadel. Soon ice would engulf everything. Tol’s injured face and shoulder were stiffening. He needed to reclaim his furs and get down the mountain.

Before the daylight failed, he performed one last task. He scrounged enough rope from Mandes’s jumble of possessions to lower himself into the ravine below the fort. On the rocky slope not far from the ruined coach, he found the sorcerer’s mangled corpse. For once the letter of Ergothian law suited Tol’s purpose. He had spared the Dom-shu chief Makaralonga this fate years ago. He would not spare Mandes.

The rogue wizard’s head would return with Tol to adorn the palace at Daltigoth. His body would feed the vultures of Mount Axas.

Epilogue

NO WAY HOME

Snow was falling the day Tol began his journey back to Daltigoth. The snow had started the night Mandes died and continued without pause. It was not a blizzard, but a steady, soft accumulation that shrouded the world in stillness.

Mandes’s hired mercenaries had vanished by the time Tol came down from the fortress. With winter settling quickly upon the heights, they’d wasted no time departing for warmer and more profitable climes.

Although Mandes’s spells had dispersed with his death, strange occurrences continued on Mount Axas. When Tol reclaimed his and Early’s horses, he found the winged Irda statues had vanished from their plinths. On the pedestals where they’d stood for countless centuries, all that remained were the imprints of two clawed feet. Likewise the crouching lion statues were gone. The snow around their bases was unmarked; there was no sign anyone had dragged the statues away, nor were there any paw prints.

Tol wrapped Early’s body in a broad length of fine Tarsan linen taken from Mandes’s hoard. Riding Tetchy and leading Longhound bearing the kender’s body, he made a slow descent of Mount Axas. Halting in a high valley filled with aspen and birch trees, he buried his brave companion. Even in the gray light of a winter’s morning, it was a beautiful spot; in spring, it would be spectacular.

Purged of his decade-long thirst for vengeance, Tol felt empty. He rode along the trail to Juramona, pondering the price of his revenge. The empire was free of an evil force, but many good people had given their lives to bring that about, and Tol had no idea what awaited him in Daltigoth. Had Mandes’s vision been true? Was Ackal IV lost, mad, and his vicious brother now seated on the throne?

It took him two days to reach the Eastern Hundred, and two more to wade through the snow to Juramona. When he arrived, Tol discovered that many more days than he’d reckoned had passed since he and Early had departed for Mandes’s mountain.

“I almost mourned you for lost!” Egrin declared, upon seeing Tol again. “It’s been twenty days since you left us!”

Tol shook his head doggedly, dislodging the snow that had collected on his head and shoulders. “Can’t be,” he muttered. “Two days to the mountains, a day in the fortress, two days out, two to cross the Hundred – seven days. I’ve been gone seven days.”

Egrin rested a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve been away twenty days.”

Indeed, it transpired, much had happened in that time. A courier had arrived from the capital with a sealed missive for the marshal. The seal was unfamiliar, but the letter proved to be from Prince Nazramin. Now titled “provisional regent for the ailing emperor, Ackal IV,” Nazramin wrote that the empire was in safe hands and the Marshal of the Eastern Hundred should stand ready for further orders.

“What will you do?” asked Tol, upset at this confirmation of Mandes’s awful vision.

“Wait for my orders,” Egrin replied. He could do nothing more – or less.

Tol tarried two days in the city of his childhood, soaking his tired body in casks of hot water and allowing Healer Ossant to attend his wounds. Although Egrin urged him to remain longer, Tol knew he needed to move on. He must learn the fates of those he’d left in the capital, and truth be told, he found Juramona too full of ghosts.

He left a substantial amount of gold in Egrin’s care, courtesy of Mandes’s treasury, with instructions to bestow it on the sorcerer’s victims. With Egrin’s stoic but heartfelt farewell in his ears, Tol rode off at midday.

The snow was gray mush in the streets. As Tetchy made his way through the town’s bustling lanes, Tol saw again the faces of his youth: Lord Odovar, whose life he’d saved to begin his adventures; wise Felryn, who even in death had helped him defeat Mandes; Narren, killed years ago in the battle against XimXim; Fellen the engineer, Frez, Darpo, Tarthan, and the rest of his handpicked band of foot soldiers who had perished in the long war with Tarsis.

Just before passing through Juramona’s wall, Tol’s route took him by a tavern. The door swung open, and the piping of a flute came to his ears. The sound reminded him of Crake, the clever flutist and quick-witted archer. He had once been Tol’s closest friend and later his bitterest foe. He, too, was dead.

Yes, Juramona teemed with ghosts.

Tol rode south, choosing an oblique course to the capital, one that would take him by his family’s old farmplace in the hills southwest. He hadn’t been there in six years, but he found the site readily enough.

It looked much as it had six years earlier, except that knee-deep snow now covered most of the ruined house and derelict pig pens. The walls of the root cellar where Tol’s mother had stored vegetables against difficult winters had collapsed, leaving a shallow depression overlaid by snow.

He sat silently, looking over the barren scene. Snow flecked his beard and dappled Tetchy’s sleek black hide.

A solitary figure caught his eye. Draped in many layers of fur, the fellow walked slowly up the path from the old onion field. Tol rode slowly toward him. He recognized the trappings of a fur hunter – a coil of rawhide snares, wicker basket carried on the back, the knobby club for dispatching trapped prey. The trapper crunched along atop the snow, his feet supported by woven willow snowshoes. Tol’s father had worn such snowshoes. He hadn’t seen their like in twenty years.

He greeted the trapper. The fellow halted, regarding the mounted warrior uncertainly.

“Greetings, m’lord.”

For a moment Tol thought the stranger recognized him, then with a flash of memory, realized the peasant likely would address any mounted stranger that way.

“How fares the fur trade?”

“Well enough, m’lord, well enough.” The trapper gestured to the lead-gray sky, adding, “Snow’s good for business.”

The fresh snow would make tracking the trapper’s prey – rabbit, stoat, and fox – much easier.

“Are you a local man?” Tol asked.

“Lived here all my life, m’lord.”

“Did you know the family who lived on that farm, over yonder?”

“That I did. Bakal and Ita, yes.”

Tol’s heart beat faster. “What became of them?”

The trapper rubbed his bearded chin with a mittened hand. “Lemme see, it’s been a while. Bakal, he took sick some winters back. Ita took him to the city to find a healer. Never come back.”

To his family and this trapper, “city” would likely mean Juramona. Was it possible his parents lived in the town he’d just left? He shook his head at the idea. Bakal would never have abandoned his holding, not as long as he drew breath.

The trapper was edging away, thinking the conversation at an end, but Tol asked, “What about the children? They had three, two girls and a boy.”

“Long wed and moved on. Don’t know about Nira, but I think the older girl, Zalay, lives over by Gooseneck Creek with her family.”

“And the son?”

“Oh, left a long time ago. Went into the army, I think.”

Tol was surprised. Had the local folk forgotten him, or did they not identify Bakal’s son Tol with the famous Lord Tolandruth?

He let the trapper go on his way. Snow flew from the man’s shoes as he hurried by, looking back now and then to make certain he wasn’t being followed. Tol wasn’t offended. The fellow must have had encounters with warriors before. No peasant craved the company of armed, mounted men.

Continuing south, Tol encountered hunters and herdsmen, peddlers, itinerant healers, and vagabonds of every stripe. Their ranks were thin, it being the winter season, but the life of the Eastern Hundred endured regardless.

A day out from Caergoth he began to meet a steady stream of travelers making for the city. They were not tradesmen, but refugees. They moved in small caravans of four to eight ox-drawn wagons. More than a few wagons were being drawn by people, the oxen having died on the trek. By the cut of their clothes and the accents he heard, Tol figured them for easterners, from outside the empire. There were a lot of them, and as he drew closer to Caergoth, their numbers grew. By the time he reached the walls of the city, the snowy fields were black with a mob of miserable foreigners, all seeking the protection of the imperial governor.

The gates were closed, and Tol had to shout for admittance. A fur-clad guard answered him insolently until Tol delivered a few choice words.

“My lord!” the guard stammered. “Forgive me! I’ll admit you at once!”

The refugees huddled in the snow nearest the gate stirred when they heard the postern creak open. A squad of soldiers rushed out with spears leveled and held the people off.

Spotting an officer among them, Tol asked, “What goes on here, Captain? Who are these people?”

“Outlanders from the east, my lord. Folk from Thel, the plains of Duran, farthest Karth.”

“Why are they here?”

“They’re coming to every town and outpost on the eastern edge of the empire, my lord. They speak of invaders driving them off their land.”

When Tol entered, the captain’s men backed in after him, keeping wary eyes on the refugees. Several thousand souls clustered under the walls of Caergoth. Wagons had been turned into shanties, and crude hide tents covered both sides of the road.

“Why do you deny them entrance?” he asked, indignant.

“Governor’s orders, my lord. He fears disorder.” The closing of the postern boomed a counterpoint to the captain’s words.

Tol fumed at the injustice of it but wasted no more time with the captain. He touched heels to Tetchy’s sides and they entered Caergoth at a brisk trot.

Although smaller than the capital, Caergoth considered itself a more sophisticated, cultured city. There were several schools within its walls, including the famed Silvanesti Academy, as well as the library of the Temple of Gilean, reputed to be the largest depository of books in the empire. It was also a clean city; twice a day in winter, laborers were paid to clear snow and refuse from the main streets.

Tol rode directly to the governor’s palace and demanded an audience. In doing so, he bypassed a long line of favor-seekers waiting to see the governor. Much grumbling followed in his wake, but none dared gainsay the mighty warlord Tolandruth, especially considering his grim expression.

He expected to see Micantar, an old crony of the late emperor, Pakin III. Micantar had been governor of Caergoth since Tol was a lad. However, the tall, carved chair was occupied now by a much younger man unknown to Tol.

He saluted and gave his name. The governor looked up from the document he was reading.

“You broke the line,” he said sternly. “Go back and wait your turn.”

“I am Tolandruth of Juramona!”

A nod. “So you said. And I am Wornoth, governor of the province of Caer and the Great Green. Now that we’ve waved our titles at each other, try to behave in civilized fashion, won’t you?”

Tol turned back the edge of his fur-lined cape and rested a hand on his saber hilt. The motion brought guards running.

Wornoth rested his chin on his hand. “You warlords are all the same. The slightest opposition, and you resort to violence.”

“I haven’t resorted to anything – yet.”

“Very well. You’ve disrupted the orderly pageant of life here. What is it you want?” Wornoth asked, finally setting aside his scroll.

Tol answered as calmly as he was able. Shouting would get him nowhere with this bloodless functionary. “There are several thousand people outside your walls, dying of hunger and cold. What are you doing about it?”

Wornoth’s straight brown hair was parted in the center. He brushed the long locks away from his shoulders and sat back, crossing his legs under his blue robe.

“The garrison is not sufficient to drive off so many,” he said, shrugging.

“I wasn’t suggesting you attack them!” Tol snapped. “Let them in the city. Feed them!”

“Impossible.” Wornoth picked up his scroll again.

The casual dismissal was too much for Tol’s tenuous self-control. He drew his sword and stalked forward. Several of the guards backed away a step, but a few stood firm.

“Governor Wornoth, I order you to assist those people!”

The governor opened his mouth to speak, but Tol’s expression and the flashing point of his saber gave him pause.

Carefully, he asked, “Where am I supposed to find food for so many mouths?”

“The imperial storehouse.”

The governor was genuinely shocked. “That belongs to the emperor!”

Tol sheathed his saber. “I am the Emperor’s Champion. I’m certain he will approve of my request.”

Wornoth lifted his brows at that, but gave the order. His wounded shoulder aching, Tol found a chair by a wall and sat, as the wheels were set into motion for distribution of the food.

When the last of the lackeys scurried away to carry out the governor’s commands, Wornoth came to where Tol rested.

“I had no idea the emperor had a champion or required one,” he said, looking down at Tol.

“Ackal IV is not a man of arms.”

The suggestion of a smile twitched Wornoth’s thin lips. “My sincerest regrets, my lord. You seem to be one emperor behind. His Majesty Ackal IV went to the gods five days ago. Prince Nazramin has claimed the throne.”

Tol stood so quickly Wornoth backed away. “That’s impossible! Ackal IV has a son, a legitimate heir —”

“Prince Hatonar ceded his right to the throne in favor of his uncle.” The governor smiled. “Only Prince Nazramin has the strength and courage to lead the empire. It is not a task for the pampered son of our late, regrettably mad emperor.”

Tol growled an oath and seized Wornoth by the front of his gown. The governor was a slight man, shorter even than Tol himself, and Tol easily hoisted him up on his toes.

“The empire has been delivered into the hands of a fiend!” he hissed. “I can’t believe the Great Horde or the Imperial Council would accept Nazramin on the throne!”

“But they have, and without dissent! Unhand me, my lord. Please!”

Tol released him, thoughts racing ahead to Daltigoth. He had to go there quickly – to try to save the situation, or at the very least, to collect Valaran and the Dom-shu sisters. Anyone close to Tol was certain to feel Nazramin’s wrath.

He took hold of Wornoth’s arm, squeezing it painfully. “Listen to me,” he said in a very low voice. “You will continue to feed and house as many of the refugees as you can. Is that clear? If I hear of you mistreating them or neglecting their needs, I’ll come back and kill you myself. Nod if you understand me.”

White-faced, Wornoth nodded.

“Say it.”

“I will help the refugees with every resource at my command!”

Tol let him go. The governor drew back, massaging his abused arm.

Moving swiftly, Tol went to the governor’s stable, to claim a fresh horse. There he spotted the same captain of the guard who’d admitted him to the city.

“Captain, these poor folk outside – what’s driven them so far from home?”

“I’ve spoken to many of them, my lord, and their tales are as one. They say invaders have landed on the northeast coast and pushed inland, displacing everyone in their path.”

“What sort of invaders?”

The soldier frowned. “That isn’t clear. Some say black-skinned seafarers. Others blame the Silvanesti, though why elves would land by sea when they could march up from the south and do the same thing …” He shook his head. “A few claim the invaders are not men, but arkudenala.”

The archaic word meant “sons of the dragon.”

Tol scowled. “What in Corij’s name do they mean by that?”

The captain didn’t know. He asked if Tol wished to question the refugees, but Tol had no time. Instead he asked the captain to swear that if the governor stopped feeding and clothing the refugees, he would send word immediately to Tol in Daltigoth.

Flattered by the great Lord Tolandruth’s trust, the guardsman readily agreed.

Tol departed for the capital with no fixed plan in mind. He knew only that Nazramin had to be confronted. There wasn’t a moment to lose.

Streams of haggard people, shuffling in tight lines into the city, looked up as a war-horse passed by. One of the Ergothian soldiers helping to keep order said, “There goes Lord Tolandruth. He took the governor by the throat and forced him let you vagabonds into the city!”

Some of the refugees raised a ragged cheer, but Tol was so focused on his thoughts he did not hear them.

It would be the last cheer he would receive for many a day.

*

No admiring mob greeted Tol when he reached Daltigoth. The winter day was done, and the eerie blue twilight that comes to snow-covered land had fallen. Tol approached the Dragon Gate. This late, only the postern was open. Unlike most such gates, this postern was large enough to pass a coach-and-four. A crackling bonfire blazed outside the gate. Three soldiers huddled by it, trying to keep away the chill.

They didn’t hear Tol until he was nearly on them. Deep snow muffled his horse’s hooves, and the snap of burning wood blotted out the creak of harness. The fall of snow had stopped, and Luin played hide-and-seek behind the clouds; the land was alternately dark and washed in the moon’s pale, scarlet light.

One of the soldiers reluctantly left the fire and asked his name. Tol replied, “Narren, Bakal’s son. From the Fourth Company of the Red Hawk Horde.”

The Red Hawks were quartered in the city. Between the uncertain light and his bulky fur hood, he counted on the guards not recognizing him.

The soldier didn’t think very hard about it, only waved him along.

Tol looked up at the lofty walls. “How fares the city?”

“Quiet as a cemetery.” The soldier hunched his shoulders and returned to the fire.

Tol rode slowly on, pondering the guard’s choice of words. Had there been no resistance to Nazramin’s coup? No fights in the street, or marketplace brawls? There were folk in Daltigoth who would riot over the rising price of a loaf of bread. Hadn’t the usurpation of the throne stirred anyone enough to fight for their country?

Daltigoth seemed empty as Tol traversed the snow-choked streets. Unlike Caergoth, the capital’s streets hadn’t been cleared. As much as anything, the weather must have kept the city quiet. It was hard to work up enthusiasm for rioting when snow lay knee-deep on the ground.

He expected to find the Inner City locked down tight, with Nazramin’s minions on the gates. Instead, all seemed as usual: the night gate was open, and dismounted members of the Horse Guards stood watch. Giving them a false name was out of the question, but if they now owed allegiance to Nazramin, there might be trouble. Number Six was under his fur cape, pommel turned out for easy drawing.

“My lord, welcome back!” one of the guards said. He saluted with his dagger and stood aside.

Tol shifted uneasily on his saddle.

“All is well?” he asked.

“As well as could be expected.”

“How fares the emperor?”

“Hale and hearty as always, my lord.”

That sounded strange, but Tol hadn’t asked which emperor, so he rode on. After leaving his horse at the imperial stable, he climbed the south steps of the palace. Racks of torches blazed on either side of the door, and more soldiers stood watch. They passed Tol in without demur.

A servant in the antechamber took his outer furs. “The emperor expects you, my lord,” the servant said.

Again Tol wondered, which emperor? He made no reply, just stalked to the evening hall, where the master of the empire received his guests after sundown.

He ran straight into a sizable gang of armed men. They were not regular soldiers, and seeing their hard, unfriendly faces, Tol recognized Nazramin’s Wolves, as the prince’s private gang of thugs were known in the city.

His hand dropped to his sword hilt. There were twenty-six of them, he counted quickly. Twenty-six to one.

“My lord,” said a Wolf with black eyes and two parallel scars on his left cheek. “You are expected. Give over your sword, please.”

Tol weighed his chances. He might get seven or eight of them if he was lucky, but the rest would certainly hack him to pieces. Number Six was relinquished.

Two-Scars smiled unpleasantly, stood aside, and with a mocking sweep of his hand, bade Tol proceed.

The evening hall was brilliantly lit and stiflingly hot. Every available sconce held a burning torch, and a great heap of coals glowed in the massive fireplace at the rear of the room. Near the hearth, half a dozen robed figures clustered around the throne of Ergoth. As Tol approached, the group parted, revealing the occupant of the throne. Tol felt the breath go out of his chest.

Nazramin.

Though dressed in the deep scarlet emperor’s robe, Nazramin did not yet wear the imperial circlet. “Ah, Lord Pig Farmer,” he said. “Good of you to come.”

“I came to see the emperor.”

“You see him now.”

The men flanking the throne were introduced as Nazramin’s chamberlain, the commander of the city hordes, and so on. Tol knew none of them.

“Where is Ackal IV?” he asked coldly.

“With the gods. He perished in an apoplectic fit five days ago. Tragic.”

“What of his son, Crown Prince Hatonar?”

“The boy wisely ceded his claim to me. The empire must be ruled by men of strong will and hard purpose, not children.”

Tol’s countenance was so eloquent of barely contained outrage that the councilors nearest him edged away.

“What you mean is, you seized the throne and no one opposed you!” he cried.

Nazramin shrugged. “No one of consequence.” He turned to the gold-bedecked officer on his left. “Lord Tathman, how many have we been forced to execute?”

Snapping his heels together, Tathman replied, “Sixteen so far, Your Majesty.”

“So few? Anyone Lord Tol would know?”

“Lord Rymont, Lord Valdid, the commanders of the Foot Guard and the Silver Dragon Horde —”

Nazramin waved a hand, halting the litany of the dead. “The rest have fallen into line and accepted the situation,” he said. “Now, my lord, what will you do?”

Tol could hardly believe it. Valaran’s father, most loyal of the loyal, executed! Rymont had been a pompous ass and no friend of Tol’s, but he was a good soldier. Did the high-ranking wizards, Helbin and Oropash, still live?

Nazramin was still awaiting an answer. “What is my choice?” Tol asked.

Nazramin dismissed his councilors. They bowed in unison and departed. As they went out, several Wolves came in. The men lounged by the door, hands on their sword hilts.

