The Wizard's Fate

Chapter 4

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 facade, 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.