A genuine priest of Corij came forward. Although his long beard was gray, he was broad of shoulder and straight-backed.

“I am Almarden, high priest of Corij,” he said. “I will guide you to safety.”

Armed with a hooded lantern, Almarden led the way. The house of Corij was the largest temple in Caergoth. Parts of the complex predated the city itself. Through passages broad and narrow, straight and twisting, the priest never lost his way. The fitful light illuminated shadowy figures lining the passages. These weren’t enemies, but suits of armor belonging to famous, long-dead warriors. It was customary for a family to dedicate a dead warrior’s armor to the god of battle.

Fleetingly, Miya wondered whether Tol would have a suit of armor here someday, or an unmarked grave on the endless plains.

The high priest reached a bronze door and halted. Holding his lantern aloft, he whispered, “Outside is the Street of the Coopers. It runs straight down to the Dermount Gate.”

“Thanks to you, holy one,” Voyarunta said. “You are a true man, even if you are a grasslander!”

Behind the Dom-shu chief, naked blades gleamed. Determined not to be taken without a fight, the escapees had helped themselves to the weapons of the ancient heroes on display.

Almarden raised no objection, saying only, “May Corij and Mishas favor you. Good luck.”

Voyarunta and his warriors moved out first, and the rest of the escapees followed them into the dark street of the barrel-makers. Queen Casberry had shed her priestly garb somewhere along the way. She tossed the high priest a cheery, “Thanks!” as she departed.

Last in line were Miya, Zala, and Kaeph. The old man was moving on his own now. To Miya’s surprise, he and the priest of Corij embraced before parting. Zala, her short sword back in her hand, surveyed the street outside, then waved her father forward.

As Almarden gave Miya a saber, she asked, “Why do this, holy one? We were prisoners of your governor. Why help us escape?”

“The rulers of our land are not always just. When Queen Casberry came to me, my duty was clear. Corij will judge my actions, not Lord Wornoth.”

Almarden watched Kaeph and Zala move slowly away. “Besides, what man could refuse to save his own brother’s life?”

“Enough.”

Wornoth, seated in his governor’s chair, frowned. Despite the best efforts of two brawny guards, Helbin still refused to say why he was in Caergoth, or how he had entered the city.

“Why are you here?” he demanded yet again. “Who came with you?”

Helbin lifted his bloody face. One eye was beginning to swell shut, so he peered at his captor through the other.

“I came with the Queen of Hylo!” he said, and no one believed it.

One of the guards raised a meaty hand, but the governor waved him off.

“I have a death warrant for you, wizard, signed by the emperor himself. Tell me what I want to know, and your death will be quick and merciful.”

Helbin made as if to speak again, but a fit of coughing interrupted him. At Wornoth’s direction, the soldiers dragged the wizard to a sitting position.

“Your days are numbered, savage,” Helbin finally rasped. “The greatest warlord of our age is coming fast upon you. I may die, but you will not long outlive me!”

“What are you raving about? What warlord?”

“Tolandruth of Juramona.”

Wornoth snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous! The emperor banished him years ago.”

Helbin’s split lips moved in a ghastly smile. “Mark my words. He is coming.”

The wizard’s certainty, even after such a beating, rocked Wornoth. At his last encounter with Lord Tolandruth, the formidable warlord had threatened to kill him.

He declared, “Tolandruth is a condemned exile, and a traitor. If he dares show his face in Caergoth, his head will decorate the highest tower of the citadel!”

The wizard began to shake. Thinking him broken at last, Wornoth beamed. His toothy smile froze when he realized that Helbin was laughing, not weeping.

Wornoth snapped, “Take him away! Carry out his sentence at once. I’ve no time for his foolish threats!”

The soldiers dragged Helbin to his feet. He realized the time had come for a last, desperate act. He had a single spell remaining, one he’d prepared before leaving Tylocost’s camp. He wasn’t certain its effects were reversible, but trying it was better than death-he hoped.

He pushed a parchment-thin wooden chip out between his teeth. Through all his rough treatment, he had kept the chip hidden beneath his tongue. The sigils on its face were clear and sharp, not eroded by blood or saliva.

Wornoth immediately spotted the chip. Certain it was magical in nature, he shouted for the guards to stop the wizard.

He was too late. Helbin bit down, snapping the chip in two.

In the next instant, the wizard began to writhe as though in terrible agony. As the guards drew back in fear, the ragged silk of his crimson robe shredded and long, black feathers pushed through skin and cloth. Helbin’s sandy hair fell out, revealing a mass of flame-red skin. His head shriveled. Gray eyes darkened and shrank. His swollen, bloody mouth elongated into a hard yellow beak.

In the space of half a dozen heartbeats, man transformed into vulture-a monstrous, black-plumed creature fully as tall as Helbin had been. The vulture spread its wings and uttered a single, sharp screech. The cry was deafening.

Terror-stricken, Wornoth tried to climb over the back of his tall, heavy chair. He shrieked at his men to kill the monster.

The closest soldier tried to bring out his dagger. The vulture’s hooked beak raked a bloody line across the man’s face, from right eye to chin. The soldier threw his hands over his eyes and fell aside, cursing.

The way was open. Talons slipping on the polished marble floor, the huge vulture scrambled away, wings flapping.

The guards in the audience hall had only spears and sabers, no bows. They could not hem in the flailing creature. The vulture reached an open window and leaped onto the wide stone ledge.

Casting one last black-eyed glance over his humped shoulder, the vulture that had been Helbin the Red Robe let out a piercing scream and leaped into the air.

Wornoth rushed to the window, following the vulture’s flight. Dawn was breaking over Caergoth. When the black curl of the vulture’s wings finally vanished, the governor turned his gaze downward. The sight that met his eyes sent an icy shaft of fear through his gut.

An army was mustering on the plain outside the city. A sizable army, it bore before it the standard of Juramona.

Hundreds of miles away a pall of dirt and smoke hung high over the collapsed bakali stronghold. Two days had passed since the end of the battle, and still the dark cloud remained.

Few Riders of the Great Horde knew what the great earthen mound contained, but the despair of the lizard-men over its fall was powerful. A great blow had been struck against the invaders.

Even so, the bakali’s withdrawal, though swift, was in good order. Under the cover of roiling clouds of dirt, they had formed into three compact columns. They retreated swiftly northwest, toward Ropunt Forest. Caught off guard by the sudden change of fortune, and utterly exhausted, the imperial army did not try to stop them.

Ackal V had his victory, but it was not the crushing triumph he’d expected. Half his army was dead or wounded. An entire horde, the Thorngoth Sabers, had perished in the collapse of the bakali mound. The battlefield was heaped with the dead and dying of both sides.

A prolonged blast of trumpets had summoned the surviving commanders to attend upon the emperor. Servants spread a gold and scarlet carpet on the blood-soaked ground, and Ackal V’s portable throne was set up. Prince Dalar, looking wan and limp, was delivered to his father by two brawny Riders who had been guarding him. The boy was required to stand at his father’s right hand.