Axes were not good weapons to use from horseback, so Tol forced a third man back, whirled, and lopped the hands off the rider behind him. The fourth enemy had a strung bow over his head, but Early’s intervention kept him from loosing an arrow. As Early now traded cuts with the third rider, Tol took on the axe-wielding bowman.
The blond-bearded mercenary tried to catch Tol’s saber with the hooks curling from each end of his broadhead axe. Realizing the danger, Tol drew back. The bowman immediately raised a ram’s horn to his lips.
Tol drove straight at him. The ram’s horn was on a lanyard, so the mercenary let it fall from his fingers and took his axe in both hands to ward off Tol’s attack. Moving the axe in a tight loop, he caught Number Six with his upper hook. He swung the thick blade in a tight circle, grinning. Bent like this, an iron saber would quickly snap, leaving Tol at his mercy.
However, the dwarf-forged blade wasn’t iron. The steel flexed further and further as the broad-shouldered nomad swung his axe in another tight circle. Tol exerted all his strength against the hilt, driving the long curved blade forward. It scraped over the axe handle and took the mercenary in the throat, just below his chin. His blue eyes widened in disbelief, and the axe fell from his fingers.
Freed from the binding hook, Tol’s saber twanged like a plucked lyre string. The blade now had a slight but distinct bend in it.
The last mercenary tried to flee when he saw his comrade fall. He broke off fighting Early and spurred for the ravine trail. Tol’s Ergothian war-horse easily overhauled the northerner’s stubbier animal. A single stroke laid open the man’s unprotected back. He slid off his horse and was dead when he hit the ground.
Breathing hard, Tol turned his mount around and rode back to Early. The kender was sweating in his furs.
“You did well,” Tol said. “My thanks.”
Early was pale. “I’ve never seen such quick deaths!”
“Had to be done. They would have killed us if we hadn’t fought to the finish.”
Far away, a horn sounded. More horns answered on every side. As Early scattered the mercenaries’ horses, Tol took the ram’s horn from the dead man’s neck and blew a flat, booming note. It echoed across the valley to the slopes of the mountains.
“Why’d you do that?” Early demanded.
“They’ll know there’s trouble as soon as they find any of the horses. Hearing the horn might make them think some of their people are still alive. Maybe it’ll buy us some time.”
He tossed the horn into the brush and they hurried on. The white bulwark of mist waited ahead.
Twilight had come. The last rays of the setting sun clung to the wall of unnatural mist. This pallid glow washed the land in eerie, shadowless light. The strange illumination affected life in the valley below. Birds, normally at roost this time of day, circled overhead in confusion, unable to settle and rest. Nocturnal beasts came out to prowl although their daytime brethren still had not retired.
Tol and Early found themselves riding under a huge flock of screeching starlings. The noise was unnerving, not only for its own sake, but because it kept them from hearing anything else-like the warning signs of approaching horsemen.
When darkness finally claimed the valley and the birds and beasts settled into normal patterns, Tol and Early took shelter beneath a canopy of snow-covered cedars. Since morning, they’d been ascending the western slopes of the mountains, entering the frostier climate of the uplands. With their backs against a stout old tree, they ate cold rations and shared a gourd of cider.
Talk was kept to a minimum. As soon as he’d eaten, Early rested his head back against the shaggy bark. His breathing slowed into a shallow, steady rhythm.
Tol meant to resume their trek and reach the wall of mist by dawn, but he too felt the leaden weight of sleep. He struggled against it. Getting to one knee, he breathed deeply of the chill air. The cold was bracing and burned away his fatigue like a tonic. He stood.
Stars winked in and out of the black branches overhead. To the northeast, Mandes’s veil of fog stood out starkly against the black night. The starlight showed imperfections in its surface, ripples and whorls where the wind at higher altitudes tried to tear the mist away.
Maintaining such a Spell must take constant energy. When did Mandes rest? Perhaps he couldn’t. Perhaps that was why his soul wandered the night, tormenting others.
Solin appeared above the trees. Its pearly sheen warmed the dead color of the cloud-wall, and washed the woods in soft light. Shadows appeared among the widely spaced cedars.
The shadows moved.
“Early,” Tol whispered sharply. The kender did not respond, not even when Tol kicked his foot. Blast it if he wasn’t a heavy sleeper.
Brightness filled the woods behind Tol. He turned, shading his night-adapted eyes from the intense light.
In a heartbeat, his surroundings were transformed. Cedar trees became stone columns, rusty brown needles became a lush woolen carpet. Tol knew this place. This was the audience hall of the imperial palace, in Daltigoth.
A humming sound drew Tol’s attention to the ancient throne of Ackal Ergot. Ackal IV sat in the ornate gilded chair, his hair unkempt and tangled, his robes dirty. He held an odd-looking doll-not a child’s toy, sewn of soft cloth and stuffed with rags, but a stiff gray statuette.
Tol tried to speak, but no sound escaped his lips. He could see and hear perfectly, but Ackal seemed not to realize he was there.
The emperor continued to croon tunelessly to himself as he ran his fingers over the statuette’s face. His vacant eyes revealed the truth: Ackal IV wasn’t ill, he was mad. His mind was lost in some secret, distant vale.
At the far end of the dimly lit room, one of the tall doors opened, and a man entered. With a swirl of his floor-sweeping cape, the man traversed the long hall briskly. When he entered the wash of light from a pair of flickering braziers, the features of Prince Nazramin were revealed.
Instinctively, Tol’s hand went to his sword hilt, but the emperor’s brother strode past him, not seeing him at all.
Beneath his long cape, Nazramin wore a black leather riding habit, as though he’d just arrived from his country estate. He paused at the foot of the throne. The jeweled pommel of a large dagger glittered in his belt. Ackal IV would never have tolerated a weapon in his presence, had he been in his right mind.
“Brother?” Nazramin said.
The emperor continued to sing softly to himself, scraping a thumbnail over the dull gray statuette.
Nazramin took the statuette from him. Ackal whimpered slightly, reaching for it, but Nazramin pulled it away.
“A passable likeness,” said the red-haired prince, smiling unpleasantly at the figure’s face. “Not a striking one, but still, it served its purpose.”
Drawing closer, Tol realized the statuette bore the emperor’s face.
“Not the best medium, either,” continued Nazramin, “but lead is traditional.”
He dropped the statuette. It landed on its head with a fiat thud. Immediately, Ackal cringed and grasped his temples with both hands.
Tol felt sick. Image magic! Ackal was the victim of the lowest, vilest form of sorcery. It was Nazramin all along, pulling Mandes’s strings.
Nazramin paced slowly before the throne, still talking. Ackal’s clouded gaze tracked him with obvious difficulty.
“It’s taken a long time, but I’ve finally gotten everything in place. I bided my time. I endured your regency, brother, but I do not intend to suffer your reign any longer than necessary.”
The prince halted in front of the throne. “A coup would have been risky. Too many idiots in this city are loyal to that chair you sit on.” He drove a gauntleted fist into his palm. “Imbeciles! The throne of Ergoth is not a piece of furniture for any fool to occupy! Why should I risk myself to seize what rightfully belongs to me? I watched those idiot Pakins try to take the crown from our uncle and our father, and what did it get them? Pointless warfare and their heads on spikes decorating the city wall! There was no need to bloody myself. I could get what I wanted without such risk.”