“Ship to starboard, two points off the beam! A merchantman!”
Tol shifted his gaze. Though he’d given no order, the helm was put over, and the galley churned toward the tubby merchant ship. Sailors spilled out on deck, distributing cutlasses and pikes. A springald catapult on the poop was winched around and quickly cleared for action.
“Stand down!” Tol said. “We’re not attacking.”
No one paid him the slightest heed. Indeed, the pirates rushed past him as if he wasn’t even there. He tried to grab the nearest fellow and found he couldn’t. His reaching hands passed through the pirate’s sun-browned arms without hindrance.
The merchant ship piled on more sail and turned, trying to run from the powerful galley. The pirates unfurled a sail of their own, adding the wind’s power to their oars. Inexorably, Thunderer overhauled the clumsy trader. Soon Tol could see men stirring on its deck. Bronze glinted in the ship’s waist. They were preparing to resist.
The galley could have rammed the fleeing ship easily, but that would’ve destroyed the pirates’ plunder. They had to board her. Pulling parallel to the merchant, separated by only the length of the portside oars, the pirates trained the catapult on their prey and let fly.
Instead of a wooden javelin or stone ball, they flung a bronze-tipped arrow tied to. a long line. It buried itself deeply in the merchant’s hull. The galley’s portside oars were run in, and a dozen pirates hauled away on the line, drawing the two ships together.
A horn blared. Pirates swarmed over the galley’s side and onto the merchant ship’s deck. Iron clashed, blood flowed, and men toppled into the sea. Tol dashed back and forth, shouting for the pirates to cease, but he was a phantom to them, unseen and unheard.
— and then he was on the deck of the merchant ship. The ship’s waist was a busy battlefield, with sailors from both ships locked in fierce combat. On the sterncastle, men in Ergothian armor fended off twice their number in pirates. In the midst of the frantic throng, Tol spotted a familiar face.
“Darpo!”
Tol tried to go to his comrade, but his feet were sluggish, as though mired in mud. He could barely make any headway.
Bowstrings twanged. Pirates had gained the rigging of the merchant ship. Holding on with their legs, they drew and loosed arrows into the defenders. Tol watched in horror as one archer took deliberate aim at Darpo, unaccountably the only Ergothian warrior who wasn’t sporting a helmet.
“Darpo! Look out!”
With awful clarity, Tol saw the archer release. The arrow hummed forward, twisting through the air as the fletching caught the wind.
Darpo cut down a bare-chested pirate and stood back to draw a breath. At that instant he must have heard the arrow’s thrum, because he turned toward it-
— and received the broadhead in one eye.
Tol bolted upright, shouting hoarsely. Early sat, legs folded, staring across the small fire at him.
Uncharacteristically, Tol began to curse. Disheveled, the sweat rapidly cooling on him in the frigid night air, he clenched his hands into fists and cursed.
“What did you see this time?” Early asked. His voice was strange, low and deep.
“Darpo-my old friend Darpo, commanding the imperial fleet. I was on a pirate ship that attacked him.” Tol swallowed hard. “He was shot by an arrow-”
He shivered, then was struck by several thoughts. It was winter now, yet in his vision the weather had been warm. That could not be. Besides, Darpo was in command of Thunderer, not plying the seas on a merchant vessel being attacked by Thunderer.
“It must’ve been only a bad dream,” he said, forcing himself to breathe deeply, forcing himself to believe his own words. “Only a dream!”
“I fear not. What you saw was truth, disguised as memory and dream. Something grave may have befallen Darpo.”
The kender sounded so unlike his usual breezy self Tol said sharply, “How do you know all this, little one?”
“Sometimes I see far.”
Early’s face had taken on a completely different cast, more serious, more powerful-and was his skin darker than before?
Tol shook off the strange impression. Lack of sleep and raw nerves were affecting his judgment. Wasn’t that just what Mandes wanted?
He had intended to avoid all towns, but his peace of mind demanded otherwise.
“We’ll stop in Juramona tomorrow,” he told Early. “I want to warn Egrin myself of the danger he faces.”
It could be only a matter of time before Mandes turned his malign attentions to the marshal.
