“What you mean is, you seized the throne and no one opposed you!” he cried.

Nazramin shrugged. “No one of consequence.” He turned to the gold-bedecked officer on his left. “Lord Tathman, how many have we been forced to execute?”

Snapping his heels together, Tathman replied, “Sixteen so far, Your Majesty.”

“So few? Anyone Lord Tol would know?”

“Lord Rymont, Lord Valdid, the commanders of the Foot Guard and the Silver Dragon Horde-”

Nazramin waved a hand, halting the litany of the dead. “The rest have fallen into line and accepted the situation,” he said. “Now, my lord, what will you do?”

Tol could hardly believe it. Valaran’s father, most loyal of the loyal, executed! Rymont had been a pompous ass and no friend of Tol’s, but he was a good soldier. Did the high-ranking wizards, Helbin and Oropash, still live?

Nazramin was still awaiting an answer. “What is my choice?” Tol asked.

Nazramin dismissed his councilors. They bowed in unison and departed. As they went out, several Wolves came in. The men lounged by the door, hands on their sword hilts.

“I don’t want your life, peasant,” Nazramin said, getting to his feet. “Don’t look so surprised. Killing is easy. Living is hard. I could have you chopped to pieces or thrown in the cells below the palace, but neither seems quite right. It would be much too noble-‘Valiant Lord Tolandruth, who fell from grace when his patron died.’ No, pig farmer. I prefer that you continue to live in utter obscurity and for the empire to forget you ever existed.”

He stepped down from the throne and planted his fists on his hips. Quite a bit taller than Tol, Nazramin was lean and wolfish, like the sobriquet his men bore.

“As of this moment, your titles and properties are forfeit. I declare you’re no longer Lord Anyone, but merely Tol, son of a pig farmer.”

Nazramin circled Tol, looking him up and down. “You see, if you live I can torment you to my heart’s content. Consider this: before winter ends, I’ll be crowned and by my side will be a striking empress, one you’ll particularly appreciate.”

Tol felt a chill of horror. The self-proclaimed emperor’s eyes glowed with an unholy light. “Yes. The daughter of Valdid has consented to be my consort.”

His words went through Tol like a blade in the gut. What choice had he given Valaran? Did she know her father had been killed, regardless of her compliance?. In a flash Tol hurled himself at Nazramin. To his delight, he found his target, Nazramin’s throat, and bore the taller man to the floor. Tol’s big hands, hardened by years of campaigning, tightened on Nazramin’s neck like a vice.

His moment of triumph was brief. The Wolves dragged him away, kicking and punching him ruthlessly. Someone looped a rope around his neck and began to throttle him. His vision went red, and the curses of the Wolves melded into a single ugly roar. He began to lose consciousness.

Hoarsely Nazramin commanded, “Beat him again! If he resists, put out his eyes! Then drive him out of the city. If he ever returns, his head will decorate the palace wall!”

They dragged Tol out by his heels and thrashed him severely. The beating went on all night, with pauses to insure Tol didn’t die. The next morning, without warm furs, food, or water, he was dumped in the snow outside the Dragon Gate.

A gentle rocking motion shook Tol awake. For a moment he thought he was on a ship, but the creak of wheels spoiled that theory. He tried to open his eyelids, but only one would obey. The sight it beheld made him gasp.

“Miya!”

Her hair was longer than he remembered, caught in a golden-brown braid and pulled forward over one shoulder. She looked incredibly weary. A small bundle was slung across her breast. It moved and gurgled. A baby. Elicarno’s child.

“You’re awake. Good,” she said. Turning, she rapped her knuckles against the canvas curtains separating them from the front of the wagon. “He’s awake!”

The wagon slowed and halted. A hand parted the curtain and Kiya’s face appeared.

“Husband,” she said. “How do you feel?”

All movement was agony. Teeth clenched, he said, “Not as bad as Mandes felt falling down Mount Axas.”

“The sorcerer is dead?” asked Kiya.

“Yes, it’s my only good news. I brought his head back to the emperor, but the wrong man sits on the throne.”

Miya put the leather spout of a wineskin to Tol’s lips. He drank gratefully, as Kiya related the tale of the monster that had broken into Elicarno’s shop and killed the engineer. Tol nodded. Everything fit with the vision Mandes had sent to him.

“It appeared that Ackal IV had finally gone mad,” Kiya said. “A council of high lords was called. They were going to appoint a regent when Nazramin and his killers broke in, and took over. The crown prince gave up his claim to the throne, and Nazramin now keeps Amaltar’s entire family prisoner in the palace^ Anyone who disagreed or put up a fight was killed on the spot or has vanished.”

Kiya and Miya had received word from sympathetic guards at the gate that Tol was lying in the snow, beaten and bloody. The sisters had piled into the four-wheeled covered wagon which they’d prepared some time ago and went to collect him. Tol lay across bales of provisions that filled the wagon.

At the end of the explanations, Tol murmured, “He told me he’s going to make Valaran his empress.”

The sisters exchanged looks. “So that’s why,” Miya said, as Kiya told him, “Look out the back.”

He got himself up on one elbow, with the assistance of Kiya’s strong hands. Miya pulled back the canvas closing the rear of the wagon.

They were a short distance outside the city. Walls and towers were clearly visible behind them. The Ackal Path was filled from edge to edge by a column of warriors, several hundred strong, all on foot. At the head of the column rode two black-clad men flanking a woman in ermine robes.

The three riders approached. With his wounds screaming, Tol struggled to a sitting position. Cold air swirled in, making his single open eye water.

He said her name and held out his hand. Three of his fingers were bent and broken.

Valaran’s face contorted when she saw his condition. “He allowed me one favor, to say good-bye,” she said, choking.

“You agreed to be his empress? Why?”

“I had no choice,” she said, lowering her eyes. “My family would have perished, root and branch.”

Tol tried to lean forward. “You don’t have to do it, Valaran! Break loose! The sisters and I will protect you!”

She wiped tears from her eyes. Her glance shifted to the column of warriors behind her. “You can’t protect me. No one can, any more.”

She urged her horse forward. When one of the black-clad riders tried to grab her mount’s bridle, she lashed at his face with her riding crop. He let go, and a squad of men came running forward, nocking arrows in their short bows.

Valaran closed the short distance to the wagon and put a gloved hand to Tol’s battered face.

“He’ll not have me,” she whispered. “I too have ambitions. I have a knife, and one of us will die!”

He caught her wrist, awkwardly because of his injuries. “You must not! Whatever happens, you must live-because I will return!”

She looked away. Not even the famed luck of Tol of Juramona could overcome the emperor of Ergoth.

“Believe it!” he urged. “If you believe nothing else in your life, know I will come back, Valaran. Nazramin will ruin the empire with his cruelty and greed, but I’ll return. You must try to live for that day, Val. You must!”

Her minders interceded, pulling Valaran away. At the last moment she leaned down and kissed his forehead. Her lips were cold.

Straightening again, she lashed at her captors with her crop. “I am to be the empress of Ergoth, and you’d better keep your filthy hands off me!” she said, a fierce, aristocratic mask dropping over her features. “You know what happens to anyone who defiles the empress?”