A Hero's justice

Chapter 25

Drums rolled, echoing off the walls of the Inner City. The imperial Household Guard was drawn up in a hollow square, swords hared. Outside the ring of armed men stood the assembled warlords of the empire-those remaining who were still able to reach Daltigoth at the emperor’s command. They solemnly watched the spectacle unfolding before them. Every window in the palace and Riders’ Hall facing the plaza was filled with spectators.

Within the square of guardsmen nine men stood in a line. Warlords all, the nine were bereft of arms and armor, clad in ordinary trews and linen shirts, the garb of condemned men. Their hair and beards had been shorn away.

Also within the square was Ackal V, seated on his golden throne. Prince Dalar stood by his right hand. The heir to the throne wore his own suit of armor, cuirass and helmet wrought in thin, brightly polished brass.

The condemned men were the commanders of the hordes who had been ordered to stop Tol’s advance on the capital. Their leader, General Meeka of the Golden Ram Horde, had protested that he had not had sufficient men to stop Lord Tolandruth, well known as an accomplished strategist. His use of Tol’s old title had cost Meeka his life, and insured the emperor’s rage against his subordinates. Meeka was beheaded forthwith, and his horde commanders likewise now faced the emperor’s wrath.

“You have been found guilty of cowardice,” Ackal V declared. “By law and custom set down by my glorious ancestors, you should all be executed, and your property forfeited to the empire!” He paused for effect. “But I am disposed to be lenient. Only two of you shall die. I leave it to you to choose who shall lose their heads.”

The nine neither spoke nor moved. Their eyes remained fixed forward, staring beyond their angry liege.

Ackal V flushed. “Choose two, or all will die!” he shouted.

The warrior at the right end of the line, a cousin of the Tumult and Dermount clans, stepped forward. “I will die to spare my comrades, Majesty,” he announced.

Immediately, the man next to him stepped forward, saying, “So shall I!”

In turn, each of the others took the fatal step toward the emperor.

Ackal V leaned to the right, murmuring, “You see, Dalar, what I must work with? They fight poorly, disobey me, then offer their necks out of pride. What can I do?” He sighed loudly and sat back. “Very well. Your emperor grants your final wish. Kill them all.”

The warlords outside the ring of guards stirred, shouting, “No!” and “Spare them!”

Ackal V glared at the assembly. “The Inner City wall has room for many heads!” he said loudly.

Dalar flinched at his father’s injustice, but for once the warlords did not. New cries went up: “Shame!” and “Where is honor?” The plaza reverberated with the noise.

Nonetheless, the emperor jerked his head, and his executioner strode toward the waiting prisoners. The swordsman’s bare chest rippled with muscle as he lifted his weapon high.

Without hesitation, the Dermount cousin went down on his knees. The two-handed blade severed his neck in one stroke. In spite of the outraged shouts from the assembled warlords, the next prisoner knelt immediately, and was dispatched with equal swiftness. The executioner traveled efficiently down the line, until all nine men were dead. Their blood flowed together in a great spreading pool, staining the mosaic of the constellation of Corij that decorated the plaza’s center.

A prolonged groan went up from the warlords of Ergoth. They pressed forward, jostling the Household Guards holding them back.

“Justice is done,” Ackal V declared.

He rose and commanded Dalar to accompany him. Outwardly nonchalant, he crossed the square to the palace. A double line of guards formed a path for emperor and heir, and more soldiers jogged down from the palace to reinforce their comrades.

A loud metallic clang behind him made the emperor pause on the first of the palace steps. He looked back. A warlord’s personal dagger had landed on the pavement several paces away. Not a direct threat to Ackal V, the symbol of the warlord’s rank had been hurled over the heads of the massed guards in a show of contempt and defiance.

As though a dam had burst, the single blade was joined by others. They spun through the air, jeweled pommels glittering, a veritable deluge of flashing iron clattering and skidding over the ancient mosaic.

Ackal V’s studied nonchalance vanished. Face contorted with fury, he snatched Dalar’s hand and stamped up the stairs. All present knew that retribution would be swift. No one insulted Nazramin Bethen Ergothas Ackal V with impunity. No one.

The emperor was almost blind with rage. He shoved aside any servant unlucky enough to cross his path. In the antechamber of the throne room, his chamberlains huddled out of reach and uttered soothing phrases.

“Stop that chattering, you imbeciles, or I’ll have your tongues out!” Ackal V roared. The men instantly fell silent. He paced back and forth, unconsciously dragging the little prince along with him. “The arrogance! The conceit! I’ll have them exterminated! Every one of them!”

“Who then will fight for you?”

Valaran, dressed in a gown of imperial scarlet, stood in the open doorway to the throne room. Her chestnut hair, free for once of the tall headdress required by fashion, hung loose down her back. Surrounded by ladies dressed in muted hues, the empress seemed a great summer bloom fallen into a bed of pale spring blossoms.

Her appearance elicited squawks of dismay from the chamberlains. The men immediately cast down their eyes, looking away from the empress’s bare face.

“Why are you out of your quarters, lady?” her husband said icily. “And without a proper covering for your face?”

“Apologies, sire. I feared a riot and came with all haste to extricate Your Majesty from danger,” she replied.

His laughter was short and harsh. “With what troops, lady?”

Valaran gestured to the women around her. “Troops enough, Majesty. Few warlords-even arrogant, conceited ones-would raise a sword against unarmed women.”

This was certainly true, but when she held out her arms and Prince Dalar ran to her, Valaran’s true reason for defying law and custom became apparent. The empress had left her sacred enclave to save her son.

Ackal V’s attention returned to the original source of his fury. “This would not have happened if my Wolves had been here!”

Accompanied by a large entourage of priests, courtiers, and the emperor’s elderly cousin, Lord Gothalan, the Emperor’s Wolves had departed the night before. Their mission was known only to their patron.

Ackal V spoke to a nearby officer. “Tell the captain of the Householders to clear that insolent trash out of the Inner City.”

The soldier saluted and started to leave, but the emperor wasn’t finished.

“Have the daggers gathered up. And send the chamberlain of clans and heraldry to me. I want every blade identified.” A slow smile curved the emperor’s lips. “I intend to see to it each one finds its owner again.”

A small band of horsemen topped a rise in the Ackal Path, skidding to a halt. Before them, golden in the light of the midmorning summer sun, was the greatest vista in the empire: Daltigoth, capital of Ergoth.

On the left, the Dalti Canal ran parallel to the road, its waters jade green, its shimmering surface undisturbed by boats. Commerce, disrupted by the twin invasions, had not revived in the face of the Army of the East’s advance. Peasant farmers and the usual stream of travelers flowing to and from Daltigoth were conspicuously absent.

Between the canal and the road was a line of tall, weathered statues commemorating rulers of past ages. Tol, leading the group of horsemen, noted that the headless figures of Pakin Zan and Ergothas III still stood, just as they had many years ago, when he’d first come to Daltigoth. An image of Ackal IV had been raised since. It was half the size of the other colossi, an indifferent likeness carved in soft limestone. Given the winter storms common to the Great Horde Hundred, the statue’s features wouldn’t last ten years.

The small hill on which Tol and his companions had paused was called Emperor’s Knob. Legend had it that Ackal Ergot had stood here when he first surveyed the site of his future capital.

Tol drank from the waterskin Kiya handed him and reflected on the passage of time. When he’d last stood here, the land around Daltigoth had been gripped by winter, with deep snow blanketing the pasturelands to his left and the great orchards to his right, under a leaden sky. Now, the fruit trees were densely green and the pastures thronged with shaggy, red-coated cattle, the emperor’s own herd.

Although still more than two leagues away, Daltigoth filled the view from horizon to horizon, from the canal in the east to the peaks of the Harkmor range, to the south and west. The great city wall rose like an impenetrable cliff face. Beyond it, and taller still, the wall of the Inner City enclosed the imperial enclave of palace, Tower of High Sorcery, and Riders’ Hall.

It seemed impossible that they could overcome such a vast and imposing place. All Ackal V had to do was shut the gates, and the Army of the East would be powerless.

“They said we couldn’t get into Caergoth either,” Kiya said, reading her husband’s thoughts. She took the skin back from Tol and drank deeply.

Young Lord Quevalen muttered, “Why do we sit here alone? Where are the imperial hordes?”

It was a trenchant question. In the two days since the battle that had cost them Pagas and gravely wounded Egrin, the Army of the East had encountered no serious opposition. A handful of patrols, a few bands of hired archers was all the resistance they’d met, and all were quickly swept aside. Where were Ackal V’s vaunted ninety hordes?

Under duress, the customs officer Hathak had revealed that forces loyal to the emperor were gathering secretly behind the Army of the East. Minor crossroads north and south of the Ackal Path were the rendezvous points. Riders of the Great Horde had been sent out disguised as commoners, and only awaited word to take up hidden weapons and strike Tol’s men unawares from behind.

Hathak obviously believed what he told them, but after some rumination, Tol decided he did not. Since entering the Great Horde Hundred, they’d seen no more than two dozen farmers. Where were all these supposedly hidden warriors? Where were their horses? He felt the story had been planted by the emperor to keep them off balance, to keep them looking over their shoulders rather than straight ahead. His warlords agreed with this sensible assessment.

Since the army’s arrival at Emperor’s Knob, scouts had returned with other news. The city gates were shut tight, but there were signs that large numbers of mounted men had crossed the West Dalti River not more than two days ago-headed away from the city.

Now, as they stared at Daltigoth in the distance, Tol and his warlords were discussing this peculiar development.

“They mean to outflank us,” Mittigorn said. “With our attention fixed on the capital, the emperor’s hordes can sweep ’round behind us and catch us in a noose!”

Two Riders from Zanpolo’s horde arrived, interrupting the debate. With them was a stranger mounted on a sturdy cob and bearing a standard. The plain white disk on its top was not a horde symbol Tol or his warlords recognized.

“My lord,” said the young man. “I am come from my master, chief priest of Corij, of the great temple in Daltigoth.”

The assembled warlords muttered among themselves. Tol leaned forward on the pommel of his saddle. “Does your master have a name?”

The herald swallowed, glancing at the bored warlords at Tol’s back. “Xanderel, my lord. My master is Xanderel.”

“What word does the august Xanderel bring to us?”

“He seeks an audience, my lord, to discuss the grievances that have brought you here.”

Mittigorn and the other commanders of the landed hordes were delighted by the news; they believed the emperor was making overtures toward peace. The Caergoth lords, however, did not trust that interpretation.

“This is not Ackal V’s way,” Zanpolo said firmly. “Negotiate? This emperor only negotiates at the point of a saber!”

“This time he’s not dealing with foreigners, nomads, or lizard-men,” Trudo countered. “We’re warlords of the empire. Why not treat with us?”

Zanpolo shook his head. He was certain this was a trick.

Tol agreed. Ackal V was capable of the worst double-dealing. The whole situation smelled worse than a thief on a gibbet.

According to the herald, the parley would be attended by priests from the temples of Mishas and Draco Paladine, as well as a guard escort of one hundred Riders.

“A large retinue for a few priests,” Zanpolo remarked, as all eyes went to Tol.

He replied after only a brief hesitation. “We will meet your master Xanderel, at sunset, at our camp on the plain, a half-league north of the Dragon Gate.”

The delay plainly puzzled the herald, but he nodded assent and cantered away. As he was going, Miya arrived. She’d been helping nurse Egrin. The old marshal was conscious and improving, but had no use of his right arm.

Told of the proposed meeting, Miya sided with the landed warlords and saw the parley as a good sign. Her sister, predictably, sided with Zanpolo and the skeptics.

“It’s a trap,” Kiya said darkly. “Priests mean magic. Don’t trust them, Husband!”

Lord Quevalen, who knew Daltigoth well, disagreed. “The priesthoods are not happy with the emperor,” he said. “He taxes their holdings heavily, and it is well known that he slights the gods.”

Argument ended as work on the camp took precedence. Tol had delayed the parley for that reason. If Ackal V intended a surprise attack while Tol was talking with the delegation of priests, he’d find a fortified defense waiting.

As work progressed, Miya entered the tent she shared with her sister to find Kiya already there. She was sorting through her scant belongings and had divided everything into four small piles.

“What are you doing?” Miya asked.

Kiya pointed to the first pile, which contained two good knives, a helmet, and a ring mail shirt. “This is for Eli, when he’s old enough,” she said. “That”-a pile of doeskin shifts, leggings, belts, and such-“is for you, Sister.”

Ignoring Miya’s demand for an explanation, Kiya pointed to the third pile, comprising personal items such as her tribal fetish, a carved ivory comb, and a nicely beaded vest.

“For our father,” she said.

She pivoted to point at the final pile, which contained her sword, scale shirt, and greaves. Miya let out a horrified yell.

Kiya’s long horsetail of blonde hair was gone. Her hair now ended raggedly at the nape of her neck.

The elder Dom-shu sister laid the thick hank of hair, tied with a leather thong, atop the last pile. “This,” she said evenly, “goes to our husband.”

Dom-shu warriors only cut their hair before a battle they did not expect to survive. The hair was offered as a sacrifice to Bran, god of the forest.

Miya grabbed her sister’s hands. “What are you thinking? You’ve been gloomy ever since I found you at Caergoth!”

“You found me? Since when does a rabbit track a fox?”

Miya bit off a reply, refusing to be baited. “Why are you in such a hurry to die?”

Brown eyes finally met brown eyes, and Kiya said, “Because the final battle is near. I feel it.”

Miya felt it, too, but not for herself or Kiya. Her chief worry was Tol. “Will Husband survive, do you think?” she asked in a low voice.

Kiya frowned and said, not unkindly, “If a mountain fell from the sky, that man would survive it.”

A skirl of horns interrupted them, announcing the arrival of the delegation from Daltigoth. Kiya rose and buckled on her sword. “You watch the guards, Sister,” she said. “I’ll keep an eye on the priests. Agreed?”

For the first time in many years, Miya felt like weeping. Under her sister’s stern gaze, she struggled to swallow the lump in her throat.

Kiya spun her around to face the door flap and gave her a rude shove. “Hurry up. Ever since you became a mother, you’ve gotten so fat and slow!”

Miya forced a smile and replied, “I’m not fat. I’m only rounded. You’re sharp angles all over. No one would want to hug you!”

It was a lie. She pulled Kiya to her, and they embraced.

The delegation from Daltigoth arrived as the sun was disappearing behind the city. The priests filled four horse-drawn wagons. They were accompanied by a dual line of horsemen. Torchlight showed the escort to be a rather nondescript group, wearing indifferent armor. They looked like provincial levies. Tol’s warlords had expected to see imperial Riders, men they knew, but these horsemen were strangers.

Seven priests descended from the first wagon. All were clad in long white robes, topped by brown, hooded surcoats. All but one were quite tall. That one, the eldest judging by his yellow-gray beard, wore a golden circlet on his head. He was supported by a priest with a clipped brown beard who wore a white turban.

The remainder of the clerics, twenty-three in all, wore robes of sky blue for Mishas, or silver and white for Draco Paladine. They arranged themselves respectfully behind the seven priests of Corij.

There was a tense moment as five hundred spearmen of the Juramona Militia moved in, interposing themselves between the priests and their escort. The priests talked amongst themselves, ending their whispered conclave when Tol and his warlords approached.

Tol greeted the elderly man with the circlet, and asked, “Do I have the honor of addressing Xanderel, high priest of Corij in Daltigoth?”

The old fellow bowed. “I am he.”

“I am Tolandruth of Juramona. Welcome.”

“Thank you, my lord. Shall we retire to your tent to speak?”

“No. Anything to be said will be said out here in the open, for all to hear.”

Xanderel looked distinctly uncomfortable. He insisted they remove to a more private location, but Zanpolo interrupted.

“Speak, priest, or depart!” the forked-bearded warlord snapped.

Xanderel flinched and glared at Zanpolo. Recovering his equanimity, Xanderel produced a slim scroll from his sleeve. “Hear the words of His Imperial Majesty, Ackal V,” he intoned.

Once again, he was interrupted. A lone figure limped out of the shadows. Head bandaged and right arm in a sling, Egrin looked pale as a specter.

“You should not be up and walking!” Miya exclaimed, hurrying him.

“I have a right to be here,” the old marshal rasped, looking to Tol.

Hiding a smile of pleasure, which he feared his old mentor might misconstrue as amusement, Tol said, “You’re welcome, my lord. Always.”

Egrin shuffled through the crowd and stood at Tol’s right hand. Tol told the priest to continue.

Xanderel began to read the parchment he held.

“ ‘To those warriors gathered outside the gate of my city, I, Ackal the Fifth, sovereign lord of the Empire my forefathers made, send you this greeting.’ ”

Weak though he was, Egrin shot a penetrating look at Tol, who nodded. The emperor did not call them an army-an army suggested a legitimate body.

“ ‘Since returning to Daltigoth in triumph, after leading my imperial army in battle to destroy the bakali invaders, I have learned that certain eastern warlords banded together to fight the nomad tribesmen who entered my realm to plunder and pillage. Though not under imperial command, these eastern warlords did manage to drive the savages out of the empire, and for this I commend them.’ ”

A murmur went through Tol’s followers. A promising beginning.

“ ‘Yet this was not enough for some malcontents. Guided by malice and greed, these warlords forcibly entered the imperial city of Caergoth, damaged my property, and wrought violence on the person of my governor, Lord Wornoth. These and other crimes are fully known to me.

“ ‘Now these malcontent lords have come to Daltigoth, not as humble petitioners to my imperial majesty, but in arms, as rebels.’ ”

Loud denials came from Mittigorn, Argonnel, and the rest, and Xanderel paused in his reading until the protestations subsided.

“ ‘Despite this treason, I, Ackal V, forgive you.’ ”

More shouting. Xanderel plunged on, reading faster. “ ‘I forgive all your transgressions against my majesty, including bearing arms against my loyal hordes. Further, I will meet with all those warlords from the east who so desire it, to further mitigate the grievances they imagine they have against the throne of Ergoth. All this, I, Ackal V, do grant, if-’ ”

Here it comes, Tol thought.

“ ‘-the living body of the criminal Tol of Juramona is delivered to me this night.’ ”

Xanderel lowered the scroll, his hands visibly shaking. The silence was so complete, the faint crackling of the numerous torches seemed loud.

None of the warlords wanted to turn Tol over to the emperor, but the offer of a full amnesty, backed by a personal hearing of the complaints that had brought them here, was extremely tempting.

For his part, Tol was impressed. The emperor’s strategy was cunning. Smiling wryly, he turned and said to his followers, “Well, must I leave now, or may I pack my bags first?”

He never heard the dagger being drawn. The tall, turbaned priest standing beside Xanderel drew the blade from inside his robe. Without sheath or scabbard to scrape against, it came out as quietly as death. The Dom-shu sisters, standing just behind Tol, saw the blade glint in the torchlight.

“Assassin!” Miya shouted, as Kiya reached for her saber.

Xanderel and four of the clerics threw themselves to the ground. The rest of the delegation produced daggers or short swords from beneath their robes and flung themselves at the nearest astonished warlords. Their mounted escort drew sabers and attacked the Juramona Militia.

When the turbaned priest, drove his long dagger straight at Tol’s throat, Miya yanked Tol backward and Egrin interposed himself. He seized the assassin’s wrist with his good left hand. As they struggled for the dagger, the priest’s turban fell away.

Tathman!

Tol instantly recognized the captain of the Emperor’s Wolves, despite his trimmed beard. Number Six in hand, Tol shouted for Egrin to get clear, but the old warrior would not let go Tathman’s dagger hand. Lacking a weapon and hampered by his injury, Egrin kicked hard at the other man’s shins. His hobnailed boots cut through the priestly robes and drew blood.

Tathman punched Egrin in the face. The old warrior’s head rocked back, once, twice, three times. Still, his iron grip did not falter. With a roar of fury, Tathman chopped at Egrin’s arm with his fist and finally broke free. Immediately, he slashed downward at Egrin’s face.

Tol caught Egrin and spun his friend into Miya’s arms, then turned to deal with the emperor’s favorite killer.

Tathman fended off Tol’s cuts and thrusts, retreating back toward the wagon that had brought him. His fighting style was peculiar: He seemed more intent on cutting Tol than impaling him.

On one pass the iron blade hissed close by Tol’s face, and he suddenly understood Tathman’s intent. The edge of the blade was coated with a yellow substance.

Poison.

Tol risked a fleeting glance over his shoulder. Egrin lay on the ground, his head and shoulders in Miya’s lap. His eyes were closed, and the cut on his face was bright red and inflamed.

Something deep inside Tol exploded with anger. With repeated thrusts of Number Six, he forced Tathman back until the big man fetched up against the wagon box. Around them, warriors and false priests fought, cursed, and shouted, but neither Tol nor Tathman said a word as they lunged and feinted. Tol’s steel saber finally got through, slicing the captain’s robe and revealing a gleam of metal beneath.

The poisoned dagger whisked by Tol’s eyes. He recovered and slashed hard at the vile weapon, scoring a bloody cut on Tathman’s chin. Down came the dagger toward Tol’s scale shirt. Backing a step, Tol turned sharply and drove Number Six into his foe’s unprotected thigh.

