“Amaltar Ergot, Prince of the House of Ackal!”

“Turnback, Mighty One! This place is your doom!”

With a sweep of his hand, Amaltar directed his children to storm the gate. The youths threw themselves at the closed portal with much shouting and shoving. The double doors parted. Having thus “captured” the gate, they reformed and resumed their music. Amaltar marched through. Tol, bearing the golden case containing the famed crown, kept pace behind.

The square and street beyond were jammed with people. Mounted warriors with blunt spears kept a lane clear through the mob. When Amaltar emerged from the deep shadow of the Ackal Gate, a roar went up from the multitude-not a roar of approbation, but a cry of fear and anger. Until the crown of Ackal Ergot rested on his brow, Amaltar was emperor in name only, and his role now was that of a foreign warlord storming the city.

The people played their part with gusto, as this was their only opportunity to vent any resentment to their master’s face. Tol was taken aback as the good folk of Amaltar’s capital screamed, cursed, and shook fists at their ruler.

Prince Hatonar and his four siblings were intimidated by the fury of the mob and shrank together, slowing the pace. Their father overtook them and pushed them firmly along. His words were lost in the din, but his stern countenance and commanding gestures conveyed his meaning: This was no time for faint hearts.

The procession continued along the broad streets of the outer city. Through street and square, they marched inexorably toward the high walls and spires of the Inner City.

Tol sweated, the gold case in his outstretched arms seeming to grow heavier with every step. He watched the crowd for signs of trouble, a nearly impossible task as everyone was playing the part of hostile, subjugated citizens. The enormous mob could have charged at any time, overwhelming the cordon of warriors holding them back, but in spite of their seeming fury, the people of Daltigoth played their role fairly. None tried to get past the lines of warriors.

They rounded the corner into Empire Way, the broad boulevard leading directly to the plaza at the entrance to the Inner City. The long, hot walk was nearly over. Now facing east, Tol squinted into the sun’s glare.

Midday was not far off, and against the dazzling blue sky the single dark gray cloud remained overhead, as motionless over the palace as when Tol had left that morning. As he watched, the cloud grew larger and more attenuated.

Tol increased his pace, gaining slowly on Amaltar until he was only four paces behind instead of the prescribed ten. He wanted to be within range to rush to Amaltar’s side if anything unnatural occurred.

The cloud spread itself wider and wider. Though thin, it blocked the bold glare of the sun and the marchers felt a sudden chill. Would Mandes dare interfere with the coronation? Amaltar was his patron, after all.

Over the bang of the drums and clatter of sistrum and cymbal, through the mock rage of the crowd around them, Tol heard a rushing sound. He hustled forward to within two steps of Amaltar, still watching the sky. From every direction, black dots had appeared, moving swiftly toward them. Raucous cries rose above the tumult below. The dots soon resolved into ravens, a vast flock of them.

Amaltar looked up, slowing. Immediately Tol was at his side, whispering into his ear, “Whatever happens, Majesty, do not leave my side! I shall protect you! “

“They’re only birds,” said Amaltar, but his expression was uncertain.

Only birds, but thousands of them, black as coal and screeching like demons. The flock collected over the plaza, wheeling and darting a few hundred paces above the restive crowd. Every time the ravens tried to dive on the people, they entered the thin mist and were repulsed. The cloud was as airy as morning fog, but somehow it thoroughly repelled the army of ravens. This strange spectacle distracted the people below; and their rants against the “invader” Amaltar faded.

The spectacle in the sky did not last long. Stymied by the cloud, the flock of birds broke apart, flying to every horizon as suddenly as they had come. When the last one was gone, the cloud finally melted away, leaving only blazing sun and polished blue sky.

“What was that?” Amaltar wondered, along with every other soul in Daltigoth.

“An omen, Majesty,” Tol said, trying to sound cheerful. “A good omen for the start of your reign!”

The emperor did not look convinced. “Stay by me, Champion.” Tol vowed he would.

At the gate of the Inner City, Amaltar’s children divided, flanking the entrance on either side. Tol halted while the emperor continued on. Standing before the closed gate, clad in white-girded armor, was Draymon, commander of the Palace Guard.

“Stand off, invader! This is the sacred realm of His Majesty Pakin III!” Draymon intoned.

“Your ruler is lost and must yield,” Amaltar recited the ritual reply. “Death awaits any who resist!”

“Then fight, hated foreigner! The house of Ackal Ergot shall not fall!”

So saying, Draymon slipped inside the gate. Amaltar strode forward and struck the gate three times with his ceremonial sword. Each blow was punctuated by beats on the drums. On the third strike, a squad of palace guards hauled the gate open wide. Draymon and his men went to their knees. The mob in the plaza calmed.

“Spare us, O conqueror!” the commander exclaimed. “We did but serve our great lord!”

“Where is the noble Pakin III?”

“Yonder, on his bier.” Draymon pointed behind him. Through the forest of banners, the catafalque’s white curtains stirred in the breeze flowing through the open gate.

“I will pay homage to your defeated lord.”

Accompanied only by Tol and the golden case he bore, Amaltar entered the grounds of the place in which he’d grown up, no longer a prince, but as master. Pale and sweating inside the armor of his powerful ancestor, Amaltar did not resemble a conqueror but a worn and sickly man. More than once Tol had to pause as his imperial master faltered slightly, staggering under the weight of Ackal Ergot’s armor and the burden of his empire.

Oropash, Helbin, and the senior wizards stood waiting by the catafalque. Catching sight of Tol, Oropash paled and Helbin scowled. With Mistress Yoralyn gone, they were the only wizards who knew Tol possessed the nullstone, fatal to all their art. The two wizards mastered their emotions and lowered their eyes out of respect for their new emperor.

Amaltar and Tol climbed the steps to the veiled shrine. Within, Pakin III lay on a black basalt plinth. His loyal wizards had transformed him entirely to stone, even to his burial robes and single golden earring. Alive, he had been a sardonic, cynical man, brutally honest and strictly fair. Transmuted to alabaster, the old emperor looked wise enough to counsel the gods.

Amaltar laid his sword across his father’s chest. Instead of the ritual words, he said quietly, “Good-bye, Father. No man worked harder or understood me less.”

He knelt and a long silence ensued. Tol stood unmoving. He did not want to desecrate Amaltar’s silent prayers with any noise, no matter how slight.

At last, Amaltar rose and recovered his sword. “Come, Tolandruth.”

The banners had been cleared away, and the entire coronation procession had taken over the square. The monumental plaza could have easily accommodated even their number, but they were not alone. All the warlords of the empire had joined them, as had the wizards of the college and the servants, lackeys, cooks, and other lesser folk of the palace. The plaza was full of expectant faces and hushed voices. In the multitude Tol located Valaran, Nazramin, and Egrin. Far across the square, Mandes stood on the palace steps, surrounded by scribes and palace guards. The sorcerer was dressed in his best for the coronation, a blue-gray robe and spotless white gloves.