taverns, and harassed clerics and sorcerers loyal to Prince Amaltar. More than a few times Tol had to lead a contingent of Horse Guards to arrest a wolf accused of mayhem. The guards usually got their man, but few of Nazramin’s followers were ever punished. The pattern was grimly similar in each case. When the accused malefactor was brought before an imperial magistrate, no one showed up to press the complaint against him. Without the offended party, the magistrate had to release the ruffian.
Such a state of affairs never would have been allowed under a strong emperor, but each passing season made Pakin III’s failing health more apparent. The day-to-day rule of the empire fell heavily on the crown prince, but many in the empire preferred the harsh, warlike Nazramin to his cold, scheming brother. To warlords accustomed to settling matters with a sword, Nazramin was seen as strong, and Amaltar as effete.
Not long after Tol assumed command of the City Horse Guards, Valaran, fourth daughter and youngest child of Lord Valdid and Lady Pernina, became Princess Consort Valaran. The elaborate marriage ceremony marked the longest time she had spent with Amaltar to that point, she told Tol. Once wed, she dined with the prince every third day, played draughts by the fireside on rainy evenings, and occasionally read aloud to him. Such, she told Tol, was the life of a princess consort.
Tol knew he should let that be enough, but he couldn’t. “Has he… known you?”
“The marriage is not legitimate until that happens.” She would have left it there, but he asked her again and she said bluntly, “Amaltar is my husband, Tol.”
That had been early in their relationship, and they had moved beyond such jealousies, beyond the need to pry into each other’s secrets. When the weather was warm and fair, they went together to the Font of the Blue Phoenix, to be alone, to share love. It was the perfect place for them to meet. Outsiders could not breech the spell surrounding the garden, and the sorcerers within kept far away from the Irda nullstone Tol still carried. For three years, their idyll continued, but like all perfect things, it could not last. Forces of ambition and disorder, never defeated, marshaled anew.
In the autumn of the tenth year of the reign of Pakin III, war finally broke out between the empire and the city-state of Tarsis. Long-smoldering disputes over tariffs and trading rights in Hylo finally ignited into open conflict when the Tarsan fleet stopped patrolling the southern waters and pirates began to run rampant along the Ergothian coast. Kharland buccaneers, usually restrained by the powerful Tarsan navy, raided the far west coast of Ergoth, seizing captives, burning crops, and plundering villages. Lacking a large fleet, the Ergothians demanded the navy return and suppress the pirates. Tarsis refused.
The western sea raids were a diversion. The merchant-princes of Tarsis hoped to shift Ergoth’s attention westward while they landed a sizable mercenary army in Hylo. The city-state had long entertained designs on the kender kingdom, nominally independent but in fact dominated by Ergoth. A few discreet agents had attempted to foment discord and resentment among the kender, but the chaotic kender proved resistant to Tarsan influence. More direct action was required, so with Ergoth’s attention focused on its ravaged western coast, Tarsis put troops ashore in Hylo Bay. Ignoring the principle towns-which they could capture at their leisure-the Tarsan army marched south to meet the expected Ergothian counterattack.
Twenty-six imperial hordes rode north under Lord Urakan, commander of all imperial armies, to drive the Tarsans from Hylo. Urakan was opposed by two forces. The first was the army of Tarsan mercenaries under an elf general named Tylocost; the other, a collection of plains tribes and other hired barbarians led by the nomad chieftain Krato. Lord Urakan easily drove the plainsmen back over the Thel Mountains, but the left wing of his army was sharply defeated by Tylocost in the river country of eastern Hylo. Lord Urakan struck back by sending nine hordes up the east side of the Thel Mountains, trying to cut off Tylocost from his seaborne supplies. Fighting continued for two years, neither nation gaining the upper hand.
In the spring of Pakin III’s twelfth regnal year, Prince Nazramin and his wolves, reinforced by four additional hordes, joined Lord Urakan’s host. They won a bloody victory over Krato’s plainsmen, utterly destroying a band of nomads in the pay of Tarsis. In the spirit of Ergothian conquerors of old, Nazramin massacred the enemy and sold their families into captivity. The red-haired prince’s reputation rose high as a consequence of his victory. He returned to Daltigoth in triumph, though his only lasting accomplishment was to fill the other plains tribes with hate, driving them into the arms of Tarsis.