Tathman grunted, and backhanded Tol with his free hand. The blow rocked Tol, and he staggered. A red haze clouded his vision, but instinctively he raised his saber to protect his face. Tathman’s dagger’s struck his handguard. Tol swept Number Six down and felt his blade strike flesh. His vision cleared. Tathman was clutching the base of his neck with one hand, blood welling between his fingers.

The rest of the assassins had been subdued in the meantime. Several warlords, including the redoubtable Zanpolo and white-bearded Trudo, had fallen to poisoned daggers wielded by Tathman’s confederates.

A company of militia ran up with spears leveled at Tathman. Panting, Tol waved them off. He and the Wolf captain stood, gazes locked.

Tol slashed at Tathman’s already wounded shoulder. The big man parried, parried again, then made a backhanded swipe at Tol’s eyes. Tol brought Number Six up to his cheek, edge outward, and the blade cut deep into Tathman’s wrist. The Wolf captain groaned loudly as the tainted blade fell from his nerveless fingers. Still he did not go down, but only-staggered back. His right wrist, partially severed, was held tight against his body; his left hand gripped his bleeding neck.

Tol struck again. Tathman received Tol’s saber through the knotted muscle of his upper right arm. Howling, Tathman fell.

Incredibly, the villain was not yet finished. After a brief struggle, Tathman made it to his knees.

Up went Number Six. Tathman raised his face and peered at his foe through sweaty, bloody strands of hair. There was no pleading in his eyes, only burning, unquenchable hatred.

The steel blade flashed down, and Tathman died.

Tol hurried to Miya. She held Egrin tightly, both of them shaking from the force of her grief. Egrin’s eyes were closed.

“He’s not breathing!” Miya sobbed.

Tol seized Egrin’s hand, saying harshly, “Don’t go, old man! Our j ob isn’t done!”

His plea was in vain. Egrin Raemel’s son was dead.

Tol rose, stumbling slightly on shaky legs. Kiya, standing behind him, gripped his shoulder. Her face was wet with tears.

Looking to Lord Quevalen, who stood nearby, Tol asked, “Are any of the assassins alive?” Hearing that half the delegation and its escort still lived, he added coldly, “I want their heads. Now.”

The Wolves were stripped of their clerical vestments and marched away. The genuine priests pleaded for mercy. Xanderel explained that he was not the chief priest of Corij. That distinction belonged to his master, Hycontas.

“Our part was forced, great lord!” the elderly priest babbled. “Our brothers in Daltigoth are being held hostage! They will be slaughtered because we have failed!”

Tol was not impressed. Xanderel or his fellows could have warned him. If they had, Lord Egrin would not now be lying dead. He ordered the priests stripped. None bore the distinctive chest tattoo of a Wolf-a crimson Ackal sun above a wolf’s head-so he spared their lives.

A wagon was brought forward, and the severed heads of the Emperor’s Wolves were piled inside. Clad only in their linen loincloths, the terrified priests were forced to sit atop this gruesome cargo.

Xanderel’s terror set his teeth to chattering. “My lord, you can’t mean to send us back this way!” he stuttered. “The emperor will surely put us all to death!”

Even through the hatred and anguish boiling in his heart, Tol knew the priest spoke the truth. He stared at the terrified men for a long moment, panting slightly from the force of his emotions.

“No. No one else will die in my stead. I will face Ackal V,” he said at last. “Alone.”

Quevalen and the other warlords protested vehemently, vowing Tol would be killed long before he reached the Inner City. A few threatened to stop him bodily, but the sight of Number Six, still reeking with Tathman’s blood, dissuaded them.

He turned to take leave of the Dom-shu sisters. Respecting their privacy, the warlords drew off a few paces.

Miya still held Egrin’s body, with Kiya kneeling beside her. Joining them, Tol took Miya’s hand and pressed the Irda millstone into her palm. “Keep this for me, in case I don’t come back.”

“No, take it. It will keep you safe!”

“I won’t need it to do what must be done,” he said firmly. “And I won’t risk it falling into the emperor’s hands.”

Her fingers closed around the braided metal circlet. Face distorted by unaccustomed malice, she whispered, “See justice done, Husband! If it takes every piece of luck the gods owe you, see it through!”

He squeezed her hand tightly. “I will, Wife.”

When he stood, Kiya rose as well. “I must come with you,” she said, hand on her sword hilt. He looked her in the eye, and nodded. Miya bowed her head, weeping all the more.

Tol left Mittigorn, eldest surviving commander, in charge. The warlords, shocked by the emperor’s treachery, were equally dazed by Tol’s decision, yet as one they saluted their peasant general.

Kiya and Tol climbed onto the wagon’s plank seat. To supplement her sword, Kiya brought along a bow and a full quiver of arrows.

Of their own accord, the men of the Juramona Militia gathered on either side of the palisade gate and raised their spears, as Tol drove the wagon and its grisly cargo past. He looked left, then right, acknowledging their salute, then fixed his gaze on the distant Dragon Gate ahead.

The night air was warm and stiflingly still. Sweat was trickling into Tol’s eyes. Every small jolt of the wagon felt like a blow. His hands were clenched around the reins of the two-horse team. The priests behind him were quiet except for an occasional whimper or moan. The only other break in the silence occurred when, after a particularly hard jolt, the large head of the Wolf called Argon rolled over and thudded against the side of the wagon. The sight was too much for a younger priest, and he was sick over the side of the slowly moving wagon.

