“Who wears blue?” Tol demanded, incensed. “Not some followers of the Pakin clan, are they?”

“I’ve heard talk about this band,” Miya said in a low voice. “Skylanders, they call ’em. They’re said to owe allegiance to a secret group of provincial landowners opposed to the new emperor.”

“Who do they prefer?” asked Kiya. “Prince Nazramin?”

Tol shook his head. “Nazramin’s followers wear black.”

The politics of Ergoth, like its war-making, was brutal. Factions formed gangs to intimidate their rivals; by committing outrages, they made their opponents look and feel powerless.

Tol knew nothing about these Skylanders or their beliefs, but he wasn’t going to allow vandals to wreak destruction. The square was crowded with more than enough people to subdue the criminals, if only the folk would band together and fight.

Tol drew his saber. “Are we going to stand here and let thugs ruin our city?” he shouted. “Fill your hands, and we’ll send these dogs back to their masters whipped! Who’s with me?”

He started forward a few steps but stopped, suddenly aware he was charging alone. Even the Dom-shu sisters seemed reluctant to mix in. The blue-masked gang continued to overturn carts and pummel helpless onlookers. Anyone slow to flee was dragged aside and beaten with cudgels, the gang’s only weapon.

“What’s the matter with you?” Tol raged, as traders and customers alike stood wide-eyed and unmoving. Those closest to him seemed more frightened of his bared blade than of the rampaging rioters fifty paces away.

Rabbits, he thought suddenly. They were like rabbits frozen in place by the baying of the hunting pack; they think they can hide simply by remaining immobile. Ordinary city folk, diligent and hardworking, they had grown dependent on the Riders of the Horde for protection.

Tol sheathed his sword. Going to a trestle laden with summer cabbages, he handed the seller two silver coins and yanked one of the folding legs loose from the table. Cabbages tumbled around Tol’s feet, and he now had a stout stick. Tapping it against his palm, he started toward the trouble.

Their indifference broken, the Dom-shu yelled for him to wait. They grabbed the first things to hand which could be used as weapons-the wooden poles from their pushcart. Removed from the sockets, these made handy staves.

As the ruffians ploughed through the crowded square, a swell of panicked people rushed to get away. Tol found himself breasting this human tide. He grabbed an able-bodied young man as the fellow rushed by and shook him until his teeth rattled.

“Listen to me!” he barked. He pressed a gold coin into the man’s hand. “Find the City Guards! Have them send a detachment here to quell the riot!”

The terrified man jerked away from Tol and resumed his panicked dash. Two heartbeats later, the stampede thinned before the oncoming Skylanders, and Tol found himself facing seven toughs. More were working their way through the frightened crowd.

Surprised to see someone standing up to them, they halted in a body, but the lull lasted only a moment.

“Him!” exclaimed one of the masked men, pointing at Tol with his stick. “Pound him into the cobbles!”

Yelling, six men charged. Tol sidestepped the first, whacking him across the shoulders in passing. The man pitched onto his face. Tol parried an overhand blow from the second, dropped his shoulder to avoid a hit from the third, and thrust the end of his bludgeon into the face of the fourth attacker. He received a whack on his left thigh from the fifth man. He punched that one in the throat, cursing himself even as he struck home. He knew better than to hit someone with his fist. It was an instinctual reaction, but also a good way to break every bone in your hand.

Ducking a sideways swing from the sixth man, Tol now found himself ringed by masked enemies. He wasn’t overly worried. Although they were rough and brutal, they weren’t trained warriors. He had faced any number of more seasoned and dangerous foes than these street toughs.

Unconsciously, Tol smiled, giving a snort. The contemptuous sound caused the blue-masked gangsters to hesitate; this was not the reaction they usually encountered. Tol immediately used the advantage. He hurled himself at the farthest one, the fellow least expecting an attack. The borrowed table leg connected with the thug’s jaw. Bone yielded, and the man went down.

Someone landed a terrific blow on the small of Tol’s back. Pain seared through him, and he staggered forward. He stumbled against a fruit seller’s stall, collapsing on a tray of ripe grapes. Half blind with pain, he still managed to get his stick up in time to ward off the next swing.

A full-fledged riot had broken out. Some opportunists in the square were trying to loot the stalls, but if the traders would not stand up to masked gangsters, they apparently had no qualms about cracking the heads of common thieves.

The churning crowd had delayed Kiya and Miya, but at last they fought their way to Tol’s side, screeching forester war cries that gave their blue-masked foes a start. Kiya fended off attackers while Miya boosted Tol to his feet.

“Where’ve you been?” he gasped.

“Buyingbeef,” Miya quipped. “Prices dropped suddenly!”

Kiya battered down a Skylander, but more took his place. Blue-masked enemies were thick around them. The press of so many foes forced Kiya back to her sister and Tol.

“You two done resting?” she snapped.

Tol answered by laying out four opponents with as many blows. He got a nasty chop in the ribs and staggered back again, gasping. There were too many, too many attackers in too close quarters.

The gang leader who’d ordered his men to pound Tol appeared again. Now he personally went on the attack, holding his stave in two hands, like a quarterstaff. Tol fended him off, but this man was not like the other Skylanders. This man had warrior skills.

Tol used his shorter stick to deflect another attack from the leader. The fellow sidled left, seeking to cut Tol off from Kiya and Miya. Sliding on the crushed fruit underfoot, Tol drew off. He feigned confusion, dropping one end of his stick. The leader promptly swung his cudgel up in a powerful underhand stroke, aiming for Tol’s unguarded chin. Tol hurled the table leg, which rapped his opponent across the nose. The gangster yelled and fell flat on his back amidst the purple pulp of a cartload of grapes.

Tol advanced quickly, snatching up the fellow’s own staff. He stood over him. “Yield,” he commanded, breathing hard. “Guardsmen are coming!”

“Liar!” the masked man hissed. He drew a long, thin knife from his boot and cut at Tol. The sharp tip snagged on Tol’s pants leg. He sprang back out of the way.

Discarding the borrowed stave, Tol drew his saber. He hoped the lingering hiss of blade on scabbard would bring the gang leader to his senses. It did not. Undaunted, the masked man thrust at him again.

Tol presented his far longer blade, ordering his opponent to disarm.

“Mercy?” sneered the masked man. His face above the blue kerchief was young, but his dark eyes were those of a fanatic. “But I heard Lord Tolandruth was such a fierce warrior!”

Tol was surprised to be recognized, but easily knocked the man’s knife back. “I don’t know you,” he said. “Why should I want your blood?”

“Because I’ll have yours if I can!”

He slashed at Tol. Catching the point on his handguard, Tol drove the masked man back with a strong shove. He raked the tip of his sword down the man’s chest. Homespun tweed split wide under Tol’s blade. Metal gleamed beneath. His foe was wearing a scale shirt!

Taking advantage of Tol’s brief surprise, the masked man lunged again, blade driving straight at Tol’s heart. No armor protected him, but Tol stood his ground and at the last minute bound up the short blade with a twisting movement. He straightened his arm, and two decades of training and battle experience turned the knife aside. The point of Number Six drove inexorably through scale mail, into flesh, bone, and heart.