He had intended to avoid all towns, but his peace of mind demanded otherwise.

“We’ll stop in Juramona tomorrow,” he told Early. “I want to warn Egrin myself of the danger he faces.”

It could be only a matter of time before Mandes turned his malign attentions to the marshal.

The high plain had turned from summer green to harvest gold and thence to winter brown. Beneath a leaden sky, an ocean of grass spread out before them, dry and stiff. Here and there, copses of trees lifted bare limbs sharp as talons to the sky.

As they rode briskly toward Tol’s old home, they spoke little. The wind of their passage was bitter on their faces. Gloved, caped, and hooded with furs, eyes squinted against the icy breeze, they cantered across the silent plain.

Late afternoon had come on the short winter day when they finally beheld Juramona. Tol hadn’t been back since leaving for Daltigoth with Enkian Tumult when he was but eighteen years old. The provincial town had grown steadily in his absence. The old wooden wall now sported stone towers, and the spans of timbered bulwark in between were slowly acquiring a thick skin of cut stone blocks. The marshal’s High House, on its mound overlooking the town, had been whitewashed. It stood out starkly against the slate roofs and unpainted houses below it.

Footmen were closing the western gate for the night when Tol hailed them. Shading their eyes against the rays of the setting sun, the soldiers delayed until Tol and the kender rode through the gate.

Riding down the dusty lane, Tol was assailed by a deluge of odors, some sweet, some foul, but all with meaning from the past. Frying meat and local beer, livestock and garbage mingled with vigorous, unwashed humanity. Tol drifted in a nostalgic haze. Only when he saw Early had halted ahead and was waiting for him to catch up did he snap out of it. This wasn’t the time to reminisce.

Guards challenged them at the foot of the ramp leading up to High House. They were young, local boys, cold and bored with guard duty, but they crossed poleaxes in front of Tol’s horse and recited the required challenge: Who was he? What business did he have in the High House?

Tol pushed back his fur hood. “I am Lord Tolandruth of Juramona. This is my companion, Early Stumpwater.”

The young soldiers gaped. If the emperor himself had appeared before them, they couldn’t have been more surprised.

“My lord!” stammered one, a stoutish fellow. “We didn’t know you!”

“I have business with Marshal Egrin.”

The soldiers hastily backed away, and Tol spurred Tetchy forward. Early followed close behind. They galloped up the spiral ramp, drawing curious stares.

At the door of the marshal’s residence, Tol leaped from his horse before the beast had stopped. He dashed inside, ignoring the challenges of the soldiers on the door.

No one tried to stop him as he stormed through the halls, shedding gloves and heavy fur cape. Within High House there were many who knew him.

The sight of an elderly healer standing before the marshal’s quarters finally brought him up short. He recognized Ossant, a priestess of Mishas. She was an old acquaintance and a woman of conviction. Years ago, the then marshal, Odovar, had ordered Egrin to behead the Pakin rebel, Vakka Zan. Odovar intended the headless corpse be put on display as a warning to all Pakin sympathizers, but Ossant used her status as priestess and healer to have the body removed-”to prevent disease,” she had said.

His arrival obviously startled her. “I must speak with the marshal,” he said. “Where is he?”

Ossant’s pale blue eyes and the nimbus of white hair framing her round face gave her a deceptively gentle appearance: she was not one to mince words.

“Lord Egrin has withdrawn for the evening. A man his age needs rest.”

“My business is important. You come too, lady. There may be need for your services.”

“Is someone ill, my lord?” she asked, but Tol moved past her to push open the door and did not answer.

The marshal’s bedchamber was close and warm, the effect of an oversized fireplace blazing in the room. Egrin, dressed in a heavy brocade robe, sat before the fire in a large chair.

Head resting against the chair’s high back, he snored gently.

Tol paused. He suddenly thought of his father-his real father-and wondered where he slept this night. It was a bad son who let his parent fall into old age unsupported.

Ossant approached Egrin but did not touch him. “My lord marshal, Lord Tolandruth is here.”

Egrin jerked awake with a snort. He looked past the priestess and saw Tol. Immediately he sat up, and Ossant stepped back. The marshal cleared his throat, face reddening slightly at being caught napping.

“This can’t be good news,” he muttered, voice rough with sleep.

“No.” Tol’s smile was fleeting. “There are grave matters stirring, my friend.”

Egrin arose to greet Tol properly, his movements stiff. He drew up a chair before the fire, facing the marshal. Ossant stood at Egrin’s back and Early at Tol’s. The kender had sidled in unnoticed. Though he’d never been in High House, he’d somehow found his way to the marshal’s bedchamber unescorted.

After Tol explained his mission, Egrin said gravely, “So it has-come at last. You mean to slay the sorcerer.”

“I do.”

“I have reports from the mountains of his activities.” Egrin poured milky liquid from a brass pitcher into two clay cups. Tol was surprised to find it was barley water, a tipple associated with the old.

After downing a large swallow, Egrin said, “Mandes is on Mount Axas. He has hired between two hundred and four hundred mercenaries, mostly nomads from the east side of the mountains. His recruiters tried to enlist men from the Juramona garrison.”

Tol’s task suddenly seemed much harder, but he put on a bold face, saying, “Good. At least I won’t have to chase him around the country!”

“Not good,” Egrin countered. “He knows you’re coming. You’re walking into a trap.”

The fire snapped and popped, bits of glowing bark falling into the dark bed of ashes. Egrin refilled their cups, and Tol rested his chin on his fist.

“What I need is cover, like the Mist-Maker’s clouds,” he mused.

“Diversions,” said Early.

Everyone turned to the kender. He been so silent and still and unkenderlike, they’d nearly forgotten he was present.

“Why not a cloud of Tolandruths to befuddle the Mist-Maker?” he suggested.

A number of Tol impersonators, he explained, men from the Juramona garrison, could lead phony expeditions toward Mount Axas along different routes. Mandes and his hired army wouldn’t know which threat was real.

“A man of his talent won’t be fooled long,” Ossant cautioned.

“I don’t need long,” Tol said. “Three days, maybe four.”

Egrin rose. “I’ll give the order.”

While he was gone, Tol said to Ossant, “Mandes will do anything to stop me. So far he’s sent terrifying dreams which seem to show my friends and comrades being killed. He’s bound to try and harm Lord Egrin. Can you protect him?”

“I am only a humble priestess of Mishas,” she answered. “No one in Juramona can contend with the Mist-Maker.”

“You don’t have to trade blows with him, just do your best to protect the marshal!”

The anxiety in his voice caused her to relent. “The wards of the temple of Mishas are the strongest in town. I will convince the lord marshal to spend each night there until you return.”

Tol smiled. He clasped her hands and wrung them gratefully. “You’re the best rear guard I’ve got, lady. I love Egrin like a father. Keep him safe and I’ll build you a new temple of Mishas, as fine as any in Daltigoth!”

Egrin returned, and he and Tol walked out together.

As she followed them, Ossant caught Early’s eye. Although the two had never met, a curious recognition flowed between them.