This was certainly true, but when she held out her arms and Prince Dalar ran to her, Valaran’s true reason for defying law and custom became apparent. The empress had left her sacred enclave to save her son.

Ackal V’s attention returned to the original source of his fury. “This would not have happened if my Wolves had been here!”

Accompanied by a large entourage of priests, courtiers, and the emperor’s elderly cousin, Lord Gothalan, the Emperor’s Wolves had departed the night before. Their mission was known only to their patron.

Ackal V spoke to a nearby officer. “Tell the captain of the Householders to clear that insolent trash out of the Inner City.”

The soldier saluted and started to leave, but the emperor wasn’t finished.

“Have the daggers gathered up. And send the chamberlain of clans and heraldry to me. I want every blade identified.” A slow smile curved the emperor’s lips. “I intend to see to it each one finds its owner again.”

A small band of horsemen topped a rise in the Ackal Path, skidding to a halt. Before them, golden in the light of the midmorning summer sun, was the greatest vista in the empire: Daltigoth, capital of Ergoth.

On the left, the Dalti Canal ran parallel to the road, its waters jade green, its shimmering surface undisturbed by boats. Commerce, disrupted by the twin invasions, had not revived in the face of the Army of the East’s advance. Peasant farmers and the usual stream of travelers flowing to and from Daltigoth were conspicuously absent.

Between the canal and the road was a line of tall, weathered statues commemorating rulers of past ages. Tol, leading the group of horsemen, noted that the headless figures of Pakin Zan and Ergothas III still stood, just as they had many years ago, when he’d first come to Daltigoth. An image of Ackal IV had been raised since. It was half the size of the other colossi, an indifferent likeness carved in soft limestone. Given the winter storms common to the Great Horde Hundred, the statue’s features wouldn’t last ten years.

The small hill on which Tol and his companions had paused was called Emperor’s Knob. Legend had it that Ackal Ergot had stood here when he first surveyed the site of his future capital.

Tol drank from the waterskin Kiya handed him and reflected on the passage of time. When he’d last stood here, the land around Daltigoth had been gripped by winter, with deep snow blanketing the pasturelands to his left and the great orchards to his right, under a leaden sky. Now, the fruit trees were densely green and the pastures thronged with shaggy, red-coated cattle, the emperor’s own herd.

Although still more than two leagues away, Daltigoth filled the view from horizon to horizon, from the canal in the east to the peaks of the Harkmor range, to the south and west. The great city wall rose like an impenetrable cliff face. Beyond it, and taller still, the wall of the Inner City enclosed the imperial enclave of palace, Tower of High Sorcery, and Riders’ Hall.

It seemed impossible that they could overcome such a vast and imposing place. All Ackal V had to do was shut the gates, and the Army of the East would be powerless.

“They said we couldn’t get into Caergoth either,” Kiya said, reading her husband’s thoughts. She took the skin back from Tol and drank deeply.

Young Lord Quevalen muttered, “Why do we sit here alone? Where are the imperial hordes?”

It was a trenchant question. In the two days since the battle that had cost them Pagas and gravely wounded Egrin, the Army of the East had encountered no serious opposition. A handful of patrols, a few bands of hired archers was all the resistance they’d met, and all were quickly swept aside. Where were Ackal V’s vaunted ninety hordes?

Under duress, the customs officer Hathak had revealed that forces loyal to the emperor were gathering secretly behind the Army of the East. Minor crossroads north and south of the Ackal Path were the rendezvous points. Riders of the Great Horde had been sent out disguised as commoners, and only awaited word to take up hidden weapons and strike Tol’s men unawares from behind.

Hathak obviously believed what he told them, but after some rumination, Tol decided he did not. Since entering the Great Horde Hundred, they’d seen no more than two dozen farmers. Where were all these supposedly hidden warriors? Where were their horses? He felt the story had been planted by the emperor to keep them off balance, to keep them looking over their shoulders rather than straight ahead. His warlords agreed with this sensible assessment.

Since the army’s arrival at Emperor’s Knob, scouts had returned with other news. The city gates were shut tight, but there were signs that large numbers of mounted men had crossed the West Dalti River not more than two days ago-headed away from the city.

Now, as they stared at Daltigoth in the distance, Tol and his warlords were discussing this peculiar development.

“They mean to outflank us,” Mittigorn said. “With our attention fixed on the capital, the emperor’s hordes can sweep ’round behind us and catch us in a noose!”

Two Riders from Zanpolo’s horde arrived, interrupting the debate. With them was a stranger mounted on a sturdy cob and bearing a standard. The plain white disk on its top was not a horde symbol Tol or his warlords recognized.

“My lord,” said the young man. “I am come from my master, chief priest of Corij, of the great temple in Daltigoth.”

The assembled warlords muttered among themselves. Tol leaned forward on the pommel of his saddle. “Does your master have a name?”

The herald swallowed, glancing at the bored warlords at Tol’s back. “Xanderel, my lord. My master is Xanderel.”

“What word does the august Xanderel bring to us?”

“He seeks an audience, my lord, to discuss the grievances that have brought you here.”

Mittigorn and the other commanders of the landed hordes were delighted by the news; they believed the emperor was making overtures toward peace. The Caergoth lords, however, did not trust that interpretation.

“This is not Ackal V’s way,” Zanpolo said firmly. “Negotiate? This emperor only negotiates at the point of a saber!”

“This time he’s not dealing with foreigners, nomads, or lizard-men,” Trudo countered. “We’re warlords of the empire. Why not treat with us?”

Zanpolo shook his head. He was certain this was a trick.

Tol agreed. Ackal V was capable of the worst double-dealing. The whole situation smelled worse than a thief on a gibbet.

According to the herald, the parley would be attended by priests from the temples of Mishas and Draco Paladine, as well as a guard escort of one hundred Riders.

“A large retinue for a few priests,” Zanpolo remarked, as all eyes went to Tol.

He replied after only a brief hesitation. “We will meet your master Xanderel, at sunset, at our camp on the plain, a half-league north of the Dragon Gate.”

The delay plainly puzzled the herald, but he nodded assent and cantered away. As he was going, Miya arrived. She’d been helping nurse Egrin. The old marshal was conscious and improving, but had no use of his right arm.

Told of the proposed meeting, Miya sided with the landed warlords and saw the parley as a good sign. Her sister, predictably, sided with Zanpolo and the skeptics.

“It’s a trap,” Kiya said darkly. “Priests mean magic. Don’t trust them, Husband!”

Lord Quevalen, who knew Daltigoth well, disagreed. “The priesthoods are not happy with the emperor,” he said. “He taxes their holdings heavily, and it is well known that he slights the gods.”

Argument ended as work on the camp took precedence. Tol had delayed the parley for that reason. If Ackal V intended a surprise attack while Tol was talking with the delegation of priests, he’d find a fortified defense waiting.