The high plain had turned from summer green to harvest gold and thence to winter brown. Beneath a leaden sky, an ocean of grass spread out before them, dry and stiff. Here and there, copses of trees lifted bare limbs sharp as talons to the sky.
As they rode briskly toward Tol’s old home, they spoke little. The wind of their passage was bitter on their faces. Gloved, caped, and hooded with furs, eyes squinted against the icy breeze, they cantered across the silent plain.
Late afternoon had come on the short winter day when they finally beheld Juramona. Tol hadn’t been back since leaving for Daltigoth with Enkian Tumult when he was but eighteen years old. The provincial town had grown steadily in his absence. The old wooden wall now sported stone towers, and the spans of timbered bulwark in between were slowly acquiring a thick skin of cut stone blocks. The marshal’s High House, on its mound overlooking the town, had been whitewashed. It stood out starkly against the slate roofs and unpainted houses below it.
Footmen were closing the western gate for the night when Tol hailed them. Shading their eyes against the rays of the setting sun, the soldiers delayed until Tol and the kender rode through the gate.
Riding down the dusty lane, Tol was assailed by a deluge of odors, some sweet, some foul, but all with meaning from the past. Frying meat and local beer, livestock and garbage mingled with vigorous, unwashed humanity. Tol drifted in a nostalgic haze. Only when he saw Early had halted ahead and was waiting for him to catch up did he snap out of it. This wasn’t the time to reminisce.
Guards challenged them at the foot of the ramp leading up to High House. They were young, local boys, cold and bored with guard duty, but they crossed poleaxes in front of Tol’s horse and recited the required challenge: Who was he? What business did he have in the High House?
Tol pushed back his fur hood. “I am Lord Tolandruth of Juramona. This is my companion, Early Stumpwater.”
The young soldiers gaped. If the emperor himself had appeared before them, they couldn’t have been more surprised.
“My lord!” stammered one, a stoutish fellow. “We didn’t know you!”
“I have business with Marshal Egrin.”
The soldiers hastily backed away, and Tol spurred Tetchy forward. Early followed close behind. They galloped up the spiral ramp, drawing curious stares.
At the door of the marshal’s residence, Tol leaped from his horse before the beast had stopped. He dashed inside, ignoring the challenges of the soldiers on the door.
No one tried to stop him as he stormed through the halls, shedding gloves and heavy fur cape. Within High House there were many who knew him.
The sight of an elderly healer standing before the marshal’s quarters finally brought him up short. He recognized Ossant, a priestess of Mishas. She was an old acquaintance and a woman of conviction. Years ago, the then marshal, Odovar, had ordered Egrin to behead the Pakin rebel, Vakka Zan. Odovar intended the headless corpse be put on display as a warning to all Pakin sympathizers, but Ossant used her status as priestess and healer to have the body removed-”to prevent disease,” she had said.
His arrival obviously startled her. “I must speak with the marshal,” he said. “Where is he?”
Ossant’s pale blue eyes and the nimbus of white hair framing her round face gave her a deceptively gentle appearance: she was not one to mince words.
“Lord Egrin has withdrawn for the evening. A man his age needs rest.”
&nb
sp; “My business is important. You come too, lady. There may be need for your services.”
“Is someone ill, my lord?” she asked, but Tol moved past her to push open the door and did not answer.
The marshal’s bedchamber was close and warm, the effect of an oversized fireplace blazing in the room. Egrin, dressed in a heavy brocade robe, sat before the fire in a large chair.
Head resting against the chair’s high back, he snored gently.
Tol paused. He suddenly thought of his father-his real father-and wondered where he slept this night. It was a bad son who let his parent fall into old age unsupported.
Ossant approached Egrin but did not touch him. “My lord marshal, Lord Tolandruth is here.”
Egrin jerked awake with a snort. He looked past the priestess and saw Tol. Immediately he sat up, and Ossant stepped back. The marshal cleared his throat, face reddening slightly at being caught napping.
“This can’t be good news,” he muttered, voice rough with sleep.
“No.” Tol’s smile was fleeting. “There are grave matters stirring, my friend.”