“I don’t want your life, peasant,” Nazramin said, getting to his feet. “Don’t look so surprised. Killing is easy. Living is hard. I could have you chopped to pieces or thrown in the cells below the palace, but neither seems quite right. It would be much too noble – ‘Valiant Lord Tolandruth, who fell from grace when his patron died.’ No, pig farmer. I prefer that you continue to live in utter obscurity and for the empire to forget you ever existed.”

He stepped down from the throne and planted his fists on his hips. Quite a bit taller than Tol, Nazramin was lean and wolfish, like the sobriquet his men bore.

“As of this moment, your titles and properties are forfeit. I declare you’re no longer Lord Anyone, but merely Tol, son of a pig farmer.”

Nazramin circled Tol, looking him up and down. “You see, if you live I can torment you to my heart’s content. Consider this: before winter ends, I’ll be crowned and by my side will be a striking empress, one you’ll particularly appreciate.”

Tol felt a chill of horror. The self-proclaimed emperor’s eyes glowed with an unholy light. “Yes. The daughter of Valdid has consented to be my consort.”

His words went through Tol like a blade in the gut. What choice had he given Valaran? Did she know her father had been killed, regardless of her compliance?. In a flash Tol hurled himself at Nazramin. To his delight, he found his target, Nazramin’s throat, and bore the taller man to the floor. Tol’s big hands, hardened by years of campaigning, tightened on Nazramin’s neck like a vice.

His moment of triumph was brief. The Wolves dragged him away, kicking and punching him ruthlessly. Someone looped a rope around his neck and began to throttle him. His vision went red, and the curses of the Wolves melded into a single ugly roar. He began to lose consciousness.

Hoarsely Nazramin commanded, “Beat him again! If he resists, put out his eyes! Then drive him out of the city. If he ever returns, his head will decorate the palace wall!”

They dragged Tol out by his heels and thrashed him severely. The beating went on all night, with pauses to insure Tol didn’t die. The next morning, without warm furs, food, or water, he was dumped in the snow outside the Dragon Gate.

*

A gentle rocking motion shook Tol awake. For a moment he thought he was on a ship, but the creak of wheels spoiled that theory. He tried to open his eyelids, but only one would obey. The sight it beheld made him gasp.

“Miya!”

Her hair was longer than he remembered, caught in a golden-brown braid and pulled forward over one shoulder. She looked incredibly weary. A small bundle was slung across her breast. It moved and gurgled. A baby. Elicarno’s child.

“You’re awake. Good,” she said. Turning, she rapped her knuckles against the canvas curtains separating them from the front of the wagon. “He’s awake!”

The wagon slowed and halted. A hand parted the curtain and Kiya’s face appeared.

“Husband,” she said. “How do you feel?”

All movement was agony. Teeth clenched, he said, “Not as bad as Mandes felt falling down Mount Axas.”

“The sorcerer is dead?” asked Kiya.

“Yes, it’s my only good news. I brought his head back to the emperor, but the wrong man sits on the throne.”

Miya put the leather spout of a wineskin to Tol’s lips. He drank gratefully, as Kiya related the tale of the monster that had broken into Elicarno’s shop and killed the engineer. Tol nodded. Everything fit with the vision Mandes had sent to him.

“It appeared that Ackal IV had finally gone mad,” Kiya said. “A council of high lords was called. They were going to appoint a regent when Nazramin and his killers broke in, and took over. The crown prince gave up his claim to the throne, and Nazramin now keeps Amaltar’s entire family prisoner in the palace^Anyone who disagreed or put up a fight was killed on the spot or has vanished.”

Kiya and Miya had received word from sympathetic guards at the gate that Tol was lying in the snow, beaten and bloody. The sisters had piled into the four-wheeled covered wagon which they’d prepared some time ago and went to collect him. Tol lay across bales of provisions that filled the wagon.

At the end of the explanations, Tol murmured, “He told me he’s going to make Valaran his empress.”

The sisters exchanged looks. “So that’s why,” Miya said, as Kiya told him, “Look out the back.”

He got himself up on one elbow, with the assistance of Kiya’s strong hands. Miya pulled back the canvas closing the rear of the wagon.

They were a short distance outside the city. Walls and towers were clearly visible behind them. The Ackal Path was filled from edge to edge by a column of warriors, several hundred strong, all on foot. At the head of the column rode two black-clad men flanking a woman in ermine robes.

The three riders approached. With his wounds screaming, Tol struggled to a sitting position. Cold air swirled in, making his single open eye water.

He said her name and held out his hand. Three of his fingers were bent and broken.

Valaran’s face contorted when she saw his condition. “He allowed me one favor, to say good-bye,” she said, choking.

“You agreed to be his empress? Why?”

“I had no choice,” she said, lowering her eyes. “My family would have perished, root and branch.”

Tol tried to lean forward. “You don’t have to do it, Valaran! Break loose! The sisters and I will protect you!”

She wiped tears from her eyes. Her glance shifted to the column of warriors behind her. “You can’t protect me. No one can, any more.”

She urged her horse forward. When one of the black-clad riders tried to grab her mount’s bridle, she lashed at his face with her riding crop. He let go, and a squad of men came running forward, nocking arrows in their short bows.

Valaran closed the short distance to the wagon and put a gloved hand to Tol’s battered face.

“He’ll not have me,” she whispered. “I too have ambitions. I have a knife, and one of us will die!”

He caught her wrist, awkwardly because of his injuries. “You must not! Whatever happens, you must live – because I will return!”

She looked away. Not even the famed luck of Tol of Juramona could overcome the emperor of Ergoth.

“Believe it!” he urged. “If you believe nothing else in your life, know I will come back, Valaran. Nazramin will ruin the empire with his cruelty and greed, but I’ll return. You must try to live for that day, Val. You must!”

Her minders interceded, pulling Valaran away. At the last moment she leaned down and kissed his forehead. Her lips were cold.

Straightening again, she lashed at her captors with her crop. “I am to be the empress of Ergoth, and you’d better keep your filthy hands off me!” she said, a fierce, aristocratic mask dropping over her features. “You know what happens to anyone who defiles the empress?”

They did indeed. The two men dropped back a full pace. Valaran brought the crop down against her horse’s flank. The white gelding reared, but she kept her seat. She galloped back to the city, sending snow flying and scattering the ranks of the foot soldiers. Wind tore her hood back, releasing a cloud of chestnut hair to the brittle sun.

Tol stared after her until Miya closed the rear curtain. “Cold air isn’t good for the baby,” she said.

It was an effort to pull his mind away from Valaran, but there was genuine fondness in his tone when Tol asked, “Boy or girl?”

“Boy. Eli.” Tol got a glimpse of dark hair, and two enormous brown eyes peeking out from the swaddling.

Kiya cracked her whip, and the team got moving. Tol didn’t have to ask where they were going. Miya and Kiya were returning home, to the distant forest known as the Great Green. They would be welcomed by their own tribe, and Tol would find a haven to heal and rest.

“It’s not done,” he murmured, as fatigue and Miya’s wine claimed him.

“I know,” Miya said, but Tol was already asleep. Not even baby Eli’s crying disturbed him.

A Hero’s Justice

(2401 PC)

Avalanche on Level Ground

General Lord Relfas, mounted on a massive roan gelding, watched six streams of dust rise into the warm morning air. Widely spaced in an arc from north to south, the six dust streams were converging on his position. His aide, Lord Fracolo, spoke the obvious: “Scouts returning, sir!” Relfas didn’t bother to reply. Fracolo might be a Rider of the Great Horde, but he could make no claim to nobility, while Relfas was of the wealthy house of Dirinmor. Instead, Relfas turned to stare at the view behind him. It was a sight to stir the blood, and one he never tired of.

Fifty thousand mounted warriors were drawn up in perfectly ordered ranks, iron armor gleaming and crimson cloaks spotless. The First Fifty of the Great Horde of Ergoth filled the bottomland of the Solvin River, as far as the eye could see to the north, south, and west. So named because they were the first to be summoned in time of war, the First Fifty comprised the cream of Emperor Ackal V’s fighting men. None was younger than twenty, nor older than thirty. Relfas, at forty years of age, was the oldest among them.

Horde standards rose proudly among the shining host. Each flag bore the symbol of the fighting men behind it. There were thunderbolts, stars, skulls, axes, and a veritable menagerie of animals: dragons, panthers, bulls, bears, and serpents.

Directly behind Relfas was the greatest standard of all, the arms of the House of Ackal. The crimson banner emblazoned with a golden sun over a pair of crossed sabers had a proud history. First carried by the empire’s founder, Ackal the Great, this emblem had journeyed into the far corners of the land, always returning in triumph. Those enemies who survived their contest with Ergoth said the banner’s color came from the blood of the untold thousands slain by the Great Horde.

To be here, leading such an army into battle, was the dream of every Rider of the Great Horde. Even before his days as a shilder, training with blunted weapons, Relfas had never doubted he would attain this pinnacle. Such accomplishments were nothing more than his due.

The scouts arrived, hauling their foam-flecked horses to a stop amidst clouds of thick yellow plains dust. The first man to reach Relfas was a Rider from the Stone Shield Horde, a contingent well known for its elegance and dash. Since all the scouts were covered with yellow grime, this particular Stone Shielder hardly lived up to that reputation just now.

“My lord!” he cried. “I beg to report the enemy has withdrawn!”

“More than a league beyond the riverbend!” added a second scout, arriving hard on the heels of the first.

“So, the lizards are running,” Relfas said, a smug smile on his handsome, red-bearded face.

He had brought the army here in a rush to contest the invaders’ crossing of the Solvin River, some twenty leagues east-northeast of the city of Caergoth. The news that the enemy had fallen back, even before his men could engage them, only confirmed what Relfas had long believed. The invader host might terrify peasants and nomad barbarians, but it stood no chance against the trained hordes of Ergoth.

Raising his voice he declared, “We will pursue!”

His subordinate warlords, gathered behind him, exchanged looks. Hojan of Hobor, who knew the Eastern Hundred well, urged caution. “We should not rush blindly into a fray,” he said. “There are other scouts still out. We should wait and hear from them.”

“Other scouts? What other scouts?” asked Relfas.

“He means the nomads, my lord,” said the Stone Shield rider, lip curling in disdain. “Curs! They take our coin, ride out, and don’t return!”

“The ones I hire do,” Hojan replied.

Relfas had no interest whatsoever in nomads, scouts or no.

“The first law of war, as set down by Ackal the Great, is to pursue a fleeing enemy until they are utterly destroyed,” he said. “Is that not so, Lord Hojan?”

Hojan grunted an affirmative, but added there was no proof the enemy was fleeing. They might simply be leaving the flatlands around the river, to take advantage of the better position provided by the Solvin Hills.

Relfas shook his head. “You give them too much credit. They’re little better than beasts.”

The casual dismissal left Hojan and several other warlords staring.

“My lord, in olden times the arkudenala nearly overran Silvanost!” Lord Dukant said.

The name, bestowed on the invaders by displaced nomads, meant “sons of dragons.” The arkudenala had landed on the empire’s north coast seven years earlier and begun driving inland, slaughtering all who opposed them. Peasant refugees, driven before the invaders like the bow wave of a great ship, made for the presumed safety of the empire’s southern cities, bringing with them confusing tales of their inhuman attackers. However, it soon became clear these arkudenala were not some new, draconic evil, but bakali, a reptilian race once thought cleansed from the world.

“Elves are not Riders of the Great Horde,” Relfas stated. “What overran them, we shall destroy! The order is: pursue the retreating foe!”

Most of the warlords, fired with pride and eager for battle, saluted their general and rejoined their respective hordes. Hojan and a handful of skeptics departed with more deliberation.

Lord Relfas’ command echoed through the lines. Drawing their sabers in one long thunderclap of iron on iron, the Riders roared, “Ergoth! Ergoth!”

Fifty thousand horsemen trotted out of the bend of the Solvin, advancing straight ahead. On either wing, Riders fanned out, opening the interval between them and breaking into a canter.

The river bottom, lush with newly leafed willows and a rampant tangle of blooming vines, gave way in less than a league to grassy land that rose in a series of low, step-like ridges. The sod was trampled and torn in a swath five leagues wide. The sheer breadth of the trail caused the Ergothian advance to falter.

“How many lizard-men are there?” asked Lord Fracolo, staring at the scarred ground.

“What does it matter?” Relfas snapped. He rose in the stirrups, lifted his saber high, and shouted, “Whether they be ten thousand or a hundred thousand, the lizards are showing us their backs and we shall sweep the land clear of them!”

He ordered the pace increased to a gallop. Most of the First Fifty surged forward, supremely confident of their own invincibility.

Before Relfas joined them, Lord Hojan steered his mount next to the general’s and spoke quickly. He reminded his leader of another time-honored precept handed down by Ackal the Great: when the enemy’s strength is unknown, hold men in reserve.

Although he did not share his warlord’s caution, Relfas ordered Hojan to proceed. Then the general galloped away.

Several warlords had held back when the rest increased their pace. At Hojan’s command, these formed up around his own Golden Helm Horde. Six hordes in all, the reserve continued to move forward, but at a walking pace.

Far ahead, the Riders galloping in the forefront of the charge reached the lowest step of the hills without catching sight of the enemy. They’d covered a thousand paces, and their mounts were winded. They slowed, and the formation became confused as faster riders trod on their heels. Still, the throng of mounted men continued their forward motion, beginning the climb up the first slope.

At that instant, a shrill screeching filled the steamy summer air. The Ergothians reined up, unable to trace or identify the bizarre sound. From the army’s edges, solitary riders broke off and rode swiftly away. They were clad not in iron armor, but buckskin or homespun. These were nomads, hired as scouts by the Ergothians, and they alone recognized this sound, knew exactly what it meant.

All along the rim of the ridge ahead, dark figures appeared. With the late morning sun in their eyes, the Ergothians could make out no details, only bulky, shapeless silhouettes, but the clatter of arms was unmistakable. Horns of warning bleated along the imperial line.

Relfas saw his men hesitate. Warriors of the Great Horde feared no mortal foe, but a charge up a steep incline at an entrenched enemy such as this was not a thing to be taken lightly. Relfas took personal command of the vanguard and roared the order to charge. Weary horses panted and gasped, fighting their way up the slope already torn up by the enemy’s passage.

Atop the ridge loomed a wall of green and dull metal. Spears swung down from the front ranks of the bakali host. Behind them billhooks and poleaxes cleaved the air in menacing circles. The enemy himself was not quite visible, only the seemingly impenetrable phalanx of shields and protruding spears.

Standing in his stirrups and whipping his saber around his head, Relfas led his men into the first clash. He was promptly unhorsed when his mount reared to avoid the spiny greeting the bakali had prepared. The animal toppled, and Relfas tumbled ignominiously down the slope. Around him, smarter horsemen kept low over their mounts’ necks and struck at the spearpoints with their sabers.

While the front ranks jabbed at each other, the second rank of bakali waded in with hooks and axes. With these they snagged unwary riders, dragging them onto the waiting spears of other bakali.

For most of the Ergothians, this was the first time they’d seen the enemy. It was a sight not easily forgotten.

Standing two paces tall, the bakali were roughly human-shaped, with narrow, protruding chests and heavily muscled arms and legs. Brow ridges and upper lips lined with yellow horns lent them a beaked, almost bird-like appearance. Eyes were either yellow or pale green, with black, diamond-shaped pupils. Ears the bakali had not; only a hole on each side of the head. Likewise, the nose was nothing more than a small bump, with two slit nostrils, above a lipless gash.

Hands and feet were enormous, and sported four thick fingers or toes, all far longer than any human’s and tipped with yellow talons. For battle, the bakali draped themselves in loose coats of tiny iron rings, which were secured by leather belts around their narrow waists. Weapons were oversized and crude, made for hacking and slashing, and horribly effective against soft-skinned enemies.

Perhaps even more unforgettable to the Ergothians than the first sight of their inhuman enemy was the smell. Acrid and fetid at the same time, the bakali gave off the stench of a viper’s den. The odor hung over the enemy host like an invisible fog, stinging the eyes and clogging throats.

Lord Relfas, unhurt by his embarrassing fall, had remounted and returned to the fray. He and the vanguard continued their attempts to come to grips with the enemy, while the main body of Riders maneuvered around the struggle and fell upon the bakali flank. The lizard-men turned left to face this onslaught. Before the sun reached its zenith, three-quarters of Relfas’s army was furiously engaged. Only the reserve – Hojan and the other more prudent warlords – remained out of action, awaiting orders to join the fray.

By sheer weight of numbers, the imperial army forced its way onto the lowest hill. There, they beheld the bakali host in its totality for the first time. Relfas reckoned the number to be forty or fifty thousand strong, about the same strength as his own army.

The creatures were proving to be unexpectedly tenacious. As their front line was hacked apart, the lizard-men stood back to back and fought on, selling their lives dearly. Ergothians who’d considered them little more than animals were shocked to see the bakali resist charge after charge. Great quantities of their dark, purplish red blood flowed, mixing with the scarlet gore of men and horses. Still, the bakali did not give up.

With the vanguard attacking head-on, and the main body assaulting their flank, the bakali were forced back to the base of the next hill. Hard-pressed, the lizards did not try to retreat up the slope, but remained where they were, fighting furiously. Relfas sent word to his main force to withdraw just enough to gain room for a full-fledged charge. Such a strike on the flank would, he was certain, roll up the bakali line like a rotten carpet.

As the Riders formed up for the charge, a chorus of intense, metallic screeching rose over the battlefield for a second time. Relfas, enjoying a brief lull in the action around him, gave a shout.

“They’re begging for mercy!” he exulted.

His feeling of triumph was short-lived. On the ridge behind and above the hard-pressed bakali a whole new host of the creatures sprang up. These lizards had been lying concealed in the tall grass. In the space of two heartbeats, the enemy force had doubled in strength.

Relfas stared at the new foe in frozen shock, but only for a moment. Boldness, not timidity, won battles and brought glory. Ignoring the chatter of his subordinates, he ordered the charge.

The tired Ergothians surged forward. The fresh wave of bakali ran down the hill to reinforce their comrades, then the entire bakali line began to push forward. Charging Riders ran straight onto a wall of lethal spearpoints. Their comrades, blinded by fury and foolhardy courage, came on. Line after line of horsemen threw themselves against the resurgent lizard-men. Line after line perished. The bard Aylimar, writing of one of Ackal Ergot’s battles centuries before, had likened a similarly futile charge to wax soldiers flinging themselves against a red-hot anvil. For Relfas’ men, it was like being fed into a horrendous threshing machine. The whirling blades, wielded with terrifying skill by the bakali, tore them to pieces.

Continuing their slow, implacable advance, the bakali line pushed the Ergothians off the lower hilltop, retaking the ground Relfas had earlier won at such cost.

At last acknowledging the danger, Relfas summoned the reserves. They did not come. Instead, a Rider arrived, bearing dire news from Lord Hojan.

The enemy was behind Relfas.

Facing west, his back to Relfas’s position, Hojan battled a new army of bakali that had appeared seemingly out of nowhere. Although a smaller contingent, perhaps twenty thousand lizards, it far outnumbered the six hordes under Hojan’s command. The first tendrils of despair chilled Relfas’s proud heart.

“Rally! Rally to me!” he cried, parched voice cracking.

The mass of confused Riders around him slowly dissolved. Some men rode hard to join Hojan. Some remained with their commander. Others – more than a few – did something thought inconceivable for Riders of the Great Horde. They fled. Wanting nothing more than to put distance between themselves and the remorseless inhuman killing machine they faced, they rode away.

His army disintegrating, the bakali before him still advancing, Relfas had only one goal left: survival. The lizard-men were far stronger and more numerous than anyone had guessed. His Majesty Ackal V must be told. Therefore, the imperial army would fall back to the city of Caergoth and replenish its ranks there.

He gave the order, then realized no one was left to relay it to the warlords. He was standing alone. The bakali line was eight paces away, and coming toward him fast. Bent-kneed, the creatures ran with a strange hopping motion that set their ring-armor coats jingling.

Lord Relfas yanked the roan’s big head about and drove his spurs hard into the animal’s sides. The battle of Solvin Hills was lost. His duty now was to warn the empire that this threat was far, far graver than anyone had imagined.

