honor guard followed his example, leaving gray robes piled along both sides of the road. The sun was at their backs, shining on the walls of Daltigoth.
Valdid went forward to consult with Amaltar. The assembly, already fairly quiet, hushed to silence as the chamberlain and emperor conversed. Valdid had been studying the coronation ritual since Pakin III died and was giving his liege a few final pointers. Although Valdid was a decade older, it was Amaltar who looked the elder.
With a final bow, Valdid withdrew, taking his place in line with his family. Amaltar went down on one knee and crossed his arms on his chest, making his prayer to Corij, patron deity of the House of Ackal. When he stood again, five of his eldest children came forward. The three boys and two girls were all in their teens and dressed as warriors. They bore simple instruments-two drums, a sistrum, and cymbals. The leader of the musicians was Amaltar’s eldest son and heir, Prince Hatonar.
To Tol’s eye, Hatonar looked soft and pampered-his hair elaborately curled and his scarlet raiment chased with layers of gilt. Most princes spent at least some time on campaign with a horde, but Hatonar had never been out of Daltigoth.
The five youths were the only people who would precede Amaltar. He gave them leave, and they set out to the beat of their drums. At an interval of ten paces came Amaltar. Tol counted to ten then followed his imperial master. The honor guard was close behind him, and the rest of the coronation party fell into place. All proceeded with stately, measured tread up the wide, paved ramp that led to the Ackal Gate.
The largest and most elaborate gate in the entire city, the Ackal actually comprised three gates, one monumental portal flanked by two smaller but still impressive ones. The pillars supporting the pediment over the triple entrance were colossal statues of the conqueror, Ackal the Great. The six statues, two per gate, were carved from living black granite, and each was twenty paces high. The curving pediment above them showed scenes from Ackal Ergot’s life in high relief. The central relief depicted the warlord’s hardest-fought battle, his duel with his own brother, Bazan Ergot. By defeating Bazan in personal combat, Ackal cleared the way for the forging of the plains riders into the Great Horde and the birth of the empire.
When the musician princes and princesses reached the top of the paved ramp, they stood aside, making way for their father to approach the closed gate.
“Who dares come before the city with arms and martial music?” called Lord Rymont from the gatehouse, playing the part of the city’s defender.
“Amaltar Ergot, Prince of the House of Ackal!”
“Turnback, Mighty One! This place is your doom!”
With a sweep of his hand, Amaltar directed his children to storm the gate. The youths threw themselves at the closed portal with much shouting and shoving. The double doors parted. Having thus “captured” the gate, they reformed and resumed their music. Amaltar marched through. Tol, bearing the golden case containing the famed crown, kept pace behind.
The square and street beyond were jammed with people. Mounted warriors with blunt spears kept a lