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.