*

Hojan’s ranks swelled as warriors from the rest of the army sought refuge with him. With eight thousand men, he organized a fighting retreat northward, away from the bakali’s westward line of advance.

Although the Ergothians were defeated and disorganized, the bakali did not press their advantage. Instead, a league from the battlefield, the lizard-men gave up the pursuit and returned to the main body of their army.

From a distance, Hojan watched as the departing enemy was joined by even more bakali. These newcomers were not warriors. Unarmed, they were burdened by baggage, or dragging heavy sledges. A veritable river of scaly lizard-men flowed through the Solvin valley.

This wasn’t an army on the move. It was a nation.

Once the tide had passed on, Hojan sent scouts back to the battlefield. They found it picked clean. Every broken sword, every fractured spearshaft had been taken away. Far more disturbing was the fact that the slain – men and horses alike – were all gone. What the bakali wanted with them no one dared contemplate.

Chapter 1

A VISITOR FOR UNCLE CORPSE

The stone canyons of the city channeled sound in odd ways. Sometimes an altercation in the next street might be inaudible, but a catfight six blocks away sounded like it was happening next door. Tonight’s commotion was loud enough to hear anywhere in Daltigoth.

Rumors of meat for sale had drawn a hungry crowd to a shop in the butchers’ lane. The rumors proved false, but the angry crowd would not be denied. They began to ransack other shops in the quarter. City guards moved in to stop them, more hungry residents turned out, and a major riot erupted. Emperor Ackal V sent troops to quell the trouble, but the fighting continued. Confronted by armed warriors, the rioters hid, only to reappear when the soldiers had passed on.

The rioting was useful cover for the stranger in the fawn-colored cape who moved carefully through the dark alleys. The streets were alternately crowded with looters, or empty of all but wreckage. The way had been impeded only once, by a large ruffian with a cudgel. Spying the slight figure drawing near, the man thought he’d found easy prey. A fast stroke, of the knife left him with his throat slit, dying while still on his feet. The caped stranger quickly wiped blood from the knife blade and moved on. The Empress of Ergoth could not be kept waiting.

The Inner City gate, flanked by burning braziers, was manned by two dismounted Horse Guardsmen. They crossed their spears, barring the stranger’s way.

“What business d’ya have here?” one soldier rasped.

The cape flipped back to show one hand holding a silver disk. Engraved on it was a coat of arms known to all. Both guards stiffened respectfully, and stood aside.

Beyond the gate, the fabulous mosaic that paved the wide plaza was nearly invisible, covered by the crowd of imperial guardsmen who stood ready to fend off any attackers who dared approach. The stranger walked boldly across the torchlit plaza. None of the disciplined soldiers broke ranks, but all eyes followed the figure’s progress across the vast courtyard. By firelight the palace’s marble steps resembled gold. The visitor nimbly ascended the broad stairway.

In all, the stranger was challenged six times. Each time, the silver seal turned aside all questions. Once inside the palace, the caped figure kept to side passages as instructed. The blaze of light coming from the audience chamber meant the war council was in session. Voices, loud and profane, rang through the open doors. No doubt Emperor Ackal V was busy haranguing his beleaguered warlords about the invasion.

Lesser corridors of the palace stood in startling contrast to the splendor of the public chambers. Devoid of decoration, the plain stone halls were musty and smoky, as though not recently cleaned. The stranger’s supple deerskin boots made little sound on the flagstone floors. Servants had no warning of a presence until the fawn cape swept into view. Trained not to wonder at odd goings-on, they waited silently, eyes cast down, until the phantom was gone.

The stranger’s destination, the solarium, was not easy to find. Located deep in the heart of the sprawling palace, it was guarded by hidden doors and misleading passages. Twice the stranger went astray and was forced to backtrack. At last, the solarium doors came into view: twin portals of blackwood, inlaid with the bold crest of the House of Ackal in solid gold.

The solarium housed a magnificent sunken garden. The splash of water in the fountains echoed off a corbelled ceiling twelve paces above the floor. By day, isinglass panels let in sunlight. Now, at night, hooded lamps lit the scene like ruddy moonlight.

Murmuring voices, barely audible over the play of water, reached the stranger’s keen ears. Following the sound as easily as a hound might follow a scent, the visitor soon arrived at a pool by the base of an artificial waterfall. Five women sat on a low stone bench there. All were identically garbed in pale green, loose-fitting robes, hoods drawn up to cover their heads. Four of them turned toward the newcomer, their wide eyes showing white in the dim light. The stranger advanced to the fifth woman and knelt on one knee.

“Your Majesty.”

The woman stood and unhooked her robe. The garment fell, pooling on the gold-streaked white marble tiles. Beneath it, the woman wore a close-fitting velvet gown the color of old blood. A matching headdress, stiffly starched, pulled her chestnut hair back from her face, allowing it to fall in a rich cascade to the middle of her back. She regarded the visitor with vivid green eyes.

“How did you know me?”

“Your companions were alarmed to see me. You were not.”

Valaran, chief consort of Emperor Ackal V, nodded once and dismissed her ladies-in-waiting with a wave of her hand. When she and her visitor were alone, she seated herself again on the stone bench.

“You are called Zala?” The stranger nodded, and Valaran added, “Let me see you.”

The cape was removed. Of medium height, with a lithe build, the visitor had chin-length black hair which she tucked haphazardly behind her ears.

Taking note of those ears, Valaran asked, “Which of your parents was an elf?”

“My mother was Silvanesti, Your Majesty.”

“You had no trouble reaching me?”

“No special trouble, Majesty. A riot rages in the New City.”

Finely shaped eyebrows knit in confusion. “Another one? Why wasn’t I told? That’s the third in ten days!”

“Have you not seen the fires, Majesty?”

“I rarely leave the palace’s inner core. I must get to the battlements more often.” Velvet strained through her fingers as Valaran clenched a hand in her lap. “By custom long established, the empress of Ergoth resides in seclusion. It is a custom my husband delights in enforcing.”

At the empress’s request, Zala told what she knew of the riot and its cause. “No fresh meat has come to the city for four days,” she finished. “It’s said the cattlemen up north are holding onto their herds, lest they fall into the hands of the invaders.”

“All the more reason your mission must be carried out without delay,” Valaran said. “You’re said to be an expert tracker and huntress. You’ll need all your skills. The country between here and where you’re going is no temple garden.”

Zala gave no response, since none had been requested, but her journey here from Caergoth hadn’t been exactly easy. Although the bakali invaders had not penetrated as far south as her native city, their approach had driven desperate refugees there to rob and kill. And there were nomads, plainsmen from the east, rampaging though the border provinces. Most of the once peaceful roads and fields were now highly dangerous to traverse.

From beneath her stone bench Valaran produced a small roll of parchment. She tapped it against one palm, regarding her visitor in frowning silence. Finally she asked, “Can you be trusted? If I give you a task to perform, will you carry it out?”

“I live by my word and deeds. I am known for this. Why else did you choose me?”

The slightly arch tone caused the empress’s eyes to narrow. “I chose you, half-breed, because I am forbidden to receive any male but the emperor, and you are the best of the few female rangers I could find. But know this: fail me, and your head will gather crows atop the Inner City wall!”

Zala knew the truth of that. One did not fail the House of Ackal.

Valaran rose. She continued to tap the small scroll against the palm of her hand as she studied the half-elf. In addition to raven-black hair, Zala had dark eyes, a pointed chin, and a short, straight nose. Her skin was fair, with a spray of tan freckles across her nose.

At last, Valaran said, “You’ll do. You seem strong. I imagine you look fetching enough without your hunter’s togs.”

Zala’s face grew hot. “What exactly is Your Majesty hiring me to do?”

“Find a man. One particular man. When you find him, you must convince him to return to Daltigoth. You will offer him whatever it takes – gold, honors, yourself – anything.” Valaran held out the scroll. “This is a description of him. Study it well.”

Zala tucked the parchment into her belt.

“Begin your search in Juramona, in the Eastern Hundred,” the empress said. “That was his home once, and the best place to seek clues to his current whereabouts.”

She removed a narrow gold ring from her finger and pressed it into Zala’s hand. “This was a gift from him to me. I had a wizard place a spell of finding on it. The power of the spell is limited to the width of the horizon, so don’t use it until you think yourself close to him. Once you find him, give him the ring and he will know that I sent you.”

Zala couldn’t help asking the obvious question. “Majesty, what of the imperial mages? Surely they could find and summon this man much more quickly than I.”

The empress’s forthright manner became suddenly evasive. “He cannot be moved by magic,” she replied, looking away. “Even the ring will fail if …”

Her voice trailed off. Zala waited patiently. The empress shook off her odd mood and added, “He must be found the hard way. Rely on your own wits and skill.”

Zala vowed she would. She always had.

The empress explained that ten thousand crowns had been deposited with Zala’s partner in Caergoth. When the huntress returned with her quarry, another twenty thousand would be paid to her on the spot. The sum caused Zala’s jaw to drop. She’d never dreamed of such a commission.

“What man is worth thirty thousand crowns?” she blurted.

“His name is Tol, once Lord Tolandruth, general of the Army of the North and champion of the late emperor, Ackal IV.”

Zala knew the name. Tolandruth had been an important warlord once, winning many battles against the Tarsans, but six years ago he’d fallen afoul of the current emperor and gotten himself banished. He must’ve done something pretty bad to lose his titles and position. No wonder the empress wanted their business kept secret. The emperor would not be pleased to know his chief consort was searching for a disgraced former hero of the empire.

“He may be dead, Majesty,” Zala warned.

“He’s alive,” was the unhesitating response. “I know it in my heart. Bring him to me. Quickly.”

Zala took her leave. Once out of the empress’s presence, she drew a deep breath. She was sweating beneath her deerskins, though the palace was cool enough. Here was a chance to make more money with one job than she could in fifty years of ordinary tracking. Her partner in Caergoth – her human father – was old and sick. Thirty thousand gold pieces would ease his burdens immeasurably.

However, the empress’s threats, delivered with practiced ease, were very real. If Zala failed, she would die; of that she had no doubt. The empire was broad, with many places to hide, but the Empress of Ergoth had a long reach. She must find this Tol swiftly and get him back to Daltigoth.

She pulled the hood over her head again before she exited the palace. Leaving the unnatural calm of the Inner City, she merged into the turbulent night.

*

The forest rose ahead, seeming solid as a city wall. The sun, playing hide and seek behind ragged clouds, would alternately illuminate the trees in golden light, then leave them again in shade. Thick undergrowth made it impossible to see more than a pace or two into the forest.

Egrin Raemel’s son sat on horseback a dozen strides from the edge of the Great Green. The former Marshal of the Eastern Hundred scratched his chin through a beard mostly gray; very little of its original auburn color remained.

Two decades had passed since Egrin last had entered this forest. Sword in hand, he’d followed the trail broken by his commander, Marshal Odovar. Only a few score paces inside, the dense undergrowth vanished as the branches of the majestic trees formed a dim, leafy canopy. There were few landmarks; one enormous tree looked very like another to open-country Ergothians. Within half a day, tribesmen had fallen upon their rear, driving them deeper into the woodland, and away from any hope of rescue.

But rescued they were, by a force of one hundred foot soldiers led by Tol, Egrin’s shield-bearer. The boy was barely seventeen. Born to farmers so backward they didn’t bother keeping track of birthdays, Tol didn’t know his precise age. His people moved to a different set of rhythms than town folk. A boy was old enough to do a deed when he was big enough and strong enough to accomplish it. Even after coming to Juramona and training as a warrior, Tol lived that way. More often than not, he succeeded.

The sun came out from behind the clouds again. Egrin mopped sweat from his brow. He didn’t relish entering the Great Green again. This time, it wasn’t forest tribesmen who worried him. There had been peace between the Dom-shu and the empire for years. These days, worse things than wild woodsmen inhabited the world. Inhuman things.

Although born in a wooded area himself, Egrin had been forced out at an early age. The small settlement of humans and elves in which his family lived was destroyed by raiders. His human mother was killed and his father, a Silvanesti elf, had vanished. Egrin had been left with a sympathetic human family at a settlement far from the woodlands. His new family insisted – for his own safety – that he hide his mixed lineage, going so far as to have his upswept ears cropped to a more “normal” shape.

He had been concealing his parentage ever since. He had told the truth to only two people: a wife, long dead, and Tol, the farm boy who had become like a son to him.

The broad meadow at his back, known as Zivilyn’s Carpet, was alive with spring wildflowers, just as it had been that day twenty years ago when he’d entered the Great Green with Lord Odovar. This time Egrin had traveled alone, and this time he had no Tol to come boldly, foolishly, to the rescue.

No, that wasn’t strictly true. Tol was going to rescue Egrin again – Egrin and everyone else in the Ergoth Empire – if only Egrin could find him. It was for that reason the former marshal had left his small, comfortable home in Juramona to undertake a journey for which he was, he admitted frankly to himself, getting much too old.

Well, he wasn’t getting any younger, or any closer to finding Tol, just sitting here staring at the trees.

He dismounted and led his horse forward. The sway-backed beast was the only horse he’d found for sale for a dozen leagues in any direction. All decent animals had been rounded up and sold to the imperial army. As many horses as men had died in the last three battles – and men were more easily replaced.

Once he’d entered the shade, Egrin hoped the heat would abate, but it did not. The trees grew so close together they shut out any breeze, making the air stifling and oppressive. He’d forgotten that.

Further in, the tangled undergrowth thinned enough to allow him to ride. Brownie – the illogical name his gray-coated mount bore – sighed as Egrin settled on his back again, but the beast moved readily enough when Egrin tapped heels to his ribs.

They picked their way carefully through the great maples and broad oaks, until Egrin found the beginning of a trail. A less experienced eye would not have seen a trail at all. It was no more than a scuffed area of moss, a few rocks worn free of dirt, and the suggestion of an opening in a tangle of windfall trees, but Egrin knew someone had trod this way before.

Unable to get more than a general glimpse of the sun, he could only guess how far he rode that first day. Eight leagues, maybe nine, passed beneath Brownie’s hooves by the time daylight faded and the first mournful call of the whippoorwill echoed through the trees. He saw little game. Although a deft tracker, and considered stealthy by his comrades in arms, by forest standards Egrin was a great lumbering oaf, tramping and crashing through the woods like a rampaging bull. Wild beasts and forest folk easily kept out of his way.

On the second day, he found more trails, some quite obvious now that he was deep in the forest. Artifacts turned up. Small things, but the bits of woven cloth, tufts of fox fur tied to twigs, and shards of unbaked clay, indicated people had passed this way.

That night he heard distant drums, and a strange humming sound rising and falling through the black trees. The noise was eerie, like nothing he’d ever heard before, and he slept with his sword by his side.

First light of the third day brought visitors. Four brown-skinned foresters stood in plain view on the trail ahead, watching him. They wore buckskin vests and long, floppy trews. Tufts of animal fur on loops of fine cord hung from tiny holes punched in their earlobes. All four carried deeply curved short bows. The stiff bows could easily put a flint-tipped arrow through a man’s leg. If they were still getting bronze and iron from the Silvanesti, their arrowheads would penetrate his mail shirt.

Moving with great deliberation, Egrin packed up his meager camp. He lashed his bedroll across the horse’s rump, mounted, and rode toward the waiting men.

The forester on the far right held out his hand. When Brownie’s nose touched the fellow’s hand, the aged horse shuffled to a stop.

“You’re a long way from home, grasslander,” said the forester on the far left.

Egrin ceased his fruitless efforts to urge Brownie into motion. “Peace to you,” he said. “I’m alone, and I’m looking for someone.”

The fellow who’d halted Brownie muttered something in his native language. The others grunted. The mistrust in their eyes needed no translation.

The man on the left said, “You’ve found someone. Now go back.”

“I seek Voyarunta.”

Two decades earlier, Tol had bested the Dom-shu chief Makaralonga in battle. Ergothian custom obliged him to execute the man. Unwilling to kill an honorable foe who’d surrendered on promise of clemency, Tol and the healer Felryn had conspired to fool their superiors and allow Makaralonga to go free. To help keep their deception from becoming known, Makaralonga had chosen a new name, Voyarunta, meaning “Uncle Corpse” in the Dom-shu dialect. It was his joke on the mighty Ergoth Empire.

The fellow’s dark eyes narrowed. “We are Karad-shu,” he said.

Egrin silently cursed his luck. Voyarunta’s tribe was friendly with the Ergothians, because of Tol’s wisdom in sparing their chief. The Karad-shu were another matter entirely. Reputedly allied with the Silvanesti, they were no friends of Ergoth.

“It is important I get to Voyarunta,” Egrin said calmly. “The lives of many foresters and grasslanders depend on it. Where can I find him?”

The tribesman regarded him in silence. Egrin waited, drawing on the legendary patience of his long-lived Silvanesti ancestors. His calm persistence was rewarded.

“The chief of the Dom-shu is at the Place of Birthing.” Twitching his head slightly over one shoulder to indicate a northeasterly direction, the Karad-shu added, “Two days on two feet.”

A day and half by horse. Egrin thanked the tribesmen. He had no idea what the Place of Birthing might be, but decided against questioning the foresters further. He was too relieved to see them go.

That day and the next night were full of portents. Drums beat far away; the whistling, humming noise continued to wax and wane. Egrin found totems and fetishes erected next to the trail – skulls on posts, carved boulders, and the skin of a bear tacked to a maple tree. As he rode by the latter, hornets erupted from the dead bear’s eyes and mouth.

He was instantly engulfed by a cloud of huge, stinging insects. The stings felt like a red-hot iron wire stabbing into him over and over. The attacking hornets caused the aged Brownie to dance sideways. Lashing the reins, Egrin drove the terrified horse away from the swarm. He slapped insects out of the air with his gauntleted hands, and the ferocious creatures tried to sting him through the heavy steerhide.

The insects pursued them only a short distance, but Egrin’s danger wasn’t done. Once stirred to action, Brownie was not easily calmed. The sway-backed horse barreled ahead, heedless of the branches that threatened to sweep Egrin from the saddle.

Galloping down a hill, the horse stumbled, throwing his rider. By the time Egrin sat up again, all that remained of the horse was the sound of his hoofbeats fading rapidly into the west.

Egrin cursed as he slowly sat up. Most of his gear had gone with the horse. All he had left were the sword and knife he wore. Ignoring his various aches and pains, he brushed dirt from his clothing and continued on foot.

The eerie whirring, humming noise was growing louder, sounding like a chorus of dragon-sized crickets. Distracted by the noise, stumbling a bit on tired, aching legs, Egrin found himself surrounded by a score of tall foresters.

They were armed with spears, most flint-tipped but a few sporting tarnished bronze heads. More startling than their arms was their attire. Each forester wore a long skirt made of strips of red bark. Breastplates of white whittled sticks, knotted together with cord, covered their chests. Any exposed skin was hidden beneath a paste of grease and ashes, and their heads were encased in fantastic masks made of clay, leather, animal teeth, and horns.

Before Egrin could speak, two tribesmen came up behind him and shoved him to his knees. A quartet of flint blades ringed his face. A forester with a pair of boar’s tusks protruding from his mask uttered a sharp phrase. It did not sound kindly.

“I am here on a mission,” Egrin said, keeping his hands out to his sides, away from his weapons. “I seek Voyarunta.”

Boar Tusk spoke again, a longer speech, but no more helpful.

“Makaralonga,” Egrin said carefully. “I have come to see Chief Makaralonga.”

Even with their faces hidden, the tribesmen’s suspicion was plain. Two of them hauled Egrin to his feet, taking his sword and knife.

A newcomer arrived, and the foresters parted ranks for him. His mask was of a particularly hideous mien, with protruding eyes, a sunken, twisted nose, and the tongue of a buck deer hanging from between its bared wooden lips. The entire mask was painted dead white.

White Face eyed Egrin up and down. “I will take you to Makaralonga,” he finally said, his words muffled by the grotesque appliance.

He addressed his comrades in their own tongue, and an argument broke out. Boar Tusk seemed strenuously opposed to the plan. White Face’s reply was to rap his spearshaft over Boar Tusk’s head. The blow likely would have felled a bareheaded man, but Boar Tusk staggered, merely stunned.

White Face turned to Egrin. “Do not speak, and when I hold up my hand, look at the ground,” he ordered. The lolling-tongued face came close. “Disobey, and you die.”