Egrin arose to greet Tol properly, his movements stiff. He drew up a chair before the fire, facing the marshal. Ossant stood at Egrin’s back and Early at Tol’s. The kender had sidled in unnoticed. Though he’d never been in High House, he’d somehow found his way to the marshal’s bedchamber unescorted.
After Tol explained his mission, Egrin said gravely, “So it has-come at last. You mean to slay the sorcerer.”
“I do.”
“I have reports from the mountains of his activities.” Egrin poured milky liquid from a brass pitcher into two clay cups. Tol was surprised to find it was barley water, a tipple associated with the old.
After downing a large swallow, Egrin said, “Mandes is on Mount Axas. He has hired between two hundred and four hundred mercenaries, mostly nomads from the east side of the mountains. His recruiters tried to enlist men from the Juramona garrison.”
Tol’s task suddenly seemed much harder, but he put on a bold face, saying, “Good. At least I won’t have to chase him around the country!”
“Not good,” Egrin countered. “He knows you’re coming. You’re walking into a trap.”
The fire snapped and popped, bits of glowing bark falling into the dark bed of ashes. Egrin refilled their cups, and Tol rested his chin on his fist.
“What I need is cover, like the Mist-Maker’s clouds,” he mused.
“Diversions,” said Early.
Everyone turned to the kender. He been so silent and still and unkenderlike, they’d nearly forgotten he was present.
“Why not a cloud of Tolandruths to befuddle the Mist-Maker?” he suggested.
A number of Tol impersonators, he explained, men from the Juramona garrison, could lead phony expeditions toward Mount Axas along different routes. Mandes and his hired army wouldn’t know which threat was real.
“A man of his talent won’t be fooled long,” Ossant cautioned.
“I don’t need long,” Tol said. “Three days, maybe four.”
Egrin rose. “I’ll give the order.”
While he was gone, Tol said to Ossant, “Mandes will do anything to stop me. So far he’s sent terrifying dreams which seem to show my friends and comrades being killed. He’s bound to try and harm Lord Egrin. Can you protect him?”
“I am only a humble priestess of Mishas,” she answered. “No one in Juramona can contend with the Mist-Maker.”
“You don’t have to trade blows with him, just do your best to protect the marshal!”
The anxiety in his voice caused her to relent. “The wards of the temple of Mishas are the strongest in town. I will convince the lord marshal to spend each night there until you return.”
Tol smiled. He clasped her hands and wrung them gratefully. “You’re the best rear guard I’ve got, lady. I love Egrin like a father. Keep him safe and I’ll build you a new temple of Mishas, as fine as any in Daltigoth!”
Egrin returned, and he and Tol walked out together.
As she followed them, Ossant caught Early’s eye. Although the two had never met, a curious recognition flowed between them.
No one noticed when the elderly, revered priestess of Mishas bowed her head respectfully to King Lucklyn’s royal food taster.
Smoke curled around ancient beams, coating the heavy slate roof slabs with soot. Far below, by the open hearth, Mandes sat in a canvas chair. A tripod supporting a brazen pan of clear oil stood before him. He gazed into the still surface of the oil. The silence was absolute.
A door flew open, thudding against the wall, and a fur-clad man stomped in. Wind howled through the open portal, nearly extinguishing the fire and sending ripples across the oil.
“What word, Wadag?” Mandes grunted.
The nomad warrior closed the door and shook out his wild, tangled hair. “We got word of your man Tolandruth, Chief. He’s leading forty men up Wildcat Creek, coming this way!”
“Is he? Yesterday you told me he was coming from the west, through Anvil Pass, with twenty-two riders.”
“Some of the men still think that, but this is fresh information, Chief.” The young warrior waited, expecting praise and new orders.
Mandes pondered the new information for a long interval.
“You must investigate, I know,” he said at last. “I leave it to you, Wadag. Trouble me no more about it. Whatever you hear about Lord Tolandruth’s movements, you handle it. Yes?
Wadag thumped his chest with one fist. “Yes, Chief! I’ll bring you the head of that fancy flatlander!”
Plainly excited by the prospect, Wadag departed as loudly as he’d entered.
