No one noticed when the elderly, revered priestess of Mishas bowed her head respectfully to King Lucklyn’s royal food taster.

Smoke curled around ancient beams, coating the heavy slate roof slabs with soot. Far below, by the open hearth, Mandes sat in a canvas chair. A tripod supporting a brazen pan of clear oil stood before him. He gazed into the still surface of the oil. The silence was absolute.

A door flew open, thudding against the wall, and a fur-clad man stomped in. Wind howled through the open portal, nearly extinguishing the fire and sending ripples across the oil.

“What word, Wadag?” Mandes grunted.

The nomad warrior closed the door and shook out his wild, tangled hair. “We got word of your man Tolandruth, Chief. He’s leading forty men up Wildcat Creek, coming this way!”

“Is he? Yesterday you told me he was coming from the west, through Anvil Pass, with twenty-two riders.”

“Some of the men still think that, but this is fresh information, Chief.” The young warrior waited, expecting praise and new orders.

Mandes pondered the new information for a long interval.

“You must investigate, I know,” he said at last. “I leave it to you, Wadag. Trouble me no more about it. Whatever you hear about Lord Tolandruth’s movements, you handle it. Yes?

Wadag thumped his chest with one fist. “Yes, Chief! I’ll bring you the head of that fancy flatlander!”

Plainly excited by the prospect, Wadag departed as loudly as he’d entered.

Mandes sat back in his chair. Not every bird in the sky was an eagle, the saying went. Not every Tolandruth in the mountains was the real one. None of his stratagems to rid himself of the vengeful warlord had worked so far-not the death of the engineer Elicarno nor of the sailor in the far-off sea. Perhaps he had miscalculated. Maybe Tolandruth was not the sort of man who could be diverted by threats.

Now what? What could he do?

Violent trembling seized him. Tolandruth intended his death. If he, the Mist-Maker, who’d once held the great and mighty of Daltigoth in his thrall, could not defeat this one man, all his plots and plans would come to nothing. He would surely die.

Old Yoralyn, leader of the White Robes when Mandes first arrived in the capital, had prophesied on her deathbed that a silent man would seek to slay Mandes, and even if forestalled, his coming would mean the Mist-Maker’s end.

The sorcerer reached out with quaking hands to the oil-filled pan. So great was his trembling he knocked the tripod over, sending rivulets of golden oil across the worn stone floor.

Chapter 18

The night passed without incident. Performing magic at great distances had to be incredibly draining, but if Mandes had overtaxed himself in striking at Miya and Darpo on successive nights, if those things actually had happened (and Tol prayed they had not), Tol knew the rogue wizard would strike again as soon as he was able.

During the night, eight different Lord Tolandruths, leading bands of Riders from the Juramona garrison, set out for Mandes’s lair along different routes. At each village and every river crossing the bands would openly proclaim themselves Lord Tolandruth’s men out to bring Mandes to justice. Tol was amused at just how easy it was to handpick a few soldiers, and disguise them to resemble himself.

With renewed provisions, Tol and Early left Juramona just after dawn. A marble vault of clouds still hid the sky, a bitter wind from the north playing on their faces. They were only twenty leagues from the Thel Mountains, thirty from Mount Axas proper-two days’ hard riding there, and two days back to the safety of Juramona.

Once they crossed the border into Hylo Early perked up as of old, becoming talkative again. There were gaps in the kender’s memories of the past few days, and Tol had an inkling why. Felryn’s spirit must have taken possession of Early the night Darpo was attacked then stayed with him until they left Juramona. Mandes said he’d stopped Felryn’s mouth, preventing him from speaking to Tol, but the sorcerer couldn’t prevent Felryn from entering another body.

In spite of his grief, Tol found the notion of the orderly, precise Felryn sharing the untidy mind of a kender as amusing as his many counterfeits roaming the countryside. Yet it was enormously comforting to know a part of his friend survived, and that Felryn was going to such lengths to aid him.

The easiest route to Mandes’s stronghold, according to Valaran’s map, was to ride along the western edge of the Thel range, paralleling the mountains, until they came abreast of Mount Axas. Remaining in the lower elevations for as long as possible ensured a more comfortable journey.

As they rode through patches of scrub pine, they heard other horses nearby, quite a few horses in fact. Reining up, they sat quietly and listened.

“Ten riders,” Tol finally murmured.

“Twelve,” countered Early. “Humans.”

“Egrin’s decoys?”

The kender shook his head.

Tol eyed him skeptically. Early was well traveled, but no scout. “How do you know?”

“I can see them,” he said, flicking his eyes.

Turning in the saddle, Tol saw them, too.

Twelve mounted men wearing furs and leather were approaching. They galloped by, forty paces away and heading in the same direction that Early and Tol were taking. They rode in good order, keeping a formation of twos, marking them as professionals. The plains nomads had been hiring out as fighters to Tarsis for generations; they knew how to ride and fight.

Such patrols grew more frequent as they rode north. Several times Tol and Early had to hide to avoid columns of riders. They counted several hundred armed men crisscrossing the western approaches. Their grim presence appeared to have cleared the countryside of local kender, depriving Tol of friendly eyes and ears.

The winter day was almost over when they first beheld Mount Axas. It rose in the gap between two lesser mountains, Kembra to the north and Bluetooth to the south. Compared to the rocky peaks around it, Axas looked earthy and dark, as if the stones of its slopes were stained. The lower reaches were completely enshrouded by a wall of white mist. There could be no more certain sign the Mist-Maker had indeed taken up residence there.

“According to the maps I saw in Daltigoth, the fortress stands on a plateau on the southwest side of the peak,” Tol said, squinting into the distance. The mountains were highlighted by the setting sun, but he couldn’t make out any structures from so far away. “With luck, we’ll reach it tomorrow night.”

In a shallow ravine, they crossed a trail showing signs of recent, heavy travel. The earth had been ground to powder by the hooves of many horses.

Ten steps into the scattered pines on the east side of the ravine, an arrow whistled out of the trees and lodged in a tree by Tol’s face.

Out came his saber. “Here we go!”

Four axe-wielding riders burst through the underbrush and rode at them, shouting.

“Keep close to me!” Tol said. Though he looked unhappy doing it, Early pulled his stubby sword and followed.

Tol impaled the first man he came to, the point of his saber punching through the man’s heavy furs. His axe blade whisked by Tol’s ear, but the mercenary toppled from his horse, dead. Tol fended off an overhand chop from a second rider. Using his longer reach, he kept clear of the man’s axe and landed several cuts on his chest and shoulders. Number Six scored bloody gouges in the man’s leather vest.

The clang of iron behind him showed Early was likewise engaged. Confident his back was secure, Tol plunged in.