Egrin nodded, and they departed.

As they traveled, a quarter-league at least, the throb of drums grew more distinct. Glimpses of blue sky ahead revealed they were approaching a clearing. The redbud, dogwood, and other smaller trees disappeared, leaving only the widely spaced giants of the forest. The ground around the massive tree trunks was bare, packed by the tread of many feet over many years. They reached the edge of a ravine and halted.

The narrow, bowl-shaped gully was lined with crudely cut blocks of native stone. The stones were set in horizontal rows along the ravine’s sides, and these benches were crowded with tribesmen. Hundreds of the Dom-shu, all garbed and masked like Egrin’s captors, sat and stared at a ceremony taking place on the floor of the ravine.

Their attention was focused on two concentric circles of foresters. The outermost ring was made up of drummers, beating a regular one-two rhythm on pairs of skin-covered drums. Within arm’s reach in front of them was a circle of flame, a ring of wood stacked waist-high. Inside this marched a circle of tribesmen wearing tiny breechcloths and a thick coating of ash and grease. They moved in single file. Following the east-to-west motion of the sun, they lifted their knees high and drove their heels hard into the cindered soil. Each dancer whirled a length of cord over his head. At the end of each cord was a slat of wood. This whirling slat was the source of the weird humming Egrin had heard. This close, the sound was deeply affecting. Not just the sheer volume of it, but the quality of the noise. The bass note seemed to penetrate the chest and make the bones shiver.

In the center of these circles, a lone figure squatted. Alone of all the tribesmen present, he was not covered in ash, nor masked. He was naked, his long gray hair falling past his shoulders. Skin browned by years of forest life stretched tautly over his sinewy frame. On his back, scars stood out white as paint.

“Makaralonga,” said White Face, though Egrin already had deduced as much.

The Place of Birthing, the Karad-shu had called it. Egrin understood a little better what the forester had meant. The chief wasn’t witnessing the birth of a child or grandchild; it was Makaralonga himself who was being reborn.

At some unseen signal, the seated onlookers rose in a body and shouted. White Face lifted a hand. Egrin dropped his gaze to the ground, covering his eyes with his hands for good measure. The shout resolved into a chant. Only four words, the chant was repeated again and again. Egrin felt the hair on his neck prickle. Sweat beaded on his brow.

“Do not look, if you value living.” White Face punctuated his words with the point of a metal dagger in Egrin’s ribs.

By regulating the whirling of their sticks, the dancers produced a concerted pulse, matching it to the machine-like regularity of the drummers. To Egrin’s surprise, he felt his own heartbeat quicken to match the rhythm. The blood pounded through the great vein in his neck, as though he was engaged in strenuous exercise. Even more astonishing, he realized he could feel White Face’s heartbeat as well, transmitted through the blade of the dagger he still held to Egrin’s side. The forester’s pulse matched Egrin’s own. He had no doubt the heart of every soul present was hammering now in perfect unison.

Gradually, the dancers allowed their music to slow to a less frenzied tempo. The drummers changed their rhythm as well. White Face’s dagger was withdrawn.

Given leave by the forester, Egrin looked up. Makaralonga stood in the ravine below, donning a deerskin robe. Pale wisps of fog drifted around him.

The flaming ring of wood was no more than glowing embers, and the scene was washed in the ruddy light of the setting sun. Egrin was puzzled. He was certain only one mark had passed since his capture, yet if sunset had come, half a day must have elapsed.

White Face guided him away from the Place of Birthing. They followed a wide, well-marked path eastward, deeper into the Great Green. Scores of masked Dom-shu trod silently on either side. It wasn’t until they reached the foresters’ village that the masks were removed and the foresters began to speak among themselves.

Egrin was taken to a sod hut of considerable size, with a steeply pitched thatched roof. The top of a boulder by the door had been hollowed out to serve as a lamp, the hollow filled with burning animal fat.

A boy came out of the hut. About seven years old, he had curly dark hair, a high forehead, and skin paler than most Dom-shu.

Nodding toward Egrin, the boy asked, “Who’s the old grasslander?”

“Mind your tongue, Eli!” White Face snapped. “He is an Ergothian warrior of great renown.”

The boy’s face showed skepticism, but before he could say more, White Face removed his fearsome headgear and Egrin’s mouth fell open in shock.

“Kiya!”

Eldest daughter of Makaralonga and a warrior of the Dom-shu, Kiya had been given to Tol years ago as hostage and wife, along with her younger sister Miya. The formidable pair had never been wives in the usual sense, but looked after Tol, his household, and his affairs. When Ackal V drove Tol into exile, Kiya and Miya were the only ones who dared go with him.

Egrin’s head was reeling. “By all the gods, Kiya!” he exclaimed. “I never suspected it was you in that getup!”

Kiya pulled her long horse-tail of blonde hair from the neck of her tunic, where it had been concealed. She and the old marshal clasped arms, warrior fashion.

“I could not reveal myself until now,” she explained. “You entered a sacred area at a most critical time. If I hadn’t come along, you might be dead in the greenwood now. Why do you seek my father?”

“To ask his help in finding Tol.” He gripped her shoulder. “Where is he, Kiya? Where’s Tol?”

In answer, she held up the leather door flap and gestured for him to enter the sod hut. The boy Eli scampered in ahead of them.

The long narrow room within was smoky and ill lit by a fire burning fitfully on the rock hearth in its center. Egrin scoured the shadows, looking for the face he so longed to see, but it was Miya who emerged from the rear of the hut.

“Egrin!” she cried. “You look older than dirt!”

“He is older than dirt.”

The comment came from a blanket-draped figure stirring by the hearth. Egrin saw brown eyes gleaming through a long shock of dark brown hair.

“Egrin Raemel’s son,” Tol said and extended a broad hand.

Abandoning restraint for once in his life, Egrin sank to his knees with a glad cry and embraced his friend.

Chapter 2

WAVES BREAKING ON A
DISTANT SHORE

Tol sat silently by the fire in the sod house, listening to Egrin’s recital of the grim events engulfing Ergoth. This deep in the Great Green, news of the outside world was scarce. A refugee talked to a traveler, who exchanged news with a roving hunter, who brought information to the land of the Dom-shu. Not even this hearsay reached Tol’s ears. He had only superficial interactions with those outside his family circle. The Dom-shu respected him, but even after six years among them, he was still an outsider.

Miya passed around more food, a simple meal served in gourd bowls, as Egrin related the bakali’s defeat of the First Fifty Hordes at the bend of the Solvin River.

Swallowing a mouthful of smoked venison, Tol asked, “Was Relfas killed?”

“I’m certain he will be,” was Egrin’s grim reply. Relfas and a handful of his warlords had survived the battle and returned to Daltigoth to report on bakali strength and tactics. Egrin expected they would not long outlive their men. Two centuries before, Ackal Dermount had created a law stating that no warlord could live if his horde was defeated. Seldom applied back then, the harsh decree suited the current wearer of the Iron Crown. Ackal V had employed it before, and there was little hope he’d be inclined to leniency after such a stunning defeat.

“Your emperor had best take care, or he’ll run out of generals,” Miya said. Motherhood and village life had rounded her face and figure, but her brown eyes were as penetrating as ever.

Remnants of Relfas’s army, led by Lord Hojan, had retreated to Juramona. As Hojan recruited more soldiers and prepared for an attack, the bakali instead struck southwest, toward Caergoth, second largest city in the empire. Its governor, Wornoth, owed his position to the emperor’s patronage. Although an imperial lackey, he tried to do the right thing, summoning all the hordes in his domain. Seventeen thousand Riders mustered outside the walls of Caergoth, under the command of General Bessian.

Tol knew Bessian; his reputation as a fine soldier was well deserved. Unfortunately, Bessian’s horsemen faced over one hundred thousand bakali – nearly six times their own strength. The Ergothians caught the enemy host while it was divided by the East Caer River, and many lizard-men fell to their sabers, but the bakali eventually regrouped and surrounded Bessian’s army. Not a man had been left alive.

Silence descended as Egrin finished his account. For a time, the only sound was the hiss and pop of the fire as Tol and the Dom-shu sisters took in this second disaster. The First Fifty, the cream of Ergothian warriors, defeated at the Solvin, and Bessian’s seventeen thousand wiped out completely.

Egrin explained that the bakali, having no weapons with which to destroy Caergoth’s walls, had simply marched on, desolating the countryside in their path. What they could not carry off or consume, they put to the torch.

“With no warlords surviving the second battle, I suppose the emperor had to settle for taking the governor’s head,” Miya said with gallows humor.

Egrin replied, “Wornoth survived.”

Desperate to deflect his patron’s wrath, Egrin explained, Governor Wornoth had sent General Bessian’s entire family, in chains, to Ackal V. Shocked by the twin disasters, and placated by the arrival of the slaves, the emperor had thus far neglected to order Wornoth’s execution.

The last Egrin had heard, the bakali were ensconced in an enormous camp north of the Ackal Path, halfway between Caergoth and Daltigoth. Nearly every warrior in the western half of the empire had been called to battle, including garrison troops. As a result, one hundred and eighteen hordes had mustered on the west side of the Dalti River, and stood ready to defend the capital.

“To defend – he doesn’t plan to attack the invaders?” Tol inquired sharply. Egrin’s silence was reply enough. Tol shook his head. “He’s ceding the richest half of the empire to them!”

“He fears losing his remaining loyal warriors in another battle. You know how he mistrusts the landed hordes.”

Ackal V had summoned only the western hordes to defend the capital. Living in the east and north were the so-called landed hordes, comprising warriors, retired for the most part, who had been granted estates by Ackal V’s predecessors, Pakin II and III, and the short-lived Ackal IV. As they did not owe their positions to him, the current emperor did not trust the landed warriors. Steeped in the intrigues and plots that were a part of everyday life in the capital, Ackal V was certain these “provincial lords,” as he termed them, would like nothing better than to plan his downfall. He preferred that they and their armed retainers remain scattered on their holdings.

Kiya and Miya argued strategy, while Egrin finished eating. He listened with half an ear to the women, but most of his mind was on the man who sat quietly next to him, by the fire.

Six years was a brief span to a long-lived half-elf like Egrin, and even for a human it was not so great a length of time. Yet, the six years that Tol had passed in the Great Green seemed to have wrought many changes on him, Egrin thought. Some were physical. Tol seemed bigger. Not taller, but broader in the chest and shoulders. He’d allowed his beard to grow and it now reached his chest. His hair, likewise untrimmed, hung loose past his shoulders and was threaded here and there with gray. New lines feathered out at the corners of his eyes, and bracketed his mouth. His eyes, however, were just the same. In them, Egrin saw the memory of the boy he’d watched grow into the finest soldier in the empire.

Other changes were less obvious. Tol seemed somehow quieter than Egrin remembered, less given to speech, more introspective. As the Dom-shu sisters enjoyed one of their all-too-frequent arguments, Tol sat and stared into the fire, giving no sign he even heard the sisters. It was as though he had withdrawn into himself.

Egrin ate the last of his meal and set aside his empty bowls. “There’s more,” he announced.

The Dom-shu ceased their wrangling and Tol looked up from the dancing flames.

“There’s been a second invasion.”

Miya swore. “More lizard-folk?”

“Nomads. The bakali invasion displaced tens of thousands of them. Having lost everything to the lizard-men, they formed an army and now they’re trying to seize as much Ergothian territory as they can. The Eastern and Mountain hundreds are crawling with their warbands, and Hylo is threatened. Some isolated garrisons sent out small detachments, demi-hordes, to stop them, but these were swept aside.”

Tol shrugged, saying, “Who can blame the nomads? For centuries Ergoth has taken their land and slaughtered them in battle.”

“They’re savages!” Egrin exclaimed. Miya snorted, and Kiya gave him a dry look. Embarrassed, Egrin cleared his throat. “Beg your pardon, but the plains nomads are far more barbarous than any forest tribe.”

“Grasslanders,” said Kiya, shaking her head. Egrin didn’t know whether she meant the plainsmen or himself.

Soft snores from Eli, who had fallen asleep with his head in Miya’s lap, recalled them to their surroundings.

Tol rose and carried Eli to bed, a pile of furs in the darkest corner of the hut. Rejoining his comrades, he said, “The chief will have supped by now. He should be told of these events. Let’s pay a visit to Uncle Corpse.”

Kiya and Egrin preceded Tol out, but Miya remained where she was. Only warriors could enter the chief’s great hut. However, Tol gestured for her to accompany them.

“You fought beside me for twenty years, Miya. That should make you warrior enough. If anyone protests, we’ll fight them. That’s tribal law, too.”

Miya stood, hitching a patterned shawl up around her shoulders. “That’s my old husband!” she said, grinning down at him. “I’ve missed him!”

Tol gave her a friendly shove through the door flap.

The Repetition of Births ceremony was the Dom-shu’s most important ritual, celebrated every three years once the chief’s hair turned white. The rites would continue for nine days, with exhausted dancers and drummers being replaced by fresh ones to keep the spirit level high. Voyarunta’s great hut, six times the size of any other structure in the village, was crammed with sweaty, noisy warriors. Most were seated on the hut’s blanket-covered floor. When Tol and his companions entered, the sight of Miya brought the revels to a sudden halt.

“Son of My Life, why have you come here?” said the chief, peering through the haze of hearth smoke at the newcomers arrayed inside the door.

“Father of My Life, a visitor has come from Ergoth. He seeks to deliver a message to us,” Tol answered.

Several of the warriors called for Miya to be sent out. She didn’t budge, but cast a wary sidelong glance at Tol. With his own gaze fixed on Voyarunta, Tol declared, “All here are warriors. Both of the daughters of Makaralonga have fought at my side. Does anyone care to dispute this with me?”

He shrugged off the bearskin. His shoulders, arms, chest and stomach were impressive, rippling with muscle.

Noting Egrin’s wide eyes, Kiya whispered, “He chops wood every day.”

“A great deal of wood, apparently,” Egrin muttered.

Voyarunta, looking very hale despite his mane of snowy hair, waved away his warriors’ objections. “Miya fights better than most of you. She may stand by the door.”

It was a great concession, and the Dom-shu woman swelled with pride. Tol introduced Egrin, and the old warrior moved further into the room and saluted the chief.

“I know you!” Voyarunta said. “You were in the battle where the chief of the grasslanders perished.” He meant Lord Odovar. “You were the one whose sword struck twice for each blow!”

It was an apt description of Egrin’s fighting prowess. Egrin inclined his head in gratitude. The chief bade him speak his message.

Egrin shared the tale of the bakali invasion. He held nothing back, recounting the twin defeats of the imperial hordes in grim detail. A few Dom-shu expressed dry pleasure at their old enemy’s plight, but when Egrin mentioned the second menace – from the plains tribes – the foresters erupted.

“The men of the plains are our brothers!” declared one. “We should stand with them!”

“Death to the iron soldiers!” shouted another.

One particularly tall fellow with bronze skin and yellow hair stood and addressed his chief.

“The gods are punishing the grasslanders for their pride,” he intoned. “Great Chief, will we leave our forest and fight alongside our plains brothers?”

Voyarunta leaned back in his blanket-draped chair. His penetrating blue eyes were fixed on Egrin. “I do not think Twice-Strike came here to rouse the Dom-shu against his own people, Turanaki.”

“No indeed, Great Chief!” Egrin said quickly. “I came to warn the Dom-shu of this peril. No one knows where the host of lizard-men will strike next. It could be the Great Green!”

The blond warrior, Turanaki, made a sound of disgust. “They will not come here! The forest would swallow them. There are richer takings in the west!”

As the foresters debated the merits of aiding the plainsmen in ravaging the Eastern Hundred, Egrin finally realized just how much hostility they felt for Ergoth. Anger held for generations now blazed forth.

Voyarunta silenced them after a time. The chief looked beyond Egrin to where Tol leaned against the doorpost with Miya and Kiya.

“Son of My Life, what say you?”

Tol paused, allowing an interval of silence to pass to dampen the echoes of the heated argument, then he said slowly, “For twenty years, the Dom-shu and Ergoth have had peace. In that time, have the Ergothians ever broken their word to the Dom-shu?”

His gaze traveled around the room. No one spoke because all knew the answer.

“Has trade with the empire enriched the Dom-shu?”

Another question with an obvious answer.

Tol came forward, standing shoulder to shoulder with his old friend. Egrin was still the taller one, but age had begun to whittle down his frame.

“The emperor now reigning is a cruel man, and he never forgets an insult, however slight. If you go to war against the empire, Ackal V will not rest until he has laid waste to the forest. He will kill not only you who fight, but your children, the old ones – all who bear the name Dom-shu.”

Turanaki opened his mouth to speak, but Tol went on, raising his voice. “It may cost the emperor the life of every Rider in his hordes, it may swallow all the gold in the imperial coffers, but he will not stop. He will drown you in the blood of his own warriors if no other means of vengeance remains to him.” Tol shrugged his broad shoulders. “This you should know.”

“We would not be warriors if we lived in fear of what others might do to us!” Turanaki exclaimed.

Egrin ignored the hotheaded forester and addressed Voyarunta.

“Great Chief, I did not come here to incite you against the empire, but to warn you, as a friend and neighbor. I also came to ask Lord Tolandruth to return home.”

Miya drew in a breath sharply, but Kiya nodded with satisfaction. She had guessed as much.

Voyarunta pondered what he’d heard. No one, not even the fiery Turanaki, interrupted the chief’s cogitations.

“The Dom-shu will keep to their forest,” Voyarunta said at last. “As for the Son of My Life, he will do as the gods guide him.”

“I will listen for their counsel,” Tol said, giving the expected answer. Under his breath, he added, “Though I doubt they will speak to me.”

He picked up the bearskin and took his leave of the chief. Miya and Kiya followed. Egrin departed more slowly, as dignity demanded. It would not do to appear to be fleeing the unfriendly climate.

Outside, the cool air was balm to the old warrior’s sweat-drenched brow. Fog was rising in the clearing, and the glimmer of firelight from the surrounding huts looked like amber stars in the mist. Arriving at the sod hut, Egrin found Kiya sitting on the split log that served as a stoop. She barred his entry.

“Husband’s gone to bed. Don’t wake him.” She cut off his protests, saying, “He sleeps so little and so poorly, rest is a treasure to him.”

Giving in, Egrin seated himself next to her. He asked how she had fared over the past six years of Tol’s exile.

Kiya was a formidable woman. She had grown up in a tribe that trained her to fight and suffer without complaint. So when she did not reply right away, Egrin did not press her. He adjusted his position slightly so he could rest his back against the hut, and waited. She would answer in her own time.

The story was a painful one. Miya, Tol, and Kiya had departed Daltigoth in the depth of winter and in the teeth of a snowstorm. Miya was ill with milk fever, and the newborn Eli was no more than a mewling newt wrapped in furs. Tol had sustained terrible injuries at the hands of Nazramin’s personal gang of thugs, the Wolves. Kiya managed to bring them all across the snowy land to the Great Green. Once they reached the Dom-shu village, she’d slept for two days and nights.

Tol was shamed by the beating, and grieved the loss of Valaran, now consort to the new emperor. He remained indoors for many days, but as winter grudgingly relinquished its hold on the forest, so too did Tol emerge slowly from the white silence of his despair. He hobbled around the village, loosening muscles stiff from disuse. His terrible bruises turned yellow and faded. Unwilling to live on the charity of the chief, Tol sought a home of his own. The repair of an empty hut gave him purpose, and once it was done, the sisters and Eli joined him there.

His injuries healed, Tol took up a stone axe and cut firewood. Every swing of the axe made his arms and back sing with pain, but he would not stop. Each blow was a strike against Nazramin. Every cord split were Wolves’ heads cleaved by his sword. After he had killed his enemies many times over, the silent rage in him began to pall. It was too bitter a flavor to nourish Tol. He had purged the fury in his heart by this regimen, while he built his body up even stronger than before, and for a noble reason: bettering the lives of the forest folk.

The Dom-shu had always fed their fires on windfall limbs or punk wood, neither of which burned very hot or long. Tol introduced them to hardwood, cut green, dried, then split. Heat was no longer a rare luxury for the Dom-shu. Cold retreated from the village. Disease, fostered by poorly cooked food and damp living conditions, was greatly lessened by the simple introduction of good firewood.

