lord’s breath away.
The two guards hastily conferred, one quickly slipping through the door. “Make yourselves comfortable, sir knights,” said the other, gesturing to a nearby bench, which the stalwart knights disdained.
In a few moments, the first guard came back, and he held open the door. “It so happens the regent has a few moments; he will see you now.”
Without further word, Ballard and Blayne marched into the palace, their feet moving in perfect cadence as they followed the guard through a high-ceilinged, marble-floored hall. He led them into a small reception room, where, despite the warm summer weather, the windows were shut and a fire burned on a large hearth.
The lord regent was a small, squat man who reminded Blayne surprisingly of a frog. He appeared to be bald, though a close inspection revealed a few thin strands of white hair. He was beardless, with a receding chin, and his eyes were watery and seemed oddly out of focus. There was nothing physically appealing or powerful about him. Kerrigan suppressed a sense of disappointment, reminding himself of the emperor’s many crimes. Surely any man would make a better ruler than Jaymes Markham!
“My Lord Regent!” said Ballard, saluting with a clap of his hand to his chest. Blayne did the same as his companion introduced them.
“What did you men wish to see me about?” wondered du Chagne, who was obviously not one for small talk.
They had already agreed that Ballard, the older and more experienced fellow, would do the talking. Blayne stood at attention.
“My lord,” Ballard began. “The state of affairs in the city and the nation have become intolerable. The knights of my legion, and many other orders, have determined the emperor is in violation of many laws, as well as traditions, customs, and in fact, the Oath and the Measure itself. He will be removed from command of Solamnia, and we most respectfully ask if you will return, in the interim, to the authority and role you adopted when the Dark Knights were driven out.”
“You mean… you want me to assume the mantle of ruler of this city?” Du Chagne blinked his rheumy eyes, seeming surprised-but only mildly so-by the suggestion.
“That is exactly so, my lord. Rebels have already taken control of the High Clerist’s Tower. They will prevent the emperor from returning to the city until the new order has been established. We have representatives in the temples of Shinare and Kiri-Jolith who are also prepared to accept a change in ruler. But we need a leader, someone the people can rally around. You, Excellency, are the only person in Palanthas who could fill that role.”
“And you, young… Blayne Kerrigan, is it not? What is your place in all this?”
“Perhaps my lord has heard that the emperor murdered my father-under a flag of truce. It was that incident that propelled me onto this course. I vowed that Lord Kerrigan’s death would be avenged, and this is a way to do it righteously.”
“But two of you only? Surely there is a greater power at work here?”
“Indeed, my lord. The Legion of Steel has posted cadres to the two temples I have mentioned, as well as to the city garrison headquarters and to the gates. They will call upon the historic respect for the knighthood as a force for justice.”
Du Chagne rose from his desk and came around to pat each of the men on the shoulder. “Thank you for this meeting. I applaud your courage, both of you. And what you are doing is only right and proper. I accept your commission.”
“Very good, my lord,” Ballard replied. “We have prepared an announcement. With your approval, we will have it read by the city heralds immediately.”
“Ah, yes, good thinking,” said the lord regent, who had seemed to grow a few inches during the course of the meeting. “Perhaps you could let me see it, for approval. Then we will waste no time in spreading the word through the city.”
Hoarst completed his meditations in the laboratory of the gray castle in the gray mountains of Dargaard. His women fearfully avoided him-his coldness and aloof manner did little to entice them-and he, in turn, ignored them utterly. For this task, he would work alone.
Blowing the dust off of an ancient tome, he opened the spellbook on his table and spent more than twenty- four straight hours studying the complicated workings of a dangerous and powerful incantation. He didn’t sleep and only took small sips of water for sustenance. His entire intellect was devoted to the effort of absorbing the arcane symbols, mystical gestures, and almost unpronounceable sounds. Finally, certain that he could cast the spell flawlessly, he closed the book and made ready to leave.
Looking around at the huge castle, he shrugged off the feeling that the place was even darker and grayer than it had been since he had lost Sirene. His kind did not permit regrets, certainly not when he had such important work to do.
Still, he reflected, perhaps later, when the matter was resolved, he would undertake a search, questing across Ansalon, across all of Krynn, for another white-skinned beauty…
It was time to go. His plan required several stages of precise magical accomplishment. To begin with, he had to locate Ankhar. He could cast a spell that would lead him to a specific object. The more unique and powerful the object, the easier it would be to find. The Nightmaster had given him the perfect suggestion: a potent artifact of the Prince of Lies, the emerald spearhead that tipped the mighty weapon carried by Ankhar the Truth.
When Hoarst cast the spell, it gave him a clear indication of where the artifact could be found. The Thorn Knight determined immediately that his target was in a valley of the Garnet Range. Next was teleportation. He would not be coming back to his keep, perhaps for a very long time, so he made his final preparations for travel carefully. He would carry his sharp dagger, a few spellbooks, a wide array of components, and small bottles of potion.
Using the Shaft of Hiddukel as a guide, he teleported himself through the ether, landing right by the side of the half-giant.
The gray wizard materialized on a wide plaza with a pristine lake nearby and mountain ridges flanking the horizons. Ankhar the Truth was there, and shockingly, he was engaged in a fight for his life.
A fight, by all appearances, the half-giant was about to lose.
A man Hoarst recognized as Jaymes Markham was standing over Ankhar, sword upraised, ready to strike the killing blow. The half-giant was sprawled on the ground, clawing for purchase, trying without success to evade the inevitable blow.
Hoarst wasted no time. He spat one word, pointing at the emperor, and released a stream of magic missiles from his fingertips. The first of the blazing bolts struck the man in his shoulder, knocking him back, breaking the line of the downward stab so the big sword not only missed the half-giant, but even missed the ground. Jaymes stumbled again, gasping with pain as the second bolt seared into his chest.
The emperor recovered quickly and used the blazing sword to knock away the next of the magic missiles… and the next. Parrying each, he kept the blasts from striking his body but was forced steadily backward, away from the half-giant who was gaping in amazement at his unbidden benefactor. Slowly, groggily, Ankhar pushed himself to his feet. By that time Jaymes had fallen back to the rank of dwarves ringing the plaza. The half-giant raised his spear and started toward the human.
“No!” Hoarst barked.
“Who are you to give me commands?” growled the half-giant.
“The one who would save your life-and your army!” snapped the Thorn Knight. “Now come with me!”
He tugged at the brutish commander’s wrist, and perhaps because he was still stunned and shocked, Ankhar let himself be pulled along. Hoarst and the half-giant retreated through the line of ogres standing on the lakeside edge of the plaza. It was not hard to see the ogres were in dire straits: surrounded on three sides by superior numbers with the deep, impassable body of water at the rear.
“I can get you out of here right now! We’ll carry the fight to a fortress in the emperor’s heartland! Will you come with me?” demanded the Thorn Knight.
Ankhar cast an anguished glance at the line of knights and dwarves, rallying around their wounded leader. The half-giant growled, an ominous rumble of sound that came from somewhere deep within him. The massive body trembled, and Hoarst momentarily feared the brute would be guided by his savage temper.
But somehow the mighty leader shook off the temptation, merely smacking his fist into his palm with a great