Mandes sat back in his chair. Not every bird in the sky was an eagle, the saying went. Not every Tolandruth in the mountains was the real one. None of his stratagems to rid himself of the vengeful warlord had worked so far-not the death of the engineer Elicarno nor of the sailor in the far-off sea. Perhaps he had miscalculated. Maybe Tolandruth was not the sort of man who could be diverted by threats.
Now what? What could he do?
Violent trembling seized him. Tolandruth intended his death. If he, the Mist-Maker, who’d once held the great and mighty of Daltigoth in his thrall, could not defeat this one man, all his plots and plans would come to nothing. He would surely die.
Old Yoralyn, leader of the White Robes when Mandes first arrived in the capital, had prophesied on her deathbed that a silent man would seek to slay Mandes, and even if forestalled, his coming would mean the Mist-Maker’s end.
The sorcerer reached out with quaking hands to the oil-filled pan. So great was his trembling he knocked the tripod over, sending rivulets of golden oil across the worn stone floor.
Chapter 18
Steel or Stone
The night passed without incident. Performing magic at great distances had to be incredibly draining, but if Mandes had overtaxed himself in striking at Miya and Darpo on successive nights, if those things actually had happened (and Tol prayed they had not), Tol knew the rogue wizard would strike again as soon as he was able.
During the night, eight different Lord Tolandruths, leading bands of Riders from the Juramona garrison, set out for Mandes’s lair along different routes. At each village and every river crossing the bands would openly proclaim themselves Lord Tolandruth’s men out to bring Mandes to justice. Tol was amused at just how easy it was to handpick a few soldiers, and disguise them to resemble himself.
With renewed provisions, Tol and Early left Juramona just after dawn. A marble vault of clouds still hid the sky, a bitter wind from the north playing on their faces. They were only twenty leagues from the Thel Mountains, thirty from Mount Axas proper-two days’ hard riding there, and two days back to the safety of Juramona.
Once they crossed the border into Hylo Early perked up as of old, becoming talkative again. There were gaps in the kender’s memories of the past few days, and Tol had an inkling why. Felryn’s spirit must have taken possession of Early the nigh
t Darpo was attacked then stayed with him until they left Juramona. Mandes said he’d stopped Felryn’s mouth, preventing him from speaking to Tol, but the sorcerer couldn’t prevent Felryn from entering another body.
In spite of his grief, Tol found the notion of the orderly, precise Felryn sharing the untidy mind of a kender as amusing as his many counterfeits roaming the countryside. Yet it was enormously comforting to know a part of his friend survived, and that Felryn was going to such lengths to aid him.
The easiest route to Mandes’s stronghold, according to Valaran’s map, was to ride along the western edge of the Thel range, paralleling the mountains, until they came abreast of Mount Axas. Remaining in the lower elevations for as long as possible ensured a more comfortable journey.
As they rode through patches of scrub pine, they heard other horses nearby, quite a few horses in fact. Reining up, they sat quietly and listened.
“Ten riders,” Tol finally murmured.
“Twelve,” countered Early. “Humans.”
“Egrin’s decoys?”
The kender shook his head.
Tol eyed him skeptically. Early was well traveled, but no scout. “How do you know?”
“I can see them,” he said, flicking his eyes.
Turning in the saddle, Tol saw them, too.
Twelve mounted men wearing furs and leather were approaching. They galloped by, forty paces away and heading in the same direction that Early and Tol were taking. They rode in good order, keeping a formation of twos, marking them as professionals. The plains nomads had been hiring out as fighters to Tarsis for generations; they knew how to ride and fight.
Such patrols grew more frequent as they rode north. Several times Tol and Early had to hide to avoid columns of riders. They counted several hundred armed men crisscrossing the western approaches. Their grim presence appeared to have cleared the countryside of local kender, depriving Tol of friendly eyes and ears.
The winter day was almost over when they first beheld Mount Axas. It rose in the gap between two lesser mountains, Kembra to the north and Bluetooth to the south. Compared to the rocky peaks around it, Axas looked earthy and dark, as if the stones of its slopes were stained. The lower reaches were completely enshrouded by a wall of white mist. There could be no more certain sign the Mist-Maker had indeed taken up residence there.
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