Tol also planted wild onions, strawberries, and rabbit-cabbage in a small but neat garden plot beside his hut. The tribesmen, who normally hunted game or combed the forest for berries, roots, and nuts, were puzzled by the grasslander scratching the raw earth, but before long, Tol was gathering food not ten paces from his hut. The Dom-shu had thought farming something that could be done only on broad, open spaces. Tol showed them they could grow food in the forest.

Younger Dom-shu men sought his knowledge of war, but this Tol would not share. They already knew how to defend their homes. To know more would only tempt them to fight beyond the forest, and that was the path to destruction.

One warrior tried to goad Tol into fighting, hoping to make his own reputation by besting the grasslander champion. Tol endured his many insults in silence rather than kill the fool. Unhappily, the warrior would not give up. In the village square, he made the mistake of tormenting young Eli, injuring the boy in the process, and the foresters finally glimpsed the warrior Tol had been. He slew the foolish challenger with a single blow of his axe. No one ever challenged Tol again.

When Kiya finished her tale, Egrin weighed what he’d heard against the memory of the man he’d known.

“Is he happy here?” he asked.

“He is calm. He is not happy.”

Tol did not sleep well, Kiya explained, but often roamed the woods alone at night. No Dom-shu would ever do such a thing; they feared the spirits who walked abroad by night. And Tol sometimes stayed away two or three days. He would never say where he went during these extended absences.

“It isn’t the honors or wealth he misses,” Kiya noted. “It’s her. She belongs to his enemy, the man who had him beaten and humiliated, and it eats at him like a festering wound.”

“He must return with me. There’s no one else who can lead the hordes to victory against the nomad and bakali. No one else commands the respect he does. No one has his vision, or his …”

Egrin groped for the proper word. Kiya supplied it: “Luck. He’s lucky.”

“No longer.”

They turned. Tol stood in the dark doorway behind them.

“My luck is gone,” he said flatly. “I used it up when I left to pursue my private vengeance against Mandes. I was the Emperor’s Champion, but I abandoned Ackal IV to the evil plots of his brother. Nazramin staged everything like a playwright, and I handed him the throne of Ergoth as if I’d been magicked to do so.”

Egrin rose and gripped Tol’s shoulder. “Luck isn’t wine, drunk up then regretted! Come back with me, Tol! Only you can save Ergoth. Do so, and the emperor will have to make amends!”

Tol removed his old friend’s hand. “It’s not my fight any more. Let the empire fall.”

Chapter 3

THE UNSIGHTLY GARDENER

From the sparse woodland, the town of Juramona wasn’t much to look at. An agglomeration of buildings, some stone but most wooden, clustered around the base of a large, man-made earthen mound on which stood a palisaded citadel. The town wall was weathered timber, strengthened at intervals by squat stone towers. Here and there outside the walls were piles of rough-hewn granite blocks. Grass grew tall around the stones. While marshal of the Eastern Hundred, Egrin Raemel’s son had begun to convert Juramona’s wall to stone. After he was forced from his post by Ackal V, his successor allowed the ambitious plan to languish. Given the current state of things, no one was likely to disturb the blocks any time soon.

Crouched at the base of a leafing poplar, Zala surveyed the scene. Her journey from Daltigoth had been nightmarish. The countryside between the Caer River and Juramona was infested with roving bands of nomads. Too many times she had to watch from concealment as marauders laid waste to farms, sacked caravans, and put hapless Ergothian captives to the sword. It grieved her, but she could not risk entanglements that would delay her progress.

She stared at the gates of Juramona and pondered how best to enter the town. Night offered the best concealment, but it was only now midmorning. She dared not waste an entire day waiting for darkness. Not only did her commission require speed, but the nomad warbands were gathering nearby. Juramona might be attacked at any moment, making her mission that much more difficult.

Eventually fate, the gods, or sheer luck provided what she needed. A convoy of wagons came thundering down the western road, together with an escort of half a hundred cavalry. The wagons were drawn by teams of horses rather than the more usual bullocks or oxen. Horses meant speed. The convoy must be carrying something vital. Zala noticed the escort was bunched together at the head of the caravan. No one was paying attention to the rear of the procession.

When the last wagon passed her, Zala raced from cover and swung herself into its canvas-shrouded box. She was under cover again in the space of a few breaths. The wagon was filled with assorted casks and crates, all firmly nailed shut.

Once the speeding caravan was inside the city wall, Zala’s wagon pulled hard to the left and stopped, throwing her to the floor.

“Close the gate! Close it!” bawled a hoarse masculine voice.

Zala peered out. Clouds of dust, churned up by the wagons, roiled high into the air. Taking advantage of this cover, Zala slipped out of the wagon and quickly vanished into the unfamiliar streets.

Juramona was preparing for a siege. Lanes nearest the walls had been cleared of obstructions, and the roofs of the houses were covered by green cowhides that could resist fiery arrows. Buckets of sand or water were placed at every corner, and everyone – men and women, youths and oldsters – wore helmets, but there seemed to be few real warriors present. Zala kept her own head firmly covered by her hood, to conceal her upswept ears. One never knew how humans would react to the sight of even a half-elf.

The skills she employed to travel invisibly through field and forest worked just as well in town – perhaps even better, because the town-dwellers were not so in tune with their surroundings as country folk. Many humans credited elves with the ability to make themselves invisible. This was legend, but enjoying the advantage such beliefs gave them, no elf would deny this supposed power.

Zala’s techniques were simple, but required great dexterity. To follow someone unseen, she matched their footfalls so no stray noise would betray her. When standing still, she turned edge-wise from people and, whenever possible, moved toward the left. Most folk, being right-handed, tended to look to the right first before setting out. Taking advantage of this habit allowed a stealthy tracker to keep from being noticed. When looking around trees (or here, the corner of a building), she kept low. People expected to see heads or faces at their own eye level, not close to the ground.

In this way Zala passed like a ghost among the anxious Juramonans. Not till she reached the location described by the empress did she relax her woodland stealth.

The house before her was old and looked long abandoned. Shutters were closed, and crossed timbers were nailed over the front door. Concealing her true purpose, Zala hailed a passing laborer and asked if the house was available for rent.

The youth shifted the hod of bricks he carried off his shoulder and regarded her in wide-eyed astonishment. “The barbarians are coming!” he cried. “Who needs a house at a time like this?”

“I do. Does anyone live here?”

“No! No one’s lived there since Lord Tolandruth left it, before I was born!” The fellow hurried on, shaking his head at the stupidity of strangers.

By such oblique queries, Zala gleaned information about her quarry’s rumored whereabouts. In one street she pretended to be a soldier’s wife seeking news of her husband. In another, she was a peddler trying to collect a debt, and further along, a healer searching for a delirious patient.

As Empress Valaran had surmised, Tolandruth was not in Juramona and hadn’t been for years. However, an intriguing bit of gossip kept coming up. Several people mentioned a man who was said to know Tolandruth well. No one spoke his name; he was referred to as “Tolandruth’s captive,” “the special prisoner,” and most frequently as “the unsightly gardener.”

Inquiring into this mysterious person’s whereabouts, Zala was directed to a rather squalid part of town. She arrived at a row of houses buried beneath the frowning shadow of the High House. Although the day was waning, a few shafts of sunlight still pierced the scattered clouds. At the indicated door, she knocked. No one answered.

The narrow street was empty except for herself and a bony cur gnawing at something dead in the gutter six doors away. Zala inserted her knife in the gap between the door and frame, lifted the latch, and slipped inside.

The room beyond was dark and uninhabited. When her eyes had adjusted, she crept through the room toward the rear of the house. An open window framed a swatch of green and brought the scent of flowers to her nostrils. Remembering the fellow had been called a gardener, Zala slipped warily out the back door. What she saw stopped her in her tracks.

In the small area behind the house, where most folk would have a chicken coop, pig pen, or privy, there was indeed a garden, and no mere kitchen plot for herbs or root vegetables. A verdant carpet of jade-colored grass covered what soil was not already filled with flowers. And such flowers! Sunflowers taller than Zala herself with heads so heavy they had to be supported by strips of ribbon tacked to the lath wall behind; roses, with blooms large as soup bowls and the color of ox blood, filled the air with their dense perfume. Creamy white lilies were beginning to close for the day. Cornflowers, yellow daisies, irises in bold purple and pale gold, violets, and marigolds stood in serried ranks like perfect soldiers. Most remarkable of all was a stand of enormous dandelions, with puffy white heads as big as Zala’s own.

In the center of this magnificent display grew an apple tree, its branches still covered in white blossoms. Fat bumblebees buzzed through the branches, and narrowly avoided collisions with a profusion of butterflies in nearly every color of the rainbow.

Zala’s astonished trance was abruptly shattered by a scraping sound. It came from only a few steps away, from behind a screen of trumpet lilies, their white blooms spotted with red, like blood on snow. Although she circled around the screen with customary stealth, the figure kneeling on its other side knew she was present, though his back was to her.

“You needn’t skulk there. Come forward,” he muttered, continuing to dig the point of a small trowel into the black earth around the lilies.

She advanced, but halted when he turned to look up at her. Her shock was mirrored on his face, and both of them recoiled.

The gardener was a Silvanesti. That fact itself was startling enough, here so far from the elf homeland. But what truly took her aback was his appearance.

Never in her life had Zala beheld such a homely member of the ancient and elegant race of Silvanesti elves. His long hair was a dull dusty gray, tied at the nape of his neck by a scrap of ribbon. Eyes the pale blue of Quenesti Pah’s crystal staff might have been arresting, if they hadn’t been set so close together. Add a long, thin nose, and pale skin covered by too many splotchy brown freckles, and she fully understood the sobriquet he’d been given: he was an unsightly gardener indeed!

For his part, the strange elf recovered quickly from his surprise and said, “So, you’ve come to kill me.”

“What? Why should you think that?” Zala stammered.

“You have the tread of a hunter, but you’re a female half-breed. Such a combination speaks of desperation, so I take you for an assassin.”

Zala folded her arms and put her nose in the air. “I am a tracker, not a murderer. Who are you, that you expect assassins in your own garden?”

“You don’t know me?”

Zala shook her head. He stood, brushing dirt from his Ergothian-style trousers, and said, “I am Janissiron Tylocostathan, formerly general of the armies of the city of Tarsis. Among humans, I am called Tylocost.”

“You’re the one called ‘Tolandruth’s captive?’”

“I am. I was defeated in battle and taken prisoner by Lord Tolandruth.”

Time weighed heavily on Zala. Abandoning discretion, she asked, “Where might I find Lord Tolandruth?”

Tylocost smiled, revealing an uneven set of teeth.

“So that’s why you’ve come. I’m sorry. I don’t know where he is.”

He stooped to retrieve his trowel. When he straightened, Tylocost found himself staring down Zala’s Made. The length of polished iron drew nothing more than a shrug from the former general.

“I still don’t know.”

“I think you do. Silvanesti never forget an injury, and this Tolandruth did you a grave one when he humbled you by defeat. You know where he is.”

He reached out a long arm and plucked a white rose from its trellis. “You have a fair face for a half-breed,” he said, smiling. The smile vanished as Zala pushed the point of her blade through his cloth jerkin.

“I didn’t come here to kill you, General, but that doesn’t mean I won’t hurt you to find out what I must know!”

He stepped back. “I believe you, my dear.”

“I’m not your ‘dear,’” she snapped. “My name is Zala.”

Pigeons flew low over the rooftop. Tylocost glanced up.

“Day is done,” he murmured. “Come inside. We’ll talk.”

She followed cautiously, mindful of treachery. For a Silvanesti and a general, this Tylocost was certainly an odd one. He didn’t seem proud or martial. He seemed – well, very like a gardener.

Tylocost blew on the cinders in the hearth grate until they glowed. With these he lighted a thick, stubby candle. He took a wooden mug from a shelf, filled it with water from a bucket, and placed his white rose in it. He set this on the table. Pouring more water into a tin pan on the table, he carefully washed his hands and face. Zala bit her lip and waited, determined not to betray her impatience. In the course of his ablutions, Tylocost stripped off jerkin and trousers, until he was standing in only a loincloth. Unclothed, he was even more unsightly. The brown spots on his face continued over his body.

Seeming unconscious of his appearance (or at peace with it), the elf donned a light linen robe and fixed a gilded band around his forehead. He seated himself at the table and gestured for her to take a chair. She did so, and asked again for Tolandruth’s whereabouts.

“Time is running out, General – for you and this town,”

She added. “The nomads may attack any day now.”

“Within three days, I estimate. And I doubt the town will survive. The garrison was withdrawn by Lord Bessian after bakali destroyed Lord Hojan’s hordes. Fewer than eight hundred warriors remain. The townspeople have taken up arms, but they won’t delay the nomads for very long.”

“However,” he added, “I’m not worried, because you’re going to get me out of here.” His upraised hand cut off her protests. “That’s my price, dear. I’ll lead you to Lord Tolandruth, if you take me out of Juramona and get me away from the human savages beyond the walls.”

With a disgusted snort, Zala stood. She pulled her hood over her head again and turned to go. He waited until her hand was on the door latch before he spoke.

“Empress Valaran does not brook failure, I’m told.”

She froze. “How do you know my patron?”

“Logic, dear, logic and reason. Someone very powerful wants to find Lord Tolandruth.” Tylocost laid a bony finger alongside his nose. “Ackal V would never send for him, not for any reason. His hatred of my captor is well known. Who then would go to such lengths? The Empress of Ergoth, of course – Tolandruth’s lover.”

Zala blinked in astonishment, but would not he sidetracked. “Who the empress loves or hates is not my concern. My task is to find Tolandruth and return him to Daltigoth as soon as possible.”

“Or else – what?”

In the dim little room, redolent of the flowers in the fantastic garden, Zala felt her world shrink, like a noose drawing tight around her neck. She clenched her teeth. Despicable, homely, Silvanesti. What choice did she have?

“I’ll bring you out of Juramona, if you guide me to Tolandruth,” she said. “In seven days or less.”

“Why the hurry? Do you think to fetch him back here to save Juramona?”

Zala shrugged, but did not share her thoughts. How could a stranger understand that it was not merely her honor on the line, but her aged human father’s life as well? The empress knew where he lived. If Zala failed to carry out her mission, she knew her father would pay the ultimate price. And he was far too old and weak for Zala to consider spiriting him away from his home in Caergoth.

The unsightly elf rose and took a heavy glass decanter from the shelf. He poured two libations from it and offered one cup to Zala.

“Nectar,” he said. “My only remaining contact with the homeland.”

Zala drank. She resolved to slay this smirking Silvanesti if he caused her any more than the promised delay. As she lowered her glass and beheld his misshapen features again, she realized he knew exactly what she was thinking.

*

Egrin lingered in the Dom-shu village, hoping to convince Tol to change his mind. Since Tol spent his days chopping wood and many of his nights roving the forest, Egrin saw him only rarely. His heart seemed closed to his friend’s urgings.

Life in the village had resumed a normal rhythm. Egrin glimpsed the chief one day as Voyarunta held court. Though his hair was as white as ever, the old fellow sat straight and moved easily, radiating health and strength. Miya had explained that the Repetition of Births ritual involved every male warrior in the tribe giving up a small part of his vigor to renew the chief.

Kiya, too, was often away, on her father’s business. Egrin’s time was spent mainly with Miya and Eli. One afternoon, Egrin noticed the boy playing in the shadows at the far end of the hut. Something in his hand glittered in the feeble light.

Egrin rose from his spot by the hearth. His knees cracked like dry kindling, and something caught in his lower back, sending a sharp pain through his hip. His Silvanesti heritage gave him a longer lifespan than a human, but it did not guarantee health or vigor for one who’d spent so many years in battle. Too bad there was no Repetition of Births for aging warriors —.

Eli shoved the shiny object out of sight as Egrin approached. When Egrin asked what he was playing with, the boy quickly said, “Nothing!”

Egrin sat and smiled at him kindly. “Your nothing gleams like metal. May I see?”

A small leather box was reluctantly produced. Egrin raised the lid, expecting to find a knife. The object within was indeed metal, but circular, like a bracelet. It rested on a scrap of black cloth.

“Don’t tell Ma I was playing with it,” Eli whispered. “Please?”

So, it was a trinket of Miya’s. Egrin was about to close the box when something about the object’s design caught his eye. He took it out to examine it more closely.

This was no bracelet. The circlet was made of three strands of metal – gold, silver, and a reddish one, maybe copper – woven together in an intricate fashion. The braid was as thick as Egrin’s finger, its ends joined by a polished spherical bead of the red metal. The bead was delicately engraved with whorls and lines, every line inlaid with gold. Strangest of all, the center of the metal ring was completely filled with a flat disk of polished black crystal.

Eli denied knowing its purpose, adding, “It belongs to Uncle Tol. I’m not supposed to touch it.”

The odd circlet was surprisingly lightweight, and the center crystal was just clear enough to allow light to pass through. Egrin turned toward the fire and peered at it through the crystal —

The object was suddenly snatched from his hand. Miya stood over him, eyes wide and cheeks crimson with anger.

“Where did you get this?” she demanded.

He would not have implicated the boy, but Miya divined the truth before Egrin could answer. “Eli! What have I told you? You’re not to touch your uncle’s things!”

Eli ducked behind the old marshal. His mother didn’t strike him often, but when she did, it was memorable.

Egrin tried to placate her, but Miya would have none of it.

“This was hidden,” she said, glaring at her son. “You couldn’t have found it unless you were looking for it!”

Rising, keeping himself between the two, Egrin said, “The boy shouldn’t have disobeyed you, Miya, but you have the trinket now. No harm was done.”

The formidable Dom-shu woman relaxed a little and he added, “What is it, by the way? I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“It belongs to Husband. It’s very old, very precious. No one’s supposed to know of it.”

Ah, Egrin thought, now he understood. The circlet must have been a gift from Valaran. The treasuries of the imperial palace were extensive, and all sorts of precious things were kept there, torn from their rightful owners by campaigns dating back to the days of Ackal Ergot himself. It made sense Valaran would have given Tol something to remember her by – as if he could ever forget her.

When romance bloomed between Tol and Valaran, Egrin had known nothing about it. Only later, after Tol’s exile, did the rumors reach his ears. Even so, Miya’s reaction seemed out of place. She and Kiya had always had a sisterly relationship with their ostensible husband. The sisters had known of Tol’s love for Valaran almost since it began, and no hearts had been broken by it.

As Miya returned the circlet to the leather box Egrin noticed her fingers were trembling. She ordered them both outside, not wanting them to know the box’s new hiding place.

Twilight had come. The fine spring day was ending. Wind stirred the trees, sending a flurry of blossoms over the Dom-shu settlement. The scene was so peaceful and pleasant that Egrin had to force himself to remember the terrible devastation going on a hundred leagues west.

Eli thanked him for acting as peacemaker. “Ma gets kind of wild when the stone turns up.”

Cocking an eyebrow, Egrin said, “Then perhaps you shouldn’t meddle with it.”

Eli grinned. “She’s just afraid Uncle Tol will find out she’s still got it. He told her to get rid of it after we came here.”

The situation made little sense to Egrin, but then he hadn’t been in love in – how long had it been? Nearly fifty years? A great span to be alone, by any reckoning.

“Will your uncle be home tonight?” he asked.

“Nah. He took a bow and possibles bag this morning, so he’ll be huntin’ all night.”

Kiya came striding across the village square, looking weary. She’d carried her father’s words to the chief of the Karad-shu and returned, a long journey, all in one day.

“Egrin. Boy,” she greeted them. She put a fist under Eli’s chin and lifted it. He responded by punching her on the arm.

Miya called for Eli and he went inside. Kiya asked, “Have you convinced Husband yet?”

The old marshal shook his head, frustration in every syllable as he replied, “If he cares nothing for the empire, you’d think he’d fight for Valaran! Her life is as much at risk as anyone’s!”

“I think he’s worked so hard for so long to stop hurting, now he hardly feels anything.”

Egrin fought back a wave of pity. There was nothing he could do to ease Tol’s pain, yet there was much Tol could do to ease the empire’s suffering, to help every man, woman, and child in Ergoth. Egrin had to break through the wall Tol had erected, stone by stone, around his heart.

“He must go! Everything depends on him!” he said, driving a fist into his palm.

