Without preamble, Nazramin brought his booted heel down hard on the statuette’s middle. Ackal screamed piteously, grasping his ribs and writhing on the throne. Tol took a step forward, furious at his inability to intervene or even to vent his anger in words.

“Your wandering mind has been well recorded,” the prince went on more calmly. “I left the city so no one could connect me with your growing madness. In many way you cooperated splendidly. Banishing Mandes was timely-it removed any suspicion that magic was being used against you.”

He picked up the statuette. “He made this for me, you know. Sixty-six days of continual spellcasting it required, and Mandes was so weakened that another ten days passed before he could attach the first clamp. It was well worth the trouble, don’t you think, brother?”

The hair on Tol’s neck prickled as he listened to Nazramin’s recitation of the horrors he’d visited upon his own flesh and blood.

“I summoned Enkian Tumult here with a false tale about an insurrection. I thought you would take fright and send the hordes to destroy him, creating an impression in the people’s mind of cruelty and ruthlessness, but instead”-Nazramin’s brows drew down in anger-“you sent that peasant to talk to him. You forced me to have Enkian killed, so my plot would not be exposed.”

Ackal’s attention was wandering. He began to croon again. Nazramin closed the distance between them in two long strides and slapped him hard. Ackal’s head snapped back, and Tol could have sworn that, for a moment, awareness came to his eyes. It quickly faded.

“Listen to me, fool!” Nazramin snarled. “I want you to know who brought about your downfall!”

After a pause to collect himself, he continued. “You obliged me by sending Farmer Tol to settle accounts with Mandes. That was perfect. I’ve been freer to act with the peasant away, and Mandes knows too much. It would have been necessary to silence him eventually, so why not let Lord Pigsty do it? If by chance the wizard prevails, that will save me having the farmer’s throat cut in the future.”

Nazramin moved to the table next to the throne. It held an ornate golden goblet, bearing the arms of Ackal Ergot. The prince lifted it and drank deeply of the cider it contained.

While Nazramin quenched his thirst, Tol pondered the reality of what he was seeing. It could be an illusion, but he doubted it. Now that he stood on the sorcerer’s very doorstep, Mandes was pulling out all the stops, revealing to him the true instigator of the evil that had befallen him. Tol was the Emperor’s Champion, sworn to defend Ackal IV, and Mandes hoped to send him racing back to Daltigoth to save the emperor.

Tol knew the first step in saving Ackal IV was putting a halt to Mandes’s depredations. Once the treacherous sorcerer was gone, Tol would settle accounts with Nazramin for once and all.

The red-haired prince was talking again. He certainly enjoyed the sound of his own voice.

“-invited a few senior lords of the empire to see you. Reports of your aberrant behavior have been spreading. The situation has become so dire, your chamberlain summoned me from my estate.” Nazramin smiled, and Tol went cold. “I’ve come to protect you, dear brother, you and the empire.”

Nazramin walked to the rear of the throne. He pressed one of the many ornamental studs on the chair’s back and a small section of wood swung open at the base. After inserting the gray statuette into the ingenious niche, Nazramin closed it up again.

He left the room, only to return moments later with a somber delegation. Valaran was among them, as were Empress Thura and Ackal IV’s other wives, Chamberlain Valdid, Lord Rymont, and the heads of the magical orders, Oropash and Helbin. The rest were mainly local horde commanders and representatives of the city’s guilds. Nazramin was taking no chances. He wanted as broad an audience as he could get.

Nazramin’s face was a study in grave concern. “I’ve talked with my brother at some length,” he said somberly.

“How fares the emperor?” Rymont asked.

“I fear his illness has taken his mind. See for yourselves.”

The delegation moved forward cautiously. Ackal IV, belatedly becoming aware of them, lifted his head. Spittle ran down his chin, his eyes were bloodshot and unfocused. Gentle Thura gasped and rushed forward.

“Amaltar!” she said, grasping his slack hand. “Amaltar, do you know me? Why did you send me away?”

Smiling weakly, the emperor raised a gaunt hand to caress her face. His smile rapidly changed to a contorted grimace of pain. His nails dug into his consort’s soft cheek. Thura screamed.

Lord Rymont and Prince Nazramin struggled to restrain the emperor. Thura reeled away, blood dripping down her chin. Oropash, deeply shocked, tried to comfort the weeping empress.

“Ants!” Ackal cried, struggling against the two men. “Can’t you see? Her flesh is infested with ants!”

Valaran said sharply to Helbin, “Do something!”

“I’m not a healer,” he protested.

“Where is the emperor’s physician?”

In a stricken voice, Valdid reported that His Majesty had dismissed Klaraf two days earlier.

Ackal continued to howl about ants. He raved they were crawling over him, in his clothing, going into his ears, nose, and eyes. He could feel their hot pincers tearing at his flesh.

He struggled to his feet, seeming to throw off Nazramin’s hold on his left arm. In fact, the prince released his brother intentionally. Ackal clawed at his own face, scoring bloody lines across his cheek before Lord Rymont locked both arms behind his back. Ackal screamed and wept uncontrollably.

Tol had seen men die in a hundred unpleasant ways, but he had never seen anything like the torment Prince Nazramin was inflicting on his own brother. He had to try and stop it.

Instantly, the palace scene vanished. Once again, Tol was sitting with his back against the cedar tree. Early lay sleeping beside him. The two of them were no longer alone.

Ringing them round were twelve mounted nomads, spears leveled.

Mandes’s vision had distracted him from his watch, but there was no help for it now. He shook Early awake. The sight of the dozen intruders caused the kender to sigh.

“Oh. And here I was dreaming of the hills of Balifor.”

A warrior with a heavy northern accent ordered them to stand. Four nomads dismounted, stripping them of their weapons. Then, under the iron gaze of the mercenaries’ chief, Tol and Early were soundly beaten.

When he thought they’d had enough, the leader ordered their hands bound. A length of rope attached their wrists to a ring on a mercenary’s saddle. The troop formed up and put spurs to their mounts, forcing the captives to jog to keep up.

Although they were in considerable pain, neither of them suffered any broken bones. Both had expected the beating to end only with their deaths, but obviously Mandes wanted them alive for his own reasons-and none of the reasons that came to Tol’s mind were pleasant.

Still, they were alive. He still might be able to save Ackal IV. He knew where the lead image was hidden. Once its hold was broken, surely Helbin, Oropash, and the combined wisdom of the College of Wizards could repair the damage that had been done to the emperor’s mind.

A tree root snagged his foot and he fell. Early instantly dug in his heels, but he couldn’t stop the moving horse and was yanked off his feet. The two of them were thus dragged over rough ground several hundred feet, the mercenaries laughing all the while, until the leader halted.

Nose to nose with the kender in the dirt, Tol muttered, “Four legs may be faster, but two legs are nimbler. Follow my lead!”

The chief cursed and ordered them to stand. Early got to his knees. Tol gestured with a jerk of his head toward the chief’s horse. Early’s left eye was swollen shut; his right widened as Tol mouthed the word Go!