“Fool! Disgraced or no, he is not to be trifled with!”

He said nothing else, just turned away with a savage scowl and resumed his race to the tent. Long-legged Valaran passed him and planted herself squarely in his way.

“Stand aside, Val!”

She took a long stride forward, placing them nose to nose, and looked him squarely in the eye. “I love you, Tol,” she said, her voice barely audible. “I will not watch you die.”

He was so thunderstruck he forgot his thirst for vengeance. Surrounded as they were by servants, court functionaries, soldiers, and friends, her confession meant all the more to him, for the courage it had taken to make it.

Mandes had recovered from the shock of losing his royal patron and was hurrying to his griffin coach. Ackal had turned his back on the fleeing sorcerer, a last gesture of dismissal.

“Arrest him,” he told his guards then walked away, back toward the pavilion.

The guards tried to obey, but Mandes flung two silver vials on the ground in front of them. There was a silent flash, and every man fell to his knees, blinded. Mandes reached the door of his coach.

“Hear my prophecy, Emperor of Ergoth!” he shouted. “What you have will be divided among those closest to you! You will perish in poverty and shame!”

“You insult the throne of Ergoth!” Valdid said, “Tolan-druth, seize him!

Tol had been working his way up behind the sorcerer, taking advantage of his distraction. However, the chamberlain’s cry alerted Mandes, and Tol abandoned stealth to rush the sorcerer.

Elicarno and his apprentices stormed in as well. Mandes flung up his hands, and a blast of wind drove them back. Two of the brawny young men crashed into Tol, knocking him flat.

While his foes were thus hampered, Mandes ducked inside the coach and slammed the door. The griffins reared on leonine legs and uttered strange cries, sounding neither feline nor avian. They galloped away, wings working hard. In only a few bounds, they were airborne.

Elicarno tried to elevate the ballista to send a dart at Mandes, but the machine could not follow such a swiftly moving target. Meanwhile, Tol was hurrying to the emperor and Valaran, worried Mandes might try to avenge himself on his former protector.

His fear proved well founded. In the coach’s wake a whirlwind arose, flinging men and horses aside like dead leaves. The imperial pavilion was yanked from its moorings and took wing, soaring into the sky like a great bird. Tent stakes and lines swept over Ackal IV and Valaran. Tol pushed the emperor out of harm’s way, then grabbed Valaran and pulled her to him, turning his broad back to the flailing lines. Tent poles whacked him between the shoulders. Falling, he twisted to keep Valaran out of the mud. They landed hard, and her weight drove the breath from his chest.

“Let me go,” Valaran hissed, struggling in his arms. “People will see!”

By the time Kiya and Egrin had pulled them to their feet, Mandes was rapidly receding into the northern sky. His impromptu tornado had swept the sky clean of clouds, and sunlight flooded the muddy field.

“Thank you for saving my consort, Tolandruth,” Ackal IV said, coming up to them. Valaran returned to her husband, surreptitiously lending him her strength.

Mandes was gone, but no one standing in the Field of Corij doubted that the danger he represented was still very real.

Chapter 15

There was no time to celebrate Mandes’s exile. Word had begun to circulate through the city that Enkian Tumult and his army were coming. With the usual entourage, the Warden of the Seascapes would have been in Daltigoth far sooner, but maneuvering five hordes (and associated camp followers and hangers-on) through the provinces northwest of the city was a laborious undertaking. The terrain was cut by numerous small streams, larger rivers, and irrigation canals.

The city garrison mustered, preparing itself for an attack. Couriers were dispatched with orders for Enkian to halt his army and proceed to Daltigoth with the proper small escort. The messengers never returned.

Tol found his former lord’s behavior puzzling. Lord Enkian was no hothead, bursting with fiery ambition. While Marshal of the Eastern Hundred, he’d seemed a cold man, a schemer and a plotter perhaps, but not the sort to mount a direct challenge to the succession.

News came that Enkian had halted his force five leagues from the city at a place called Verdant Isle. This “island” was in actuality a large triangular tract bounded on two sides by canals and on the third by Salamander Creek. It was a strong defensive position, and Enkian’s occupation of it increased everyone’s uncertainty. The warden could not storm the capital with only five thousand Riders, but he could raid the surrounding countryside from this stronghold, disrupting trade, terrorizing the population, and imposing a kind of long-range siege. Still, with the city supplied by the great canal, there was no way to starve Daltigoth into submission. What was in the warden’s mind? Did he seek to force concessions from the new emperor-or more frightening, was he waiting for allies to gather to his standard?

Speculation reached such a fever pitch the emperor could no longer ignore it. Late one evening, nine days after the fall of Mandes, Ackal IV sent for Tol.

Egrin and Kiya accompanied him to the palace. Miya had not been much in evidence around the Rumbold villa lately. Her sister laid these absences squarely at the feet of “that engineer,” Elicarno.

Arrayed in full battle gear (though weaponless, of course), Tol and Egrin knelt before the emperor. Kiya bowed her head briefly.

Most of the court had retired; only Chamberlain Valdid and a few guards were present. Valdid clucked his tongue at Kiya’s impertinence, but the emperor ignored the breach of protocol.

“Arise, my friends,” he said.

Ackal’s pallor was notable even in the flattering golden glow of the many candles burning in the audience hall. Deep hollows surrounded his eyes, his breathing was labored and noisy. He spoke slowly, as though forming words took a great effort.

“I have a mission for you, Lord Tolandruth. Once more I must send you into the unknown on my behalf.”

Jubilation surged through Tol, but he kept his voice respectfully low. “I will bring Mandes to justice, Majesty.”

Ackal IV’s brow furrowed. “No, there is a more pressing matter. I want you to search out Enkian Tumult and learn his intentions. It’s said he built a fortified camp at Verdant Isle. Go there in my name and find out what he’s up to.”

Tol nodded, but his disappointment was obvious. Egrin said quickly, “We’ll go at once, Majesty.”

Valdid cleared his throat significantly, and Ackal said, “No, Marshal. You shall remain. I would not send every loyal commander I possess into the hands of a possible usurper.”

“How many hordes shall I take?” Tol asked.

“None,” was Valdid’s surprising reply.

“That’s crazy!” Kiya exclaimed.

The imperial bodyguards stirred, moving closer to the brawny forester woman. Tol signaled her to hold her tongue.

“You must go alone, my lord,” Valdid said. “Yours is a mission of diplomacy, not combat. Enkian knows you, knows your fame and abilities. He will not dare deny you audience.”

“And if he does?” Kiya blurted angrily.

The chamberlain rapped his gold-capped staff smartly on the floor and glared at her but directed his response to Tol. “Should there be any trouble, we will send Lord Egrin with ten hordes to crush the rebel!”

Kiya continued to grumble, but there was shrewdness in the plan. If Enkian intended violence against the throne or had some less overt scheme in mind, Tol’s great popularity with the ordinary warriors of Ergoth made him the ideal candidate to persuade (or intimidate) the warden into abandoning his plans. The only problem was that Tol had slain Pelladrom Tumult, Enkian’s son.