Kiya regarded him in silence for a long moment, then said, “When you see him next, speak of her, not the empire. It’s Valaran owns his heart, not the land of Ergoth.”

She went inside, leaving Egrin alone in the deepening dusk.

Running hard up the leafy hillside, Tol pulled an arrow from the quiver on his back. This would be his last chance to take the deer. Light was failing and his quarry was outpacing him. He saw a flicker of white tail as it fled through the trees, each bound covering three paces. He drew the bowstring to his ear and let fly. With a thrum, the arrow sped through the intervening foliage. Panting, Tol waited for the tell-tale sound of the broadhead striking.

He never heard it. In truth he heard nothing at all, not even the rhythmic thud of the deer’s small hooves. Complete silence had engulfed the woods. Puzzled, Tol moved slowly through the stillness. His footfalls sounded muffled and far away. He nocked another arrow, his last. A good hunter never returned home with an empty quiver. Kiya, fine archer that she was, would have much to say about his sad performance.

The quiet was unsettling. Creatures of the forest became silent in the presence of great danger. Tol’s approach was not enough to cause such alarm. Something else had disturbed them.

He approached the hilltop with care. This place was known to him. On the other side of the hill was a wide, shallow ravine, filled with closely growing alder and beech saplings.

As he crested the hill, there was an intense flash of light. Heat seared his face and his bare left arm when he threw it up to shield his eyes. Hair sizzled away on the back of his exposed arm. For an instant he wondered if lightning had struck at his feet, but he felt no pain, and the brilliant light did not fade. Gradually, his eyes adjusted. Lowering his arm, Tol beheld a marvel.

The ravine at his feet had been transformed. In the midst of the slender saplings was a great orb of light, whiter than the sun. It hovered a few steps off the ground, its radiance hot, but not unbearable.

Tol took cover behind a nearby tree. Instinctively, his right hand went to a spot just below the waist of his trews. This was where, for decades, he’d kept the Irda millstone, sewn into a secret pocket in his smallclothes. However, he no longer carried the artifact. Not trusting himself to destroy it, he’d asked Miya to do it for him when they arrived in the Great Green.

Now, staring at the bizarre orb of light that pulsed, like some enormous heart, at the bottom of the ravine, he wished he’d kept the artifact. His dealings with the rogue wizard Mandes had given him a healthy distrust of magic, whatever its purpose. It had had no part in his life in the forest. Still, it seemed to have found him again, even here.

Tol … Tol …

Someone was calling his name, a faint, barely discernible sound. He raised the bow, his final arrow nocked, and prepared to draw the bowstring back.

Tol, where are you? Come to me!

Strange. The voice sounded female. In fact, it sounded like – but couldn’t be. It couldn’t be her.

Tol, it’s Valaran. I need you. Come to me!

He nearly dropped the arrow. It was her voice!

“Valaran,” he whispered. Then, more loudly: “Valaran!”

He hadn’t spoken her name aloud in years. Once his injuries healed, he hadn’t allowed himself even to think of her. Such thoughts were pointless, bringing only pain.

“Val! I hear you! Where are you?” He stepped out from behind the tree. The bark on the other side was beginning to smolder. Leaves scattered on the forest floor had turned brown, edges curling.

Do you hear me, Tol? A messenger will come for you. Hurry to me!

Tol called to her several more times, but it seemed that Valaran could speak to him, but not hear him. When the orb began to dwindle in size, Tol threw down his bow and raced down the slope toward the fading light. He had to let her know he had heard her message!

Shouting her name, slipping and sliding in the loose leaves, he lost control near the bottom of the slope and blundered forward. One of his outstretched hands penetrated the very center of the shrinking globe. He half-expected to be burned, but instead the orb exploded in a noiseless flash, lifting him off his feet and tossing him into the scorched saplings.

By the time he’d shaken off the impact and recovered his sight, he beheld a very different apparition. The pulsating orb of light was gone. In its place was a city.

Small as a child’s toy, the city lay dead center in the ravine, bathed in bright sunlight. The walls and towers were no higher than Tol’s knee, as though he viewed a real town across a great distance. The apparition was so perfect and life-like, Tol recognized the place immediately. It was Juramona.

Smoke billowed from various buildings, and flames topped the old wooden walls. The High House, residence of the Marshal of the Eastern Hundred, was engulfed in fire. Swarms of men on horseback galloped through the smoke and chaos. The south gate was breached, as was the east. Sabers rose and fell. Tiny figures on foot fell like scythed grain. Juramona was being sacked.

Gradually Tol heard the noises. Softly at first, and garbled, they soon sorted themselves into distinct sounds – the crackle of flames, hoofbeats, the clash of arms, and above it all, the wailing cries of the dying. A thousand swords struck down a thousand victims – men, women, and children. The smell of blood filled the air, an odor as thick as the smoke.

A new sound arose, slowly growing louder. At first he couldn’t credit it, it was so utterly out of place. Soon it drowned out all the other noises and there was no mistaking it: laughter.

A single male voice was laughing at the carnage. As surely as Tol knew his own name, he recognized that laugh. It was Nazramin, who now ruled Ergoth as Emperor Ackal V.

The laughter swelled in power and volume until it beat at his ears, pounding in his head like a relentless sea. Eyes squinting against the agony, Tol fell to his knees.

Was this the same kind of strange, waking dream that had tormented him on his journey to slay Mandes? If so, then Tol could make it stop. He could wake himself from it.

Lifting a hand high, he slammed his palm down on a sharp stone.

The burning town and killing laughter vanished. Tol was lying on his back, staring up at the stars through gently waving tree branches. Over the ringing in his ears, normal night sounds – tree frogs, crickets, birds – made themselves heard once more.

Tol sat up. Blood stained his right hand, and his bow lay in the leaves a short distance away. The bowstring had burnt in two. As he moved, the leaves around him disintegrated into ashes.

The vision was gone. The ravine was populated by nothing more than the closely growing trees, their spring foliage dark in the filtered moonlight. The taste of the experience lingered strongly: Valaran’s piteous call, the wails of the dying in Juramona, and the emperor’s malevolent laughter.

He wrapped his torn hand with a strip of leather, and started hack to the village. On the way he thought about what he’d seen. Valaran must be searching for him, which meant something had changed in Daltigoth. Why now, after six years, would she reach out to Tol? Were the twin invasions by bakali and nomads reason enough for her to risk the emperor’s wrath, should she be discovered?

The second vision was equally troubling. How could a town as large and as well-defended as Juramona fall to nomad tribesmen? Had Val sent him the second vision as well? It made no sense that he would be shown something that had already happened, something he could do nothing about. He must have been given a glimpse of the future – a future he might yet be able to change.

In spite of his rapid pace, midnight had come before Tol reached home. With a shout, he roused the inhabitants of the sod hut. Kiya and Egrin sprang awake with bare blades in their hands. Eli sat up, blinking in confusion, black hair wildly awry. Miya, sleeping next to him, only shifted slightly.

Tol briefly described his second vision in the forest. The first, of Valaran calling to him, he kept to himself.

Kiya was disposed to think it was a trick, but Egrin wasn’t so sure. The changes in the town’s defenses that Tol had described had been added only after Tol’s exile, by Egrin himself. Although not compelling proof, Egrin felt this was significant evidence the vision was a true one.

Whether trickery or truth, Tol had made up his mind already. If there was a chance he could prevent the town’s destruction, he had to try.

“I leave for Juramona. Tomorrow,” he announced.

Kiya felt he was acting hastily, but knew there was no point trying to dissuade him. Eli jabbered excitedly about horses and swords, journeys and battles. Egrin, still trying to absorb the news, asked Tol what he planned to do when he got to Juramona.

“What I can.”

From anyone else, this would have sounded pathetic. From Tol of Juramona, it amounted to a sacred vow.

Chapter 4

FOOTSTEPS OF FIRE

The great plaza before the imperial palace in Daltigoth was ablaze, lit not by looters’ fires but by massed torches. Six hundred imperial guards, standing shoulder to shoulder, ringed the plaza. The light of their blazing torches cast a brilliant, wavering glow on the high stone walls surrounding the Inner City, and gave their polished armor a coppery sheen.

Within the perimeter of straight-backed guardsmen a smaller contingent of armed men stood more casually. Lean and unkempt, with gimlet eyes and hard, scarred faces, each man wore a wolf pelt on his back, the beast’s head perched atop the crown of his brass helmet. These were the Emperor’s Wolves, Ackal V’s private guard.

The emperor was seated in an ornately carved and gilded chair. Various officials were arranged behind him – Lord Breyhard, general in command of the Riders of the Great Horde; court functionaries; and important city leaders, such as guildmasters, merchants, and priests. To the emperor’s right stood the empress, holding the hand of a small, black-haired boy. A misty green veil covered her face. Custom had long decreed that no man could be alone with the empress. Ackal V had added to the stricture: in male company, the empress must be veiled.

All eyes were on the figure who occupied the space between emperor and the Wolves. Out of the entire multitude, only the emperor was smiling at the sight.

Oropash, chief of the White Robe wizards in Daltigoth, lay flat on his back, wrists and ankles chained to heavy stone halls. A thick wooden platform, about the size and shape of a common door, rested on the wizard’s chest. The platform was covered with lead ingots, and the Wolves stood ready to add more. Oropash’s face and bald pate were flushed deep red, his breathing dreadfully labored. The platform and ingots formed a terrible weight.

“Tell me, White Robe, what traffic had you with the lizards?” Ackal V asked loudly.

“None, sire! None!” Oropash wheezed.

“Then, how do you account for their success?”

The wizard made several abortive attempts to reply, finally gasping, “I am not a military man!”

“No. You’re not.” Ackal V gestured to the Wolves. “Another half hundredweight.”

Five more ingots were placed on the platform. The additional burden wrung a high-pitched groan from the wizard. Valaran looked away, and her son buried his face in her robe.

“I require you to see this,” Ackal V said sternly. Valaran’s shrouded head turned back. The boy didn’t move.

“Prince Dalar, too.” When she did nothing, he added, “Turn him, or I shall.”

Valaran knelt and spoke softly to the boy. Only five years old, the Crown Prince of Ergoth was obviously his father’s son. He had the high forehead and rather sharp features of the Ackal line, but his mother’s influence could be seen in the green of his eyes and the dimple that appeared at the corner of his mouth when he grinned.

Dalar whimpered, and shook his head at his mother. She placed a gentle finger under his chin, whispering, “Do as you’re told. Your father commands it.”

This close, Dalar could see through her veil, could see the loving expression only he was privileged to know. For everyone else – especially for the emperor, his father – her face was always set in a cold, hard mask, her green eyes as unyielding as the peridot ring Dalar wore on his little finger.

Taking a deep breath, the boy turned his head. The old wizard no longer struggled for air. His eyes were open, unblinking, and his tongue protruded from between his teeth. Now Dalar found he could not look away.

Ackal V stood abruptly. Many in the crowd behind him drew back quickly, but his glare was directed at the crown prince.

“I arranged this lesson for your benefit,” the emperor said, as though the old wizard’s death was a lecture on history or swordsmanship. “Do you think I question high mages every day? He died too quickly, and the lesson was wasted.”

Without turning, Ackal V pointed to a scribe seated on the ground by his chair and intoned, “Crown Prince Dalar will have nothing but bread and water for the next three days.”

Valaran drew breath to speak. Still not moving his eyes from the shivering boy, the emperor added, “If the empress protests, she’ll have the same for a fortnight!”

She had borne worse, but Valaran would not give him the satisfaction of punishing her in public. Taking Prince Dalar by the hand, she left.

“Tathman!”

“Yes, Majesty!” The captain of the Wolves stepped forward. Tathman, son of Tashken, was a tall, rawboned hulk. Lank brown hair was gathered in a single braid reaching well past his shoulders. Narrow brows cut a straight slash over dark eyes. The eye sockets of the wolf pelt Tathman wore held polished garnets, a sign of his patron’s favor that only added to the captain’s frightening appearance.

“Have the traitor’s carcass removed. Hang it from the outer wall, head down.”

“The whole body, sire? Not just the head?”

“That is your order, Captain.”

The Wolves began clearing away the weights. A delegation of White and Red Robe wizards approached the emperor cautiously. They had chosen a middle-aged White Robe named Winath to speak for them.

“Gracious Majesty,” Winath said. “Permit us to honor our late chief with a proper burial.”

“Oropash was a traitor,” was the cold reply. “Like his colleague, Helbin.”

Winath bowed. “It is true Helbin has disappeared from the city, Mighty Emperor, but poor Oropash had nothing to do with that. Oropash was no traitor.”

The Wolves ceased their labors, their eyes fixing on the wizard. Behind Winath, her colleagues froze. They too stared at Winath’s slight figure, but for a different reason. A glance at the Wolves would be taken as a challenge.

Ackal V replied with deliberate emphasis. “Under Oropash’s leadership, you failed, not once or twice, but three times to keep the bakali host from entering the heartland of the empire. Is that not so?”

The female White Robe inclined her iron-gray head. “It is, Great One.”

“Oropash was a weakling, a fool, and incompetent. That makes him a traitor, too.”

Silence descended in the plaza as Winath considered Ackal V’s words carefully.

“If Your Majesty judges so, it is so,” she finally replied, and it seemed that all present, save the Wolves and their liege, breathed a collective sigh of relief.

The emperor delayed dismissing the wizards until they had witnessed one final humiliation. A rope was tied around one of Oropash’s ankles, and two Wolves dragged him away. The knot of mages tried to show no reaction. Many failed.

Ackal turned his attention back to Winath. “You’re the traitor’s successor, are you not?” he said.

She nodded. She had been Oropash’s second, and until the White Robes convened and elected a new leader, she had command of the order.

“I want new and different spells,” said the emperor. “The bakali have reached the bend of the Dalti River, barely twenty leagues from here. They are not to cross it. Do whatever is needed to stop them.”

“Is that not a task for the Great Horde, Majesty?”

Winath’s boldness earned her one of Ackal V’s unnerving smiles.

“The army is being re-formed. You keep those lizards east of the river, or I’ll begin to question your loyalty, too.”

From the palace emerged a group of Wolves, manhandling some prisoners. The captives, eleven in all, had cloth sacks over their heads. Unable to see, their hands hound behind their backs, the prisoners stumbled awkwardly down the palace steps. The Wolves yanked them roughly to a halt at the bottom.

“Wait a moment longer,” Ackal said to Winath, his tone almost pleasant. “I have another lesson to give.”

Drawing his saber, he swept away from the closely clustered wizards. The emperor’s weapon was no flimsy ceremonial blade, but a standard cavalry saber, deeply curved and well oiled. Only the ornate golden hilt and egg-sized ruby in the pommel distinguished it from an ordinary sword.

“Down, you worthless dogs!” Ackal bellowed, and the Wolves kicked the prisoners’ legs out from under them. The hooded men fell hard to the ancient mosaic pavement. At the emperor’s command, the hoods were removed.

Shocked exclamations, hastily muffled, rippled across the imperial plaza. The men kneeling before the emperor were well-known warlords. Their long hair and beards had been crudely shorn.

“By the law of my illustrious predecessor, Ackal Dermount, I sentence you all to death,” the emperor said. “You abandoned your men and your honor on the field of battle. For that, your heads will dry on the city wall!”

In the center of the line of captives was Lord Relfas, face bruised, beardless jaw looking naked and pale in the torchlight. He tried to straighten his back, struggling against the harsh grips of the Wolves who held his shoulders.

“Majesty!” he cried. “The fault is mine! I commanded the army. Kill me, but spare the others! They fought well! They did not dishonor the empire!”

Ackal V sneered. “You lost. That’s dishonor enough.” Smiling, he added, “Still, since you accept the fault of failure, I shall give you this dispensation: you will be the one who dies last.”

The Wolves guffawed at their master’s clever joke. What he called a favor was of course the worst of punishments. Lord Relfas must watch his subordinates executed, one by one, before the mercy of death blotted out his horror for good.

Relfas’s face went ashen. Two Wolves yanked him to his feet and dragged him to one side.

No specially trained executioner was called. No broad headsman’s blade was used to cleanly behead the captives. The Wolves simply drew their swords and slashed the ten warlords to pieces. When they were done, Ackal V turned and beheaded Relfas with a single sidelong blow. The Wolves raised a cheer for his keen eye and steady hand.

Ackal V returned to the group of wizards. “Remember what I said. Impede the bakali – now.”

He wiped his blade with a hood that had once covered a captive’s head. Relfas’s blood ran down the back of the emperor’s hand.

Dismissed at last, Winath led her colleagues across the great plaza and through the line of torch-bearing guardsmen. As they entered the grove that surrounded the Tower of High Sorcery, one of the Red Robes would have spoken, but Winath’s upraised hand silenced her.

With the setting of the white moon, the great tower’s usual brilliant halo had dimmed and the lofty structure glowed only softly, like foxfire in the forest. Alabaster walls appeared seamless and translucent by starlight. Small minarets sprouted from its sides at regular intervals all along its height. Their crystal peaks gave off a faintly pinkish light.

Winath always allowed herself at least a brief moment to drink in the sight of the tower. It never failed to steady her. For her predecessor, the unfortunate Oropash, the tower had been a hiding place. He hated every moment he was outside its enclosing safety. Winath did not share that feeling. There was too much she wanted to accomplish, goals that could be attained only through the concerted efforts of herself and her colleagues. For her, then, the Tower of High Sorcery was the rational center of her being, an unchanging certainty amidst the maelstrom of the uncertain world.

Enclosing the tower on three sides was the wizards’ college. Each of its four floors was faced by a colonnade. Although the columned walkways were deserted just now, lights burned in several of the building’s many windows. Few were the nights that found no lights burning in the wizards’ college, and sleep had become even more rare since the invading bakali had pushed closer to the capital.

The wizards quickly traversed the white marble courtyard surrounding the tower. The instant they crossed the threshold of the tower’s only entrance, silence could be maintained no longer.

“Beast!” exclaimed a Red Robe. “He murdered Oropash!”

The deaths of the dishonored warlords meant little to her, but Oropash had been one of their own. Other Red Robes echoed her sentiments.

“Remember where you are!” Winath snapped. All knew she referred not to the sanctity of their surroundings, but to the prevalence of imperial spies. The emperor could have eyes and ears even in their ranks, and any number of spies might be hiding behind the alabaster columns of the two levels of galleries overhead.

“We should all have left with Helbin,” another Red Robe despaired.

“No!”

Winath stamped her sandaled foot. The movement made little noise in the vast, circular chamber, yet the tower quivered from foundation to pinnacle. Already the power that had been Oropash’s was beginning to flow within her.

“Helbin betrayed us all!” she said, her voice ringing off the chamber’s domed ceiling. “For three hundred years we slaved to establish this sanctuary in the heart of the empire. In my lifetime I have seen a living tower rise where nothing but a dream once stood. I will not endanger the gains we have made by running afoul of the emperor!”

“He’s a madman!”

This came from one of her own order, but Winath folded her arms and directed her words to the entire assembly. “Read your chronicles. Many cruel tyrants have worn the crown of Ackal Ergot. We have survived them, and we will survive this one – if we keep our heads!”

Her unfortunate phrasing reminded them of poor Oropash, being hung in disgrace from the Inner City wall. On that somber note they dispersed to their private chambers.

Winath climbed the stairs to her former master’s rooms, which opened onto the second level of galleries overlooking the main chamber. His quarters still smelled of berry jam, for which Oropash had had a well-known weakness. She uttered an illumination spell. Every lamp ignited at once.

On the table in his study were several manuscripts, a brass censer, and a shard of pottery covered with figures scrawled in Oropash’s distinctive hand. Winath studied the scrolls. They were notes on tele-clairvoyance – it appeared this had been Oropash’s last conjuration. He had summoned an image of the future, but not for himself. Winath frowned. To whom had he sent it? And why?

She took the pottery shard back to her own room, on the opposite side of the tower. The writing was a cipher of Oropash’s own devising. Knowing him well, it took her only one mark to discern who he had gifted with a glimpse of the future. The name surprised her.

Winath rubbed away the letters with a piece of cloth. If anyone in the emperor’s pay saw that name, the life of every White Robe in Daltigoth would be forfeit.

*

“Down! Down!”