The torches flanking the Dragon Gate came into view. Their light played over the reliefs that surrounded the monumental portal: the hero Volmunaard’s battle against the black dragon Vilesoot. The images seemed alive, moving and shifting in the orange glow.

The gate was open.

Tol pulled the horses to a stop. Both the entry gate-an opening large enough for two riders abreast-and the great ceremonial portal stood wide. The latter yawned like a primeval cavern, black and endless. Twenty horsemen riding boot to boot could fit through it. No guards were in sight.

“This isn’t right,” Kiya muttered.

“It’s perfect.” Tol snapped the reins, setting the horses in motion again.

They passed through the broad tunnel of the gatehouse and into the city proper. The streets were devoid of people. The windows of every house and business were shuttered. No light showed. Wind stirred along the stone canyons, pushing rubbish before it. Somewhere a dog barked.

Against the cloud-streaked night sky, the Tower of High Sorcery glowed like a pearlescent lamp. Its light gave the Inner City wall and palace towers a gray, insubstantial look, as though they were edifices of fog. Kiya recalled the cloud faces that had watched her from the summer sky. She lifted a hand and touched her burial beads, tied around her neck. If Tol noticed, he did not say anything.

Following the route he well remembered, Tol guided the creaking wagon through the empty streets.

At a square just outside the Inner City gate, they found two thousand Riders, bearing the standards of the Scarlet Dragon and Whirlwind hordes, waiting for them. The Riders sat in close ranks, their horses snorting and bobbing their heads in the humid night air.

Tol halted the wagon. Four men in officer’s garb left the front ranks and rode forward.

“My lord Tolandruth!” The one who hailed him was about Tol’s own age, with a close-cropped blond mustache and pale blue eyes. Tol didn’t know him. “I am Gonzakan, warlord of the Whirlwind Horde.”

“Ah. You have come to arrest me.”

The officer frowned and leaned forward in the saddle, as though trying to see better. “I did not picture you arriving by wagon, my lord. What cargo do you carry?”

“The Emperor’s Wolves.”

Astonished, the four warlords rode closer. They swore eloquently.

“The Wolves never looked better!”

“By Corij, he got Tathman! And Argon!”

“He got them all!”

The blond officer addressed Tol in an awed voice.

“We know your errand, my lord.”

“And you mean to stop me?” His fingers tightened on the sharkskin grip of Number Six.

“No, my lord.”

Tol’s eyes narrowed. He suspected a jest, but Gonzakan quickly explained. After the emperor’s execution of nine blameless commanders for failing to stop Tol earlier, the warlords of the Great Horde had come to a momentous decision:

they would no longer defend Ackal V. They were not acting to save the empire, but out of a sense of collective dishonor. For years Ackal V had tormented his people, from the highest priest to the poorest peasant, but Ergoth had known tyrannical rulers before. He had ordered his hordes to fight hopeless battles, but that was a Rider’s lot in life, willingly accepted. To fall in battle was expected, hoped for. However, a pointless, dishonorable death at the emperor’s own hands could not be tolerated. By unanimous assent, the Riders had abandoned the emperor to whatever fate Corij decreed for him-fate in the form of Tolandruth of Juramona.

Tol was stunned. What of the Household Guard? The Horse Guards? The imperial courtiers?

“Some have resisted,” said Gonzakan. “They are being dealt with. Since you’ve disposed of the Wolves, no one now stands between you and the emperor.”

Valaran is mine!

The thought made Tol shiver, in spite of the night’s heat.

Kiya leaned close. “Let’s go, before the dream ends and they change their minds!” she whispered.

Tol dropped the reins. Jumping down from the wagon, he told Kiya to wait there. Like a sleepwalker, he passed between the lines of mounted men, crossing the broad square under the eyes of two thousand warriors.

Iron scraped. A warrior in the front ranks drew his saber and raised it high.

“Tolandruth!” he shouted.

Two thousand sabers thrust up toward the starry sky. “Tolandruth! Tolandruth!”

The Inner City gate was open and unguarded, but the imperial plaza wasn’t empty. Dark stains covered the mosaic. Farther on were several bodies, shapeless mounds illuminated by the glow of the Tower of High Sorcery.

He found more broken weapons and blood on the palace steps. There’d been a brisk fight here, but the Householders had been swept aside.

Once Tol had seen Emperor Pakin III stand on these steps, bathed in the adoration of his loyal subjects, Tol included. Now there was only the sound of the night breeze and Tol’s own harsh breathing. Only one of the iron sconces by the palace doors held a lit torch, and the double doors themselves were ajar. A brass lamp, stamped flat by a heavy boot, lay in the doorway.

The imperial palace felt like a cemetery-potent with the feeling that people had once been here, but now were gone. Tol finally encountered living occupants, small knots of courtiers or servants hiding in alcoves and whispering. More than once he heard his name spoken with the sort of frightened reverence usually reserved for forces of nature. Fire. Flood. Plague. Tolandruth.

The audience hall was barred to him. Its floor-to-ceiling double doors did not yield when he leaned against them. Tol smote the panels with the pommel of his sword and shouted. Ruddy light bloomed in the thin gap between doors and floor. A heavy bolt clanked. The left door swung inward.

Tol lifted Number Six, prepared to face a reserve contingent of Wolves or even Ackal V himself. The face that greeted him was pale, hollow-eyed, and indescribably lovely.