Tol saw no fighting in the first part of the war. Still haunted by the death of his uncle Pakin II, Prince Amaltar was more and more consumed by fear of assassination. He would not allow his champion to leave the capital, and Tol chafed at his enforced inactivity. Returning one night after chasing bandits who’d been harassing travelers on the Ackal Path, he poured out his frustrations to Egrin.
“Patience,” the elder warrior counseled. “We are doing honorable service here. How many brigands did we kill this day?”
“But I want to try my men in real battle, against the Tarsans,” Tol said peevishly. “Tylocost is counted the best general in the world. I want to put him to the test!”
“You’ll get your chance. Neither Prince Nazramin nor Lord Urakan is a match for the elf. When the empire needs you, you will be called.”
For a time it seemed his mentor was wrong, and Tol would get no chance to fight. And then, while camped in the forest outside the kender port town of Far-to-go, Lord Urakan’s army was stricken by the Red Wrack, a dreadful plague. Soldiers perfectly hale at sunrise developed a hacking cough and irregular red spots on their skin by midmorning, were crimson from hair to heels by afternoon, and spitting blood by next dawn. Death followed for most in only a day. Sufferers afflicted by the worse forms of the plague would bleed from their ears and eyes before dying, which was why easterners like Tol knew the disease as “the bloodtears.”
Hoping to leave behind whatever miasma was causing the disease, and save the remainder of his army, Lord Urakan abandoned his coastal camp and retreated twenty leagues into Ergothian territory, the Northern Hundred.
The Tarsans fared little better. Taking advantage of Urakan’s withdrawal, Tylocost’s host crossed the bay to attack Hylo city, but were repulsed with heavy loss. Kender reports (never very reliable) told of death on a massive scale, bodies piled high on the beach and in the surf, the waters of Hylo Bay stained red with the blood of ten thousand mercenaries. Problem was, no one, not even the local kender, could say who had inflicted this signal defeat on Tylocost. It wasn’t Urakan’s doing, nor Prince Nazramin’s-he was by this time once again comfortably ensconced in Daltigoth. A third force, as yet unknown, must have joined the fray.
Tol and Egrin were present at a council of war, held in the audience hall of the Imperial Palace, when a delegation of kender arrived in Daltigoth with their account of the Tarsan disaster. Warlords filled the hall to hear the kenders’ tale, and Tol knew the ailing Pakin III listened from his aerie, concealed by the curtains above and behind Amaltar’s throne.
“How large was Tylocost’s army?” asked the prince, perusing the enormous map laid at his feet. Drawn on a single oxhide, the map lapped at the foot of the imperial throne on one side, ran down the dais steps, and ended at the waiting kender on the other.
“Twenty thousand men,” said one kender, wearing a sort of turban made of shiny cloth. It was too large for his head and had obviously been “borrowed” from someone with a bigger skull.
“Thirty thousand, you mean,” corrected the second kender. He was dressed like a plainsman, in buckskin and feathers.
“Where did they land?” the prince demanded.
The turbaned kender crawled onto the map and pointed to a long, wide beach east of Hylo city.
Egrin had been staring at the turbaned kender and now said, “I know you. You came to Juramona a few years back, seeking the help of Lord Odovar against the monster XimXim.”
The kender pushed his drooping turban up, and declared, “Never been there.”
“He’s not
Egrin’s eyes narrowed. He was certain he knew better, but only asked, “Could it have been XimXim who attacked Tylocost?”
By navigating a typical fog of kender exaggerations, embroidery, and outright lies, they gradually pieced together the strange tale. When Tylocost had half his army ashore, a thick gray fog blew down the bay, covering the Tarsan ships. Before long, a terrible chorus of shrieks and screams arose from the cloud. The fog turned crimson from all the blood spilled, and disciplined mercenaries threw down their arms and fled. Many boats capsized as