Zala grabbed Tylocost by the hem of his tunic and dragged him to the ground. A band of mounted nomads galloped past, brandishing firebrands and screaming. Although the stars and moons were shrouded by clouds, Zala feared discovery. The blazing town cast a great deal of illumination.

Juramona was in flames. Mounted nomads filled the streets, battling the few townspeople still trying to fight. Zala and Tylocost lay next to a gutted tavern, in the cover provided by a jumble of broken wheelbarrows and crockery.

“We waited too long,” she murmured.

“The actions of savages are notoriously difficult to predict,” Tylocost answered. His pedantic tone was at odds with his disheveled appearance. Free of its confining band, his hair hung loose about his shoulders, and soot stained his face and clothing.

“I heard that some townsmen thought they could save their own lives and property by arranging for Juramona to fall without a fight. They opened the south gate for the nomads.” Zala shook her head. “I hope they were among the first to die!”

“Humans. They’re never so foolish as when they think they’re being clever.”

The last of the mounted nomads passed. In the lull, Zala and the elf sprang to their feet and ran for the open gate. Away from the dying town. Away from the flames and screaming.

Tylocost might be ill-favored in some ways, but he was by no means awkward physically. He easily outpaced his companion during the dash across the open ground beyond the city gate. He reached a line of cedars and pushed through, promptly colliding with a fiercely painted nomad.

Elf and man both were shocked at the unexpected encounter. While they gaped at each other – for no more than a few heartbeats – Zala sprinted by, ran the man through, and kept going. Tylocost stepped over the falling body and raced after her.

Near a dry creekbed, they found horses tethered to a stand of saplings. Zala dropped to the ground. With commendable silence, her companion fell into place beside her. She glanced his way and almost cried out. Tylocost’s face and chest were covered in blood. She quickly realized the gore had come from the nomad she’d slain, but the elf resembled a ghastly specter, come back from the dead.

Composing herself, Zala turned her attention back to the tethered horses. Their owners were arguing over the division of the booty they’d taken from the town. Zala could see the men’s bare, suntanned legs on the other side of their horses.

“Mocto killed the Ergoth warrior. Let him have the first choosing!” said one loud voice.

“Warrior? Ha! An old man with a soup pot on his head!”

“But I did kill him,” said a third voice, presumably Mocto.

“Well, I killed the woman and boy who carried the goods in a rolled-up rug,” said a fourth voice. “I should get first choosing!”

Disparaging remarks were made about parentage. Punches were thrown, and one nomad fell to the ground. More curses filled the night air.

Zala gathered herself, holding her knife so its blade lay flat against her forearm. Soundlessly, she slipped between two of the tethered horses. The biggest nomad, the one who claimed to have slain a woman and boy to steal their goods, received the point of her long knife in his kidney. He dropped to his knees, his face a mask of astonishment. He died thinking one of his comrades had murdered him.

The other three spotted the intruder in their midst and lunged for the weapons they’d left sheathed on their saddles. Zala got one fellow in the ribs. He backhanded her, sending her reeling away, then fell to his knees, lung punctured, unable to breathe.

A third nomad drew his own knife. He and the half-elf traded cuts, but her fighting style confused him. Zala feinted an overhand stab, which the nomad tried to block with both hands. Pivoting backward on one heel, she drove her blade into his chest.

The last nomad had taken to his heels, running back toward Juramona and his comrades. Tylocost retrieved a bow lying next to the nomads’ swag, nocked an arrow, and let it fly. The fellow tumbled head over feet and did not get up.

It was a skillful shot, and Zala congratulated Tylocost on his prowess.

“I was a warrior of House Protector. I am proficient with all arms, no matter how coarsely rendered,” he said, dropping the bow.

Nettled by his arrogant tone – after all, she had dispatched three of the savages – she swung herself gracefully into the saddle of a painted horse without touching the stirrup and asked sarcastically, “Can you ride?”

In answer, Tylocost vaulted over the rump of the nearest animal, using his hands to boost himself over the leather pillion and into the saddle. He leaned down and loosened the reins. With a quick glance at the stars, he pulled his mount’s head around and cantered off, south by east.

Zala thumped heels into her mount’s flanks and followed, wrapped in a thoughtful silence. Her peculiar companion was proving to be rather useful.

Being mounted proved a camouflage for the two travelers, Several times they passed sizable bands of nomads in the dark, yet none challenged them. They were taken for fellow plainsmen, or perhaps it was the blood-spattered visage of the elf that forestalled questions. Tylocost certainly looked as though he’d come from a frightful battle.

They rode long into the night with Tylocost in the lead, following a trail only he could see. Other than studying the stars periodically, he did not take his eyes off the tall grass before him.

A few marks before dawn they halted by a small creek that wound around the foot of a bramble-covered knoll. While their mounts drank, Tylocost splashed water on his gory face.

Zala watched his ablutions in silence for a moment then said, “You’re not the overbred, high-toned fellow you pretend to be.”

“Well, I certainly am overbred. How else did I acquire this misshapen face? I’m high-toned, too, if I understand your meaning.” He looped wet hair behind ears that stood out like jug handles. “What I am not is a weakling, or a fool.”

“No? Then why did you stay in Juramona all these years, even after Lord Tolandruth was exiled? You could have left any time.”

“And gone where? I’m an outcast in my homeland. Besides, I gave my word of honor to Lord Tolandruth when he paroled me. After my defeat at Three Rose Creek, I could have been executed or imprisoned. Tolandruth preserved me from that. In return, I swore to remain where he sent me and not take up arms again. It was a matter of honor.” Clean but dripping, he sat back on his heels and looked up at her. “Though you’re a half-breed and a female, I think you know what honor is.”

Ignoring the gibes, Zala gave a slight nod. Completing her mission for the empress was not only a matter of earning her pay, or protecting her father from the empress’s anger should she fail, it also was a matter of honor for Zala. She had given her word to the empress. She would not break that vow.

A search through their saddlebags produced provisions enough that they wouldn’t starve any time soon. Zala offered Tylocost venison sausage and a roll of pounded vegetables and seeds called “viga,” nomad trail food. He accepted the latter. Sitting in the sand by the small creek they ate their rough meal. Zala asked where they were headed.

“The Great Green. That’s where Tolandruth is.”

She chewed a mouthful of spicy, smoky deer meat. “How do you know?”

“Reason, dear.” He drank water from his cupped hand. “That pair of giants he called wives are members of the Dom-shu tribe. Exiled from imperial territory, where else would he go but to his wives’ people?”

His reasoning was impeccable, but now that they were away from Juramona and the rampaging nomad hordes, Zala wondered how much she could trust him. Was this slippery Silvanesti taking her to Tolandruth, or merely leading her on a wild goose chase?

“You must trust me, dear,” he said, deducing her thoughts with irritating accuracy. “You’ve kept your part of our bargain, now I shall keep mine.”

“The Great Green is vast. What makes you so sure we can find him?”

False dawn was brightening the eastern sky. Tylocost had finished the viga. He dipped his hands in the creek and shook them dry. “Think of Lord Tolandruth as a mountain peak,” the elf said. “He stands above most men, and such a landmark can be seen from far off.”

He smiled, and for the first time Zala did not shudder at his looks.

*

From its usual temple-like calm, the house of Voyarunta’s daughters had taken on all the frenetic activity of market day in Daltigoth. Every possession had been turned out, piled in twin heaps outside the door. Miya and Eli dragged items to the door while Tol and Kiya sorted them into “take” and “leave” piles.

The morning had begun on a contentious note. Kiya said she would accompany Tol to Juramona, but Miya declined, using Eli as her excuse. The boy protested; he wanted to see “Jury Moona” for himself.

“Are you going to abandon Husband now?” Kiya demanded. “And me? After all we’ve been through together?”

Miya returned her sister’s glare. “I’m not abandoning anybody. You’re the ones leaving!”

“Where Tol goes, I go. And so should you.”

They argued through breakfast, through Eli’s bath, and through the first stages of sorting their belongings for the trip. Finally, Tol intervened.

“Eli stays. War is no place for children – and he needs his mother.”

Eli complained and Kiya argued, raising Miya’s ire and pulling her into the fray. Tol’s shout finally put an end to the discussion. He rarely asserted himself directly over his boisterous family, but when he did they obeyed resentfully.

The sisters and Eli returned to packing. Baskets and blankets were flung, clothes trampled, and gear deliberately mislaid. If the rift between Miya and Kiya hadn’t been so serious, Egrin would have laughed.

He was heartily glad his friend had chosen to return to Ergoth. Once there, Egrin was certain Tol would realize the Tightness of joining the fight against the bakali and the nomads.

“Blanket!” shouted Miya, flinging a brown horsehair cloth at Tol. It hit him on the back of the head, enveloping him in its dusty folds.

“We have blankets!” Kiya retorted. She was shouting, too, of course.

“It’s for the horse!”

“What horse?”

Miya, flushed from her exertions, paused in the open doorway. “You don’t intend to walk all the way to Daltigoth, do you?”

“I’ve done it before!”

Tol dragged the blanket off his back. “We’re not going to Daltigoth,” he said, waving away the clouds of dust. “And if we buy horses, we’ll buy blankets for them, too.”

“Then give it back!”

Kiya snatched the heavy cloth and flung it at Miya. The latter stood aside and let it go winging into the hut’s interior. From within came Eli’s howl of protest. The boy stomped out and threw the blanket at Miya’s feet.

“How do you stand it?” Egrin asked, his mouth close to Tol’s ear.

Tol smiled. “You get used to it. If they didn’t shout at each other every day, I’d think I’d gone deaf.”

By midday Tol had worked the “take” pile down to three bundles of manageable size, one for each of them to carry. The chosen equipment was spare indeed – a water bottle each, a bedroll, dried and smoked rations for the road.

Egrin asked about weapons, and Tol went inside. He stood on a block of firewood and reached up into the rafters, halfway between the chimney vent and eaves. Visibly alarmed, Miya asked what he was doing.

“Fetching Number Six.” This was the remarkable steel saber he’d been given by a dwarf merchant, after Tol’s party saved the dwarves from bandits in the Harrow Sky hill country.

Miya hurried over. “I’ll get it for you!”

Before she reached him, the tip of Tol’s buckskin-wrapped bundle snagged on something further down the rafter. A small leather box fell to the dirt floor.

Miya tried to pick up the box, but Tol’s hand closed over it first. He opened the box. For the first time in six years he beheld the millstone, the ancient Irda artifact that possessed the ability to absorb any magic directed at the one who possessed it. After gazing at it for a silent moment, he tugged a small leather bag from under his sash belt. After dumping out its contents – four silver coins – Tol put the millstone in and tucked the bag inside his pack.

Miya’s eyes were screwed shut, her body braced to receive his fury, but it never came. Instead, he patted her cheek. Her eyes flew open in shock. At that moment Egrin and Kiya entered.

“What’s this?” Kiya sputtered.

“Just thanking Miya for keeping my weapons safe and sound,” he said, winking. Miya’s face was bright red. “You know me, I don’t always take proper care of these things.”

He handed the leather-wrapped sword to Egrin. The old marshal had seen the box overturned on the floor and recognized it as the one Eli had been playing with. He said nothing, only freed the saber from the oily buckskin. The iron hilt was frosted with tiny flecks of rust, which oil and sand would soon remove. Number Six’s blade still had the slight bend it had acquired in a battle with Mandes’s mercenaries, six and a half years ago.

Egrin presented the hilt to his friend. “Your sword, Lord Tolandruth.”

Tol took Number Six. “Thank you, Lord Egrin,” he said wryly.

By midafternoon the trio was nearly ready to depart. Egrin was alone in the sod hut with the Dom-shu sisters, as Tol said his farewells to Eli outside. Once more, Egrin found himself the unwitting cause of an argument between members of Tol’s family.

The old warrior was nearly ready to join Tol outside, when he noticed Kiya holding a piece of jewelry. Crouched by her pack, she was wrapping a beaded headband in soft leather before packing it. The headband was very fine: multicolored beads worked in an intricate pattern, with a fringe of tiny, carved ivory animals on its lower edge. Its ties were as long as Egrin’s forearm, and were decorated with more carved beads and ivory animals. When he commented on its beauty, Kiya’s reaction – and Miya’s – took him by surprise.

“Jewelry?” Miya exclaimed, hurrying over to investigate: “Sister owns no jewelry, except —”

“Shut up!” Kiya snapped.

Miya demanded, “Why are you taking your burial beads?”

Although Egrin didn’t know the particulars, the term “burial beads” certainly had a gloomy ring to it. However, Kiya brushed aside Miya’s question, reminding her that they were going off to fight, after all.

“Besides,” the elder Dom-shu added, directing a glare first at Miya and then Egrin, “it is my concern and no one else’s.”

Egrin nodded quickly, embarrassed to have intruded on such a private matter. Miya gave her sister glare for glare, but said nothing more.

Outside, they found Tol kneeling by Eli. The boy was trying not to cry but he was failing. When his mother appeared, he hurried to her and held her hand tightly.

Chief Voyarunta and his senior warriors had come to see the travelers off. The crow’s feet had vanished from the chief’s eyes. His hair was now yellow streaked with white. Yellow stubble sprouting from his chin.

“Son of My Life, it pains me to see you go,” Voyarunta declared. He embraced Tol Dom-shu fashion, clapping a hand on the Ergothian’s broad back.

Tol nodded. “I thank you, Father of My Life. Your kindness has been boundless.” He waited, prepared to receive whatever wisdom the forester chief felt appropriate, but Voyarunta’s next words caught him by surprise.

Dark blue eyes agleam with ancient ferocity, the chief said, “Take back what is yours, Son of My Life. You are a warrior of warriors, a bear among dogs. Do not let a few curs steal your glory. Your land was made by the sword – by the sword it can be saved, and you with it.”

Egrin wanted to shout agreement, but solemn silence seemed more suitable to the moment. Tol’s thoughts were unreadable. He stood back from the chief and saluted him, open handed.

Voyarunta embraced Kiya, too, adding an affectionate chuck on the chin.

“No wise words for me, Father?”

“What can I tell one wiser and braver than me?”

The praise was so unexpected that Kiya stared open-mouthed at him. Grinning, he added, “The gods walk at this man’s heels. Stay by him, and some of their favor may fall upon you, too.”

Without further ado, Voyarunta departed.

Eli fled into the hut, unable to watch his aunt and uncle leave, and only Miya remained to watch the three shoulder their packs and walk away. Tol waved good-bye to her, as he had many times since coming to the forest. Always before he’d been going hunting or fishing, or just roaming the woodland. Now he was traveling much farther, heading deliberately into harm’s way.

Miya waved back. In her other hand, she held the empty leather box.

Chapter 5

MUCH SOUGHT AFTER

Like a stone falling into a quiet pool, the conquest of Juramona sent ripples of fear and excitement across the empire and beyond. Fear filled the hearts of ordinary Ergothians.

The nomad army was an army in only the loosest sense of the word. The disparate tribes were held together by a common desire for victory against the empire that had taken lands across which nomads once had roamed freely – that, and a desire for plunder. Their heady success induced many nomads to dream of taking the greater cities of the south and west, such as Caergoth and Thorngoth. The imperial army, hammered by the bakali at the bend of the Solvin River, was nowhere to be found in the Eastern Hundred.

Spring gave way to summer’s heat. The vast open country of the Eastern and Mountain hundreds baked under the remorseless sun. Towering fortresses of cloud, sculpted white against the steamy blue sky, sailed overhead but yielded no rain. The dry season was upon the land, the time of dust and fire.

Tol and his two friends emerged from the Great Green into the midday glare of the sun. They stepped out of the trees and into the great open field known to the Dom-shu as the Lake of Flowers, and to the Ergothians as —

“Zivilyn’s Carpet,” Egrin exclaimed, surprised to find himself back where he’d first entered the forest. “Did you bring us here on purpose?”

“I just followed my nose,” said Tol, shrugging.

Kiya, swabbing her face with a piece of homespun, had a different view. “The gods led you here,” she said firmly. “It’s a good omen!”

The sunlit meadow was dense with a fog of pollen and the perfume of a thousand wildflowers. The air was thick as well with flying things – honey bees, bumblebees, butterflies of every hue, and tiny, ruby-throated needlebirds.

Kiya unslung her bow. Without the cover of the trees they were vulnerable, and she had no intention of being surprised.

A morning glory caught Tol’s eye. Its purple petals were streaked with white. A tapestry hanging near the library in the imperial palace depicted that same flower. In a flash of memory, Tol saw Valaran passing before it, her head down as she perused an academic tome.

Shaking off the image, and the memory of her voice calling to him in his vision, Tol set out across the meadow at a trot. Egrin and Kiya jogged to catch up, neither seeing any reason for such hurry.

Tol increased his pace until he was running flat out. Sweat poured off him. It stung his eyes and pooled where his swordbelt gathered his jerkin close to his skin. Without warning, he stumbled, his feet tangling in a bed of thick vines. He fell hard onto hands and knees, and his pack went flying. Sweat from his face dripped onto purple blossoms crushed beneath his fingers. More morning glories.

Now Valaran’s face appeared before him. She asked, “Are you coming? Tol, I need you!”

Her desperate plea echoed her earlier words to him, the vision he’d had while hunting in the forest … He stood and a wave of dizziness washed over him, setting the sky to spinning. Before him, a path appeared in the dense carpet of wild-flowers. The plants weren’t trampled. They simply parted of their own volition, leaving a clear trail three steps wide.

Kiya and Egrin reached him.

“Are you all right?” Egrin asked.

“You’re talking gibberish,” added Kiya, handing him his pack.

As soon as Tol took the pack from her, the strange dizziness vanished and the heaving sky calmed. The trail through the foliage melted away.

Tol shoved his bundle back into Kiya’s hands. The weird dizziness resumed, and the path across Zivilyn’s Carpet appeared again, the plants swaying gently apart.

Strange magic was once again at work. The nullstone was in his pack, and while he carried it he couldn’t see the trail. When the nullstone’s influence was removed, the trail was revealed.

Senses still reeling, Tol tried to explain what was happening. Both Egrin and Kiya were concerned, but Tol insisted, “It’s her. She calls me!”

Unsteadily, he set off, leading them along a trail only he could see. Valaran did not appear to him again. Kiya and Egrin followed warily, she with arrow nocked and he with sword drawn.

The path continued for a league or more, and the flowers of Zivilyn’s Carpet gave way to the waist-high grass of the plains. Except for the stiff, dry grass, the land looked much as it did around Juramona – low, rolling hills separated by the flat floodplains of ancient, long-dry rivers. The few trees were small and widely spaced. Good terrain for horsemen; bad for fighters on foot.

When the path dwindled to a mere shadow in the tall grass, Tol slowly came to a stop. The dizzy sensation of magic had faded, but in the distance, the same direction in which the trail had been leading, he saw a thin column of smoke rising.

His companions saw it as well. By its color, they knew it came from a wood fire, and not smoldering grass. Why burn a campfire by day, and in such warm weather? The smoke was bound to draw attention for leagues in all directions. Although his friends advised against it, Tol led them toward the distant plume.

After a time, a shift in the wind brought more than the smell of woodsmoke to them. It also brought the sound of voices. Tol drew his saber, but kept going. The phantom trail had pointed directly at the smoke plume and he was determined to find out why.

He sent Egrin out in a wide circle to the left, and Kiya to the right. He approached straight on. His tan buckskins blended well with the waving grass. Using the stealth he’d learned during his years in the forest, he crept up on the unseen speakers. One voice (he couldn’t tell whether male or female) was doing most of the talking. Wood clattered on wood, and a fire crackled and popped loudly.

Tol halted abruptly, cursing himself for a fool. There was only one voice ahead – a stalking horse, one of the oldest ruses in the world! The fire and the speaker could be bait to lure the unwary.

A rustling behind him brought Tol whirling around. Not giving his unseen opponent time to attack first, he ran forward. Just as he neared a screen of tall bushes, a sword-wielding figure exploded from cover.

Smaller than Tol, and covered by a hooded cape, the figure parried Number Six’s savage cuts. The figure gave ground, skillfully using the available cover to his own advantage and dodging out of reach.

Tol leveled his saber at the fellow and demanded, “Who are you? Ergoth? Or nomad?”

The figure lifted a hand and pushed back his tan hood. Tol realized “he” was a “she,” and a half-elf to boot. Dark eyes regarded Tol warily.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“A cautious man. My comrades are in your camp. We mean you no harm. Lower your sword, if you’re not an enemy.”