“By all the gods,” Valaran breathed, lifting her oil lamp higher. “It is you!”

Tol’s breath caught and held. She was thinner than he remembered, her chin sharper, and her cheekbones more prominent, but her eyes were still the clear, bottomless green of fine emeralds and her hair a warm, deep chestnut. She was clothed in white, with a delicate tracery of crimson thread decorating her gown’s close-fitting bodice.

“Valaran.” How sweet it was to speak her name aloud! “Valaran,” he said again. “I have come for you.”

She moved back a step so he could enter. She swung the ponderous door shut and threw the bolt. Without warning, Tol suddenly found her in his arms, her face buried in his shoulder. She held him tightly, her body shaking.

“I have worked so long for this moment,” she said, lips close by his ear. “So long and so hard, and I thought many times I’d failed. Yet here you are!”

The catch in her voice touched him deeply. Her scent filled his head, making him dizzy with desire. He lifted his hand and carefully rested it on her shimmering hair.

“I swore I would return.”

A small laugh, faintly edged with hysteria. “I know.”

They kissed, tentatively at first, then with increasing fervor. He had nearly forgotten his rage and his mission, until Valaran drew back and said, “Come, my love.”

She took his hand and led him down the carpeted path that ran the length of the long, high-ceilinged audience hall. Only a few candles in the room’s numerous candelabra were lit. Most of the enormous iron racks were overthrown, candle wax spattered over the floor. Elegant chairs were overturned, tables smashed.

Valaran led him to the rotund body of a man, clad in fine burgundy velvet, lying facedown on the marble floor. A wide bloodstain spread out from the man’s head.

“One of his most loyal chamberlains-Lord Fedro,” she said. “He killed him himself.”

Tol wondered what had happened here, but was given no time to ask. Valaran drew him onward.

The far end of the hall was brighter than the rest of the cavernous room. The throne of Ergoth was flanked by flaming braziers. The seat was vacant.

“Dal! Dal!” Valaran called with quiet urgency.

A small boy emerged from behind the throne and ran to her, clutching her gowned legs.

She smiled^ laying a hand on the child’s thick mop of black hair. “This is my son, Crown Prince Dalar of Ergoth.”

The child had his father’s high forehead and sharp features. His eyes were Val’s, emerald green and enormous in his pale face.

Tol nodded awkwardly at the boy, then looked beyond him. Protruding from behind the throne was a foot clad in a crimson slipper. It twitched. Tol strode around the imperial seat to find the emperor lying on the floor. His robe of gold and imperial scarlet was twisted around his legs and torso, as if he’d been thrashing about on the floor. His eyes were half closed, his fingers twitched convulsively, and he was mumbling into the carpet.

Taken aback, Tol said, “What happened to him?”

“Drugged.” Valaran shrugged at his shocked expression, adding, “I put a sleeping draught in his wine. With the Wolves gone, and him so preoccupied, he didn’t notice until it was too late.”

Tol rolled the semiconscious man onto his side. Ackal V reeked of sweat and sour wine. A bloody dagger lay on the rug beneath him-the same blade, Valaran said, that he’d used to slay his unfortunate chamberlain.

He felt Valaran’s hand on his shoulder. “Everything is ready,” she murmured. “The Great Horde has forsaken him. The Household Guards are beaten and scattered. His Wolves are gone. I knew they couldn’t kill you! No one remains to defend him.”

Tol stood. Valaran put her arms around his waist from behind. She pressed the trembling length of her body against his.

“This is the reason I lived, for this moment! I tried to kill myself, but he stopped me. Then there was Dalar-another reason to live until you came back to me. I dreamt of this, Tol, awake and asleep, for nearly seven years! Only one deed remains. Just one act, and I am yours forever.”

He felt the feather-touch of her lips against his neck. “Kill him, Tol.”

Tol looked down at his enemy. There was no one in the world he hated more than this man. Haughty, cruel, vicious Prince Nazramin, who had murdered his own brother to steal his throne. No one deserved death more than the man who had worked such evil against Tol, from the moment they’d first met up to this night.

Yet Tol did not move.

To hear the woman he adored say, “Kill him, Tol,” as easily he had said, “I love you,” was more than Tol could bear. The touch of her lips had sent a wave of desire through him, but those words brought a nauseating rush of revulsion. His sword arm seemed turned to stone.

“Tol, my love, what are you waiting for? Kill him!” Valaran said, more loudly.

Prince Dalar was watching them, peering around the golden throne of Ergoth. What did the boy make of this? Tol wondered. What did he think of his mother, kissing this strange, savage-looking man and demanding that he kill Dalar’s father? The child’s wide-eyed gaze only deepened Tol’s revulsion. He shook off Valaran’s embrace, stalking away. She followed.

“Where are you going, Tol? This is the culmination of our dreams! We’ve waited so long for this night! Finish him! No one will weep for such a monster!”

The gods alone knew how much Tol wanted to kill Nazramin! When he’d been driven out of Daltigoth, broken inside and out, it was the hope of Valaran’s love and the dream of Nazramin’s death that had kept him alive. He had always imagined killing his enemy, but in some honorable fashion. Never once had he considered slitting the throat of a helpless, drooling drunkard.

