When the turbaned priest, drove his long dagger straight at Tol’s throat, Miya yanked Tol backward and Egrin interposed himself. He seized the assassin’s wrist with his good left hand. As they struggled for the dagger, the priest’s turban fell away.

Tathman!

Tol instantly recognized the captain of the Emperor’s Wolves, despite his trimmed beard. Number Six in hand, Tol shouted for Egrin to get clear, but the old warrior would not let go Tathman’s dagger hand. Lacking a weapon and hampered by his injury, Egrin kicked hard at the other man’s shins. His hobnailed boots cut through the priestly robes and drew blood.

Tathman punched Egrin in the face. The old warrior’s head rocked back, once, twice, three times. Still, his iron grip did not falter. With a roar of fury, Tathman chopped at Egrin’s arm with his fist and finally broke free. Immediately, he slashed downward at Egrin’s face.

Tol caught Egrin and spun his friend into Miya’s arms, then turned to deal with the emperor’s favorite killer.

Tathman fended off Tol’s cuts and thrusts, retreating back toward the wagon that had brought him. His fighting style was peculiar: He seemed more intent on cutting Tol than impaling him.

On one pass the iron blade hissed close by Tol’s face, and he suddenly understood Tathman’s intent. The edge of the blade was coated with a yellow substance.

Poison.

Tol risked a fleeting glance over his shoulder. Egrin lay on the ground, his head and shoulders in Miya’s lap. His eyes were closed, and the cut on his face was bright red and inflamed.

Something deep inside Tol exploded with anger. With repeated thrusts of Number Six, he forced Tathman back until the big man fetched up against the wagon box. Around them, warriors and false priests fought, cursed, and shouted, but neither Tol nor Tathman said a word as they lunged and feinted. Tol’s steel saber finally got through, slicing the captain’s robe and revealing a gleam of metal beneath.

The poisoned dagger whisked by Tol’s eyes. He recovered and slashed hard at the vile weapon, scoring a bloody cut on Tathman’s chin. Down came the dagger toward Tol’s scale shirt. Backing a step, Tol turned sharply and drove Number Six into his foe’s unprotected thigh.

Tathman grunted, and backhanded Tol with his free hand. The blow rocked Tol, and he staggered. A red haze clouded his vision, but instinctively he raised his saber to protect his face. Tathman’s dagger’s struck his handguard. Tol swept Number Six down and felt his blade strike flesh. His vision cleared. Tathman was clutching the base of his neck with one hand, blood welling between his fingers.

The rest of the assassins had been subdued in the meantime. Several warlords, including the redoubtable Zanpolo and white-bearded Trudo, had fallen to poisoned daggers wielded by Tathman’s confederates.

A company of militia ran up with spears leveled at Tathman. Panting, Tol waved them off. He and the Wolf captain stood, gazes locked.

Tol slashed at Tathman’s already wounded shoulder. The big man parried, parried again, then made a backhanded swipe at Tol’s eyes. Tol brought Number Six up to his cheek, edge outward, and the blade cut deep into Tathman’s wrist. The Wolf captain groaned loudly as the tainted blade fell from his nerveless fingers. Still he did not go down, but only-staggered back. His right wrist, partially severed, was held tight against his body; his left hand gripped his bleeding neck.

Tol struck again. Tathman received Tol’s saber through the knotted muscle of his upper right arm. Howling, Tathman fell.

Incredibly, the villain was not yet finished. After a brief struggle, Tathman made it to his knees.

Up went Number Six. Tathman raised his face and peered at his foe through sweaty, bloody strands of hair. There was no pleading in his eyes, only burning, unquenchable hatred.

The steel blade flashed down, and Tathman died.

Tol hurried to Miya. She held Egrin tightly, both of them shaking from the force of her grief. Egrin’s eyes were closed.

“He’s not breathing!” Miya sobbed.

Tol seized Egrin’s hand, saying harshly, “Don’t go, old man! Our j ob isn’t done!”

His plea was in vain. Egrin Raemel’s son was dead.

Tol rose, stumbling slightly on shaky legs. Kiya, standing behind him, gripped his shoulder. Her face was wet with tears.

Looking to Lord Quevalen, who stood nearby, Tol asked, “Are any of the assassins alive?” Hearing that half the delegation and its escort still lived, he added coldly, “I want their heads. Now.”

The Wolves were stripped of their clerical vestments and marched away. The genuine priests pleaded for mercy. Xanderel explained that he was not the chief priest of Corij. That distinction belonged to his master, Hycontas.

“Our part was forced, great lord!” the elderly priest babbled. “Our brothers in Daltigoth are being held hostage! They will be slaughtered because we have failed!”

Tol was not impressed. Xanderel or his fellows could have warned him. If they had, Lord Egrin would not now be lying dead. He ordered the priests stripped. None bore the distinctive chest tattoo of a Wolf-a crimson Ackal sun above a wolf’s head-so he spared their lives.

A wagon was brought forward, and the severed heads of the Emperor’s Wolves were piled inside. Clad only in their linen loincloths, the terrified priests were forced to sit atop this gruesome cargo.

Xanderel’s terror set his teeth to chattering. “My lord, you can’t mean to send us back this way!” he stuttered. “The emperor will surely put us all to death!”

Even through the hatred and anguish boiling in his heart, Tol knew the priest spoke the truth. He stared at the terrified men for a long moment, panting slightly from the force of his emotions.

“No. No one else will die in my stead. I will face Ackal V,” he said at last. “Alone.”

Quevalen and the other warlords protested vehemently, vowing Tol would be killed long before he reached the Inner City. A few threatened to stop him bodily, but the sight of Number Six, still reeking with Tathman’s blood, dissuaded them.

He turned to take leave of the Dom-shu sisters. Respecting their privacy, the warlords drew off a few paces.

Miya still held Egrin’s body, with Kiya kneeling beside her. Joining them, Tol took Miya’s hand and pressed the Irda millstone into her palm. “Keep this for me, in case I don’t come back.”

“No, take it. It will keep you safe!”

“I won’t need it to do what must be done,” he said firmly. “And I won’t risk it falling into the emperor’s hands.”

Her fingers closed around the braided metal circlet. Face distorted by unaccustomed malice, she whispered, “See justice done, Husband! If it takes every piece of luck the gods owe you, see it through!”

He squeezed her hand tightly. “I will, Wife.”

When he stood, Kiya rose as well. “I must come with you,” she said, hand on her sword hilt. He looked her in the eye, and nodded. Miya bowed her head, weeping all the more.

Tol left Mittigorn, eldest surviving commander, in charge. The warlords, shocked by the emperor’s treachery, were equally dazed by Tol’s decision, yet as one they saluted their peasant general.

Kiya and Tol climbed onto the wagon’s plank seat. To supplement her sword, Kiya brought along a bow and a full quiver of arrows.

Of their own accord, the men of the Juramona Militia gathered on either side of the palisade gate and raised their spears, as Tol drove the wagon and its grisly cargo past. He looked left, then right, acknowledging their salute, then fixed his gaze on the distant Dragon Gate ahead.

The night air was warm and stiflingly still. Sweat was trickling into Tol’s eyes. Every small jolt of the wagon felt like a blow. His hands were clenched around the reins of the two-horse team. The priests behind him were quiet except for an occasional whimper or moan. The only other break in the silence occurred when, after a particularly hard jolt, the large head of the Wolf called Argon rolled over and thudded against the side of the wagon. The sight was too much for a younger priest, and he was sick over the side of the slowly moving wagon.