Slowly, she did so, and Tol likewise dropped his point. He gestured at her to precede him. She moved past, wary as a cat.

They arrived at the campfire, built next to a mossy log, to find Egrin and Kiya already conversing with a person seated on the fallen tree. Egrin’s sword was sheathed, and the Dom-shu woman had set aside her bow. Their ease relaxed Tol. Kiya’s instinct for danger was far keener than his own.

Egrin hailed him. The mention of Tol’s name seemed to surprise the half-elf woman, and she regarded him through narrowed eyes.

“Husband!” Kiya said. “Look who we’ve found! The ugly elf!”

It was indeed Tylocost, sitting on the old log, feeding the small, smoky fire from a bundle of twigs at his feet. He inclined his head in greeting.

The half-elf circled them, keeping clear of Tol, but staring at him quite markedly.

“What ails her?” Kiya asked.

“You mean, besides being a half-breed female hireling?” The Silvanesti poked his fire absently. “Just now, she’s astonished. Her name’s Zala, by the way. I’m sure she didn’t bother to introduce herself.”

Tol gave Tylocost a severe look. “By leaving Juramona, you’ve broken your parole,” he said.

“Regrettable, my lord, but I could hardly await your leave to depart Juramona when Juramona is no more.”

He described the sad state of the town’s defenders, and their subsequent betrayal and slaughter by the nomads. Shaken by the news, Tol and Egrin sat down heavily on the log by Tylocost.

“Between forty and fifty thousand, you say?” Egrin repeated hoarsely.

The number was staggering. Every tribe from the eastern savanna must have taken part in the attack. Tol considered Juramona his home, having been brought there as a boy by Egrin, but the news of its destruction was even harder on the elder warrior. Although Ackal V had removed him from his post as marshal, Egrin had continued to live in the town. He had many friends there, warriors and common folk alike.

“Do any imperial soldiers stand between them and Hylo?” Tol asked. Tylocost shrugged. He had no way of knowing.

While the three males sat in silence, Kiya sized up Zala. She was a head shorter than the forester woman, the gracile build of an elf melded with the muscles of a human. Her manner was tense, and her eyes never still. Probably a good hunter, Kiya thought.

“What’s your story?” Kiya asked amiably. “You’re not this old gnome’s mate, I hope.”

“Astarin save me! I’d sooner marry a donkey.”

“Such refined taste you have,” Tylocost shot back.

Ignoring the gibe, Zala addressed Tol. “Lord Tolandruth, I was sent to find you,” she said.

Egrin and Kiya exchanged a worried look. Ackal V’s hatred of their friend was well known. Had the emperor, even after all this time, sent an assassin after Tol?

Zala untied a thong around her neck, bringing forth a small leather pouch. From the pouch, she took a golden ring. “I was told this would draw you to me.” With a pointed glare at Tylocost, she said, “How else should our paths cross on so wide a plain?”

She offered him the ring, adding, “A certain high lady said you would recognize this trinket.”

Tol’s pack, with the millstone inside, lay on the ground a short distance away. When Tol took the ring, the magical effect was immediate and overwhelming.

Valaran stood before him. She was clad in flowing scarlet, the empress’s crown resting lightly on her pale brow. Her chestnut hair fell in a luxuriant cascade to her waist, longer than Tol remembered. Not only could he see her but, most disturbingly, he could smell her honeyed perfume. “Tol,” Val said, “I need you! Come to me!”

The others watched his suddenly anxious face, not seeing the vision.

He returned the ring to the half-elf, and the vision vanished.

“How did you come by that?” he asked quietly.

“I had it from the hand of the empress herself,” she said, putting the ring away again.

The ring was one Tol himself had given to Valaran years before. He explained to his companions what he had seen. But he had trouble crediting the half-elf’s story.

“Empress Valaran lives in seclusion in the heart of the imperial palace,” he said. “She has no way to hire trackers or send messages beyond the walls of the Inner City. The emperor would not allow it.”

The huntress’s dark eyes narrowed. “I do not lie. The empress hired me to find you, to bring you to her. She had a spell of finding placed on the ring, to help me locate you. She seemed worried the magic wouldn’t work on you, but it did.”

It was this last that convinced Tol. Valaran was one of the few to whom he’d confided the secret of the nullstone’s existence. She would know that, should he still have the Irda artifact, a spell of finding (or indeed any spell) would have no effect on him.

At Egrin’s request, Tylocost explained how he’d met Zala, and told of their departure from Juramona three days earlier. Tol realized that his initial vision of the burning town had occurred four nights before; he had indeed been given a glimpse of the future, but not early enough to allow him to stop Juramona’s destruction. His journey had only begun, and already it had failed.

He rose and moved away a short distance, wanting to think while the others continued talking. Without conscious effort, his hand naturally came to rest on the hilt of his sheathed sword.

He’d come this far, but now what? Zala’s explanation of her mission seemed honest enough, but it did not answer the question of why Valaran needed him, why now she had chosen to reach out to him. And the vision of Juramona’s future – had that been Val’s doing as well? It seemed curious that she could tell him what was happening in other places, far away from her life in the palace.

Shaking his head to clear his mind, Tol vowed that whoever was behind his summoning, he would not play the predictable, lovesick swain any longer. He would do no one’s bidding save his own.

In spite of its destruction, Juramona was still his goal. Any Ergothian warriors in the Eastern Hundred would naturally gravitate to the provincial capital, even should it be in smoldering ruins, to regroup under new leadership. They would expect a warlord from Daltigoth to come, to relay the emperor’s commands. Tol’s arrival would be unexpected, but if it was his destiny to leave the forest and save his homeland, there was no better place to begin the task than where he himself had begun.

Egrin agreed with his reasoning.

Their lack of horses was a hindrance. Horses would allow them to travel faster and reach those parts of the Eastern Hundred as yet untouched by the nomads – the great estates of the landed hordes to the north and east. These retired warriors and their armed retainers would be powerful allies.

Tylocost commented that he and Zala had had horses, but had lost them. He seemed to blame Zala for this. She flatly blamed him.

“In any event, my lord,” Tylocost said, stroking his beardless chin, “in Juramona you might collect two, maybe three thousand men of very mixed fighting ability. What can you do with so few against so many barbarian tribesmen?”

“He defeated you with three hundred,” Kiya pointed out. The elf’s ears reddened, and Zala grinned at his discomfiture.

Tol’s gaze turned northwest, where Juramona lay. “I’m not going after the nomads. Not yet. Juramona’s lost, but it is only one town. What’s important is to save the Eastern Hundred. To do that, we’ll need to send messengers to Hylo.”

Kiya’s eyes widened. Zala scoffed. None of his companions could see any reason to involve the light-fingered kender of Hylo, but Tol was adamant.

He requested Tylocost’s aid. “I can make use of you,” he told the elf. “But I would never compel an unwilling captive. If you wish, you may walk back to Silvanost. I give you leave.”

Tylocost had been toying with a twig. Studying the slender stick, he said, “Flaxwood. A native of the north country, beyond the Khalkist Mountains. It’s very out of place here.” He tossed the twig on the fire. “If it can grow here, why not I? I haven’t commanded troops in a long time, but if I can be of assistance, I’m willing.”

“Your allegiance is easily gained,” said Kiya.

“Plainsmen are the enemies of my blood, woman. And if we can hammer them here, the deed will resound in the halls of the Speaker of the Stars. Such a victory may open other doors for me – doors that have long been closed.”

They prepared to depart. Tol asked Tylocost why he’d built a fire, on such a hot day.

“Zala insisted. She awoke this morning, clutching that ring and raving about the need for a fire.”

“You might have drawn every savage for a dozen leagues,” said Egrin.

“I don’t think so,” the elf said. “The land betwixt here and Juramona is largely deserted. The nomads are busy plundering farms and villages further west.”

They set out. Tol found himself at the rear of the party, next to Kiya. “Are you certain you can trust the half-elf?” she murmured. “She could be lying.”

Tol looked ahead at Tylocost and Egrin. The former marshal of Ergoth and the former general of Tarsis were rehashing the tactics of some old battle, each animatedly defending his point.

“We travel with old friends and old foes, so why not liars?” Tol said.

*

Bells tolled across Daltigoth. The city held its breath as the tidings spread street by street, through each quarter.

“Victory! Victory!” the heralds cried. “Lord Breyhard has crossed the Dalti at Eagle’s Ford and smashed the invader! Victory! Victory!”

Valaran stood on the roof of the imperial palace and listened to the joyous celebrations that spread through the streets. No such relief eased the knot of worry in her stomach. She’d read the general’s dispatches to her husband. With one hundred and eighteen thousand warriors at his command, all Breyhard had done was force a crossing against light bakali resistance. Ackal V had ordered the bells rung and the news proclaimed in the streets as a great victory.

Valaran returned to a small bench sitting in the lee of two life-sized statues of Emperor Pakin III, the father of the current emperor. The statues were poor likenesses and had been mutilated by drunken Wolves, hence their exile to this rooftop corner. Valaran had been pleased to find them, however. This aerie offered her at least the illusion of freedom, with no walls pressing in, and the great statues acting as shields against the ever-present wind. Besides, old Pakin III had always been kind to her.

Kneeling, Valaran unrolled a detailed map of the Dalti bend. She noted the positions of Breyhard’s hordes and the locations presumably now occupied by the bakali. The general had a small hook in the enemy’s flesh, but the question was, could he exploit it?

She pushed the scroll open further, revealing Caergoth and the Eastern Hundred. Valaran touched a fingertip to the town of Juramona. It seemed a ridiculous gamble now, sending a lone tracker to find a single man somewhere in the hinterlands beyond the empire. She had tossed a pebble in the ocean, hoping to hit a whale. Still, the gamble had to be taken.

The current celebrations notwithstanding, Daltigoth was awash in fear and doubt. There were daily executions of food hoarders, street thieves, and those who made treasonous utterings against the emperor. Ordinary folk were hanged. Well-born victims of the emperor’s justice lost their heads. The spikes atop the Inner City wall were never empty. Courtiers, warlords, and mages rose to prominence by the sudden death of their predecessors, only to fall themselves when they failed to give satisfaction. Valaran wondered who would ruin Daltigoth first, the emperor or the invaders.

One of her attendants – she never bothered to learn their names – appeared at the cupola door and called for her. The woman’s expression showed her dismay at finding the Empress of Ergoth sitting on a dirty stone bench, her wine-colored silk gown creased and soiled.

Valaran knew the woman would bleat on and on until she acknowledged her, so she let the large map spool shut and asked the woman what she wanted.

“Gracious Majesty, the emperor has sent for you!”

Valaran rose and tucked the scroll under her arm. “Where is he?”

“His private quarters, Majesty.”

Gods, give me strength. The emperor in his private rooms might want anything, from her opinion on a banquet menu to his conjugal rights. Ackal V wasn’t especially fond of her company. As a husband he was little more demanding than his brother, her first husband, Ackal IV. Ackal IV had been of a scholarly bent, and frequently preoccupied with various projects. This emperor’s pleasure sprang more from terrorizing his people than making love to his wives.

Three more attendants were waiting below. They curtsied, their bowing heads topped by fashionable starched headdresses. Rising, they swept away in a crackle of heavy cloth, clearing the hall ahead of her. By law, no male could come within ten steps of the empress unless the emperor was present. Male servants and courtiers were expected to disappear when her attendants materialized, as they heralded her approach. As a result, Valaran’s excursions through the heart of the palace were attended by crashing crockery and slamming doors as various males rushed out of her path.

Ackal V’s private quarters were in the palace’s lower floors. The suite formerly had been occupied by Emperor Ergothas II, whose interest in architecture had led him to design an airy living space devoid of interior walls. A double line of columns bisected the room. In Ergothas II’s day, hanging tapestries divided the vast chamber into smaller private spaces. Ackal V had ordered the tapestries removed and the large windows bricked up. He slept in a great bed in the very center of the suite and, save for a few pieces of furniture, the rest of the hall was empty. The emperor’s favorite hounds ran free in the space, and his Wolves often staged rowdy revels in the side passages.

The Wolf standing guard at the suite’s door was a favorite of Ackal V, who had dubbed him “my Argon,” after the god of vengeance. The fellow was a giant, well over two paces tall. He bore a tattoo of a horned deer on his cheek skull and wore an especially large and smelly wolf pelt that was silvery gray in color. Like all the Wolves, he was unwashed, unkempt, and willing to do anything his patron requested without hesitation. Wolves were the only males not required to retreat at the empress’s approach.

As Argon opened the doors, she glided past without acknowledging his existence in the slightest.

The chamber reeked of smoke and spilled wine and dogs. It was also stiflingly hot. The emperor’s peculiar susceptibility to cold seemed to increase every month. Any room he occupied for more than a few moments had to have a roaring fire, even in summer.

The twin rows of columns stretched ahead of her. Each was decorated with a gilded sconce holding a flaming torch. The floor between the columns was covered by a golden carpet. Valaran’s slippered feet made no sound on the woven pile. In the shadows on each side of the lighted path shapes stirred. Some were hounds. Others were not. She did not look at any of them.

As Valaran drew near the heart of the chamber, the warmth increased. A fire blazed in an open hearth and a bell-shaped copper flue drew in the smoke and sparks, carrying them off to the roof. Straight-backed chairs were arrayed before the fire, but Ackal V was sitting on his high bed, scrolls lying on his lap and piled around him.

“Your Majesty sent for me?” Valaran halted at the foot of the bed, hands folded at her waist.

“Yes, some time past,” he said, not looking up from the scroll he was perusing. After allowing some moments of silence to pass, he lowered the document and asked, “Where were you?”

“On the roof, sire. Listening to victory bells.”

His lip curled at her sarcasm. Although a captive wife, Valaran used her considerable wit to annoy her husband. It was a delicate dance, their marriage. The emperor left much of the mundane, day-to-day work of running the household to his wife, freeing his own time for personal amusements. In return, he tolerated a certain small amount of insolence from her. Not a week went by that he didn’t remind her he could kill her – or worse – any time he chose.

“The only victory Breyhard gained was not getting his men slaughtered crossing the river,” Ackal said. “He has elements of twelve hordes on the east bank, with more crossing all the time.”

Valaran said nothing. The last time she had remarked on military matters in the emperor’s presence, he’d slapped her hard enough to bruise her jaw.

“You’ve read many books,” he went on. “What do you know of the bakali? What are their weaknesses? What moves them? Why are they here?”

“Those are complex questions, sire —”

“Use small words.”

His tone told her she was treading on thin ice. She drew a deep breath, choosing her words with care. “No one knows their motives, sire. In ancient times, they marched and fought at the command of the Dragonqueen herself.”

“Do you think she commands them now?”

“I doubt it, Majesty. No mortal can know the will of a god, of course, but the bakali invaders don’t seem bent on taking over the empire. They fight in a very unusual way. They annihilate all in their path, but don’t spread their attack in any organized fashion. They destroy what they choose to destroy, but a league or so beyond their marching column, no harm has been done.”

He thumped a thickly coiled scroll with one hand. “This fellow claims the bakali were the first thinking creatures in the world.”

“That would be Rathmore, the dwarf historian. His reasoning is suspect —”

Ackal V swept aside half a dozen scrolls, sending them cascading to the floor. Valaran winced at his abuse of priceless manuscripts.

He held up a newer tome. “In your History of the Silvanesti, you say the bakali were exterminated at the end of the Second Dragon War.” A heartbeat’s pause, then he shouted, “So why are we troubled with them now?”

Valaran frowned in thought, pressing her fingertips together at her lips. “All the lizard-folk were slain at the Battle of Time, sire, when the four Mages opened the earth to swallow the dragons and their army. Evidently, some bakali – not part of the force thus destroyed – survived. It is reported our foes arrived on the north coast by ship, like the ones slain in Hylo twenty years ago by Lord T —” Valaran bit off her words, just as Ackal threw her a sharp look. “The earlier expedition may have been a reconnaissance. That it was destroyed may have spared us a direct invasion.” Without speaking his name, she gave Tol credit for saving the empire, for a time.

Ackal V tossed back the bedclothes and swung his feet to the floor. He wore only a breechnap. Sinewy and pale-skinned, his body was covered with the same rusty red hair as his head. He flung on a quilted red velvet robe and tied the sash with a yank.

Valaran continued, “It was the dream of the Dragonqueen to conquer the world, Majesty. We know her forces were defeated here, but no one can say they didn’t triumph elsewhere. There are lands beyond the sea —”

“Yes, yes,” he snapped, turning his robe’s fur collar up around his ears. “And they had to pick my reign to return. Thank Corij no dragons have come with them!”

He shoved an ornate dagger through his sash and poured a cup of hot mulled wine from a pot on the hearth. After draining the goblet, he said, “Consult with the chief of the White Robes – what’s her name? Winath. I need magical means to confound the bakali. Breyhard has courage, but his tactics are lackluster. What I need is a general with wits and luck enough to best these damned lizard-men!”

Catching her eye, he read the thought flashing through her mind. He covered the distance between them in three strides and seized her wrist. He pushed his face so close that his wine-scented breath burned her eyes.

“Does a day go by that you don’t think of him?” he hissed.

She stared right back at him. “No, Your Majesty.”

He trailed the fingers of his free hand down her throat. She bore his touch in stoic silence, eyes fixed on the fire behind him.

After what seemed an age, a smile curved his lips. What his touch could not do, the smile did; Valaran shivered.

“I wonder,” he said. “Does he dream of you as he squats in a squalid little hut somewhere? Or do he and his giantesses have children by now?”

Valaran did not move.

Abruptly, he released her arm and stepped back, telling her to get out. He turned back to the pot of mulled wine.

Relief coursed through Valaran, but she showed no emotion as she walked out of the suffocating heat, her husband shouting at his suffering servants to bring more wine.

Valaran did not return to her rooms to change, even though her gown was drenched in sweat. Flanked by her attendants, she hurried up the central stairs to the imperial library. Her approach cleared the library of the scribes working there. The men had to abandon their work and withdraw immediately, leaving styluses soaking in inkpots and unfinished scrolls lying beneath their corner weights. Valaran sent away her attendants, then locked the doors. At last, she was alone in her favorite room in the world.

Today, the library’s scholarly peace did not soothe her. Filled with fury, she smote a marble tabletop several times with her fist and used language as crude as any sailor. When her anger had cooled, she straightened her disordered hair and clothing, then busied herself among the shelves.

The item she sought was the Ergothinia, a collection of the sayings of Ackal Ergot, founder of the empire. Once required reading for all members of the royal house, the huge tome had fallen out of favor since the days of the usurper, Pakin Zan. Now it was relegated to a high shelf at the rear of the library. The long cedar chest in which it was kept was covered by a thick layer of dust.

Valaran opened the chest. The four parchment rolls inside were dark with age. One by one she removed them and carefully set them aside. Dipping her hand in once more, she drew out a small, flat box. It was made entirely of mirrored glass, a rare material produced by the Silvanesti which yielded uncannily clear images, unlike the brass or tin mirrors made in Ergoth.

Valaran raised the box’s hinged lid. The interior held another mirror set horizontally. She drew a lamp nearer and looked down at the mirror’s smooth surface.

A man’s face appeared. He had short, carefully groomed, sand-colored hair, and his chin was beardless. He wore the loose crimson raiment of a Red Robe wizard.

“Master Helbin,” Valaran whispered. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes, Majesty,” the image replied, its lips moving naturally to form each word.

“The army has crossed the Dalti to attack the bakali.”

The image nodded. “The gods go with them. Elsewhere, there are evil tidings. Juramona has fallen to the nomads.”

The words chilled her heart. “Any word of the huntress Zala?”

“She was there, but escaped. I keep watch on her, as you commanded, Majesty.”

The sound of footsteps in the corridor outside the library set Valaran’s pulse racing. “I must go,” she whispered. “Keep safe the gift of Mandes!”

“It is an evil thing, Your Majesty, crafted by an evil man —”

“Yet it may be our salvation, wizard! Yours, mine, and Ergoth’s! Guard it well!”

Valaran closed the lid and returned the mirrored box to the cedar chest. Covering it with the dusty scrolls of the Ergothinia, she knew her secret was well guarded by the forgotten words of a savage old conqueror.

(Continued in Volume 3)