Valaran circled the throne to stand by Dalar, who clung to her hand. The great chair stood between her and Tol. “Don’t be misled by pity!” she insisted. “Great men are not moved by such feelings. You are the finest warrior of the age! Look at what you’ve done: slain monsters, bested wizards, conquered nations! Your deeds will live forever! Only one challenge remains. You must complete the saga of Tolandruth of Juramona! Kill the emperor, and both my love and the throne of Ergoth will be yours!”

Valaran’s face was no longer pale, but suffused with blood and contorted by hate. The woman he loved was suddenly a stranger to him. Was this the woman of his dreams?

He had to clear his throat twice before words would come. “I never wanted that,” he told her. “The empire would be destroyed. Riders and nobles would never tolerate a peasant on the throne.”

She made an impatient sound and waved his objections aside. “Any who objected could be put down! You have an army, don’t you?”

Taking up her husband’s dagger, she offered it to Tol.

“Don’t worry, my love.” Her voice was soft, caressing. “You can rule as regent until my son is old enough to reign for himself. Teach him to be as honorable and forthright, as you are.” She extended the blade closer. “How else can we be together? I’ve lived half my life as wife to men I did not love, and lover to a man I could not have. Do you know what that’s done tome?”

Sadness welled inside Tol. Pity and regret were so strong that speech was difficult. “Yes, I can see,” he whispered.

The emperor’s mumbling grew louder and Valaran’s voice rose as well. “Take the dagger, Tol! Kill him! You must! Kill him, Toll!”

He took the heavy golden blade from her hands. It would be easily done. A simple thrust would end Ackal V’s life, as it had ended Egrin’s. A cold shock of pain hit Tol as he remembered: Egrin was dead, killed by Ackal as surely as if the emperor’s hand had held the poisoned blade.

“Egrin-” Tol’s voice broke, but he forced the words out. “Egrin died tonight, killed by Tathman with a poisoned dagger. And Zala, the half-elf huntress, she died in the fight for Caergoth.”

She blinked at him, not understanding, and he added, “Helbin was your ally, too. He has vanished, you know, and is probably dead.”

Valaran turned to stare at her husband. He was stirring more, his mumbled words becoming clearer. Raking her fingers through her long, loose hair, she said, “You’re a warrior, Tol. Haven’t you lost comrades before?”

The polished blade in Tol’s hand was stained with the blood of the slain chamberlain. Tol hadn’t known the man. He might’ve been a cowardly toady, like Wornoth, but he hadn’t deserved to die like that, his throat slit by the very master he served. No one deserved that. No one.

Enough! He threw the dagger to the floor. It skidded across the marble, coming to rest by Dalar’s foot. The prince picked it up.

“It’s done, Valaran. I’m done. And I’m going away. Far away from here.” He held out a hand. “Forget the emperor and come with me.”

Emerald eyes huge, she recoiled. “What are you saying? Go away? I am Empress of Ergoth!”

“All I care about now is you. Come with me, Val. You and your son.”

He could see her breast rise and fall with her rapid breathing. She stared at him, brows knotted in thought. “This is a test. The gods are testing me. That, or else you’re mad.” She gripped her throat with one hand and uttered a short, sharp laugh. “Worse, you’re a coward! Your enemy lies at your feet, and you won’t finish the job! What did all your friends die for? Why did you come here?”

“I’ve done everything I could to save the empire. I won’t stain my soul by killing a helpless man, Val. Not even for you.”

He walked around the prostrate emperor. He was halfway to the doors when Valaran acted. She snatched the dagger from her son’s hands and raced after Tol, white gown flying.

“You can’t leave!” she cried. “The emperor must die, don’t you see? Our lives are forfeit if he survives. He’ll hunt you down, torture you to death! And me! He’ll kill me, Tol! He’ll kill me with his own hands!”

He turned in time to catch her in his arms. Her heart was beating wildly, and ribbons of chestnut hair fell wildly about her face. She radiated fear and fury in equal measure. What he did not sense in her was love.

For more than six years he had survived for one purpose-to be reunited with Valaran. That dream had taken on a poignant reality as he witnessed the suffering Ackal V had inflicted on his people. Now, at the very moment of his triumph, Tol realized his dream was nothing more than that, without substance, without reality.

He was so very weary, in body and in spirit. “Kill him yourself then,” he said.

Fury blazed from Valaran’s eyes. “Do you think I can’t? I’ve killed, Tol, for us! Winath-” She bit off the name, choking back a sob, then insisted, “But the gods would curse me for killing my son’s father!”

He let her go and walked away, out of the palace and out of the Inner City. In the square beyond, the Riders, whispering among themselves, watched him depart, alone and unhurried. Kiya still waited for him. She’d secured two saddle horses and was mounted on one of them. Without a word, he took the reins of the other and swung into the saddle.

Ignoring the questioning hails of Lord Gonzakan, Tol and Kiya cantered away.

Outside the Dragon Gate, Tol paused. Directly ahead, the eastern sky was brightening. Sunrise was not far off. Tol dismounted beneath the imposing reliefs of Volmunaard and Vilesoot and drew Number Six. He jammed the steel blade into a chink between two massive stones, putting all his weight and strength behind it. The saber bored into the mortar to half its length. With both hands Tol pushed down on the hilt. Number Six bent and bent, farther than any iron blade ever could. Just as he began to think the dwarf-forged metal would never yield, it snapped off a span above the hilt.

He returned the stump of the famed saber to his scabbard and swung up into the saddle again.

“Are we done?” asked Kiya.

“We’re done.”

They rode out into the new day.