Within the Tower of High Sorcery, the assemblage of wizards formed a great circle, hands clasped. As they ended their joint incantation, sighs and groans of exhaustion filled the vast hall. Older mages tottered to benches along the wall and collapsed. Young and old alike flexed fingers grown stiff from a half-day’s concentrated effort.
By projecting their collective consciousness into the air above Lord Tolandruth’s army, the wizards could study its progress. The veil that had formerly cloaked the bakali and nomads was gone. None of them knew why, although there was much speculation. But they had been able to follow Tolandruth’s progress since his defeat of the nomads at the Isle of Elms.
Merkurin, chief scribe of the White Robe order, finished his description of the battle and signed his name to the scroll with his customary flourish. The document, covering Lord Tolandruth’s movements for a single day, was over ten paces long. While his colleagues conjured, an image of what they were seeing appeared in the air over their heads. Merkurin, outside the great circle, wrote down all he saw. The process was exhausting for everyone, and made more so by the distance from which they had to operate.
Merkurin rang a small bell. An acolyte of the Red Robes hurried to him. The chief scribe rolled his report and sealed it. Handing it to the young woman he reminded her, “For His Majesty. No one else is to see it.”
She bowed her head. “Yes, Master Merkurin.” The emperor would soon have his report. Merkurin hoped he knew what to do with it.
Chapter 25
Drums rolled, echoing off the walls of the Inner City. The imperial Household Guard was drawn up in a hollow square, swords hared. Outside the ring of armed men stood the assembled warlords of the empire-those remaining who were still able to reach Daltigoth at the emperor’s command. They solemnly watched the spectacle unfolding before them. Every window in the palace and Riders’ Hall facing the plaza was filled with spectators.
Within the square of guardsmen nine men stood in a line. Warlords all, the nine were bereft of arms and armor, clad in ordinary trews and linen shirts, the garb of condemned men. Their hair and beards had been shorn away.
Also within the square was Ackal V, seated on his golden throne. Prince Dalar stood by his right hand. The heir to the throne wore his own suit of armor, cuirass and helmet wrought in thin, brightly polished brass.
The condemned men were the commanders of the hordes who had been ordered to stop Tol’s advance on the capital. Their leader, General Meeka of the Golden Ram Horde, had protested that he had not had sufficient men to stop Lord Tolandruth, well known as an accomplished strategist. His use of Tol’s old title had cost Meeka his life, and insured the emperor’s rage against his subordinates. Meeka was beheaded forthwith, and his horde commanders likewise now faced the emperor’s wrath.
“You have been found guilty of cowardice,” Ackal V declared. “By law and custom set down by my glorious ancestors, you should all be executed, and your property forfeited to the empire!” He paused for effect. “But I am disposed to be lenient. Only two of you shall die. I leave it to you to choose who shall lose their heads.”
The nine neither spoke nor moved. Their eyes remained fixed forward, staring beyond their angry liege.
Ackal V flushed. “Choose two, or all will die!” he shouted.
The warrior at the right end of the line, a cousin of the Tumult and Dermount clans, stepped forward. “I will die to spare my comrades, Majesty,” he announced.
Immediately, the man next to him stepped forward, saying, “So shall I!”
In turn, each of the others took the fatal step toward the emperor.
Ackal V leaned to the right, murmuring, “You see, Dalar, what I must work with? They fight poorly, disobey me, then offer their necks out of pride. What can I do?” He sighed loudly and sat back. “Very well. Your emperor grants your final wish. Kill them all.”
The warlords outside the ring of guards stirred, shouting, “No!” and “Spare them!”
Ackal V glared at the assembly. “The Inner City wall has room for many heads!” he said loudly.
Dalar flinched at his father’s injustice, but for once the warlords did not. New cries went up: “Shame!” and “Where is honor?” The plaza reverberated with the noise.
Nonetheless, the emperor jerked his head, and his executioner strode toward the waiting prisoners. The swordsman’s bare chest rippled with muscle as he lifted his weapon high.
Without hesitation, the Dermount cousin went down on his knees. The two-handed blade severed his neck in one stroke. In spite of the outraged shouts from the assembled warlords, the next prisoner knelt immediately, and was dispatched with equal swiftness. The executioner traveled efficiently down the line, until all nine men were dead. Their blood flowed together in a great spreading pool, staining the mosaic of the constellation of Corij that decorated the plaza’s center.
A prolonged groan went up from the warlords of Ergoth. They pressed forward, jostling the Household Guards holding them back.
“Justice is done,” Ackal V declared.
He rose and commanded Dalar to accompany him. Outwardly nonchalant, he crossed the square to the palace. A double line of guards formed a path for emperor and heir, and more soldiers jogged down from the palace to reinforce their comrades.
A loud metallic clang behind him made the emperor pause on the first of the palace steps. He looked back. A warlord’s personal dagger had landed on the pavement several paces away. Not a direct threat to Ackal V, the symbol of the warlord’s rank had been hurled over the heads of the massed guards in a show of contempt and defiance.
As though a dam had burst, the single blade was joined by others. They spun through the air, jeweled pommels glittering, a veritable deluge of flashing iron clattering and skidding over the ancient mosaic.
Ackal V’s studied nonchalance vanished. Face contorted with fury, he snatched Dalar’s hand and stamped up the stairs. All present knew that retribution would be swift. No one insulted Nazramin Bethen Ergothas Ackal V with impunity. No one.
The emperor was almost blind with rage. He shoved aside any servant unlucky enough to cross his path. In the antechamber of the throne room, his chamberlains huddled out of reach and uttered soothing phrases.
“Stop that chattering, you imbeciles, or I’ll have your tongues out!” Ackal V roared. The men instantly fell silent. He paced back and forth, unconsciously dragging the little prince along with him. “The arrogance! The conceit! I’ll have them exterminated! Every one of them!”
“Who then will fight for you?”
Valaran, dressed in a gown of imperial scarlet, stood in the open doorway to the throne room. Her chestnut hair, free for once of the tall headdress required by fashion, hung loose down her back. Surrounded by ladies dressed in muted hues, the empress seemed a great summer bloom fallen into a bed of pale spring blossoms.
Her appearance elicited squawks of dismay from the chamberlains. The men immediately cast down their eyes, looking away from the empress’s bare face.
“Why are you out of your quarters, lady?” her husband said icily. “And without a proper covering for your face?”
“Apologies, sire. I feared a riot and came with all haste to extricate Your Majesty from danger,” she replied.
His laughter was short and harsh. “With what troops, lady?”
Valaran gestured to the women around her. “Troops enough, Majesty. Few warlords-even arrogant, conceited ones-would raise a sword against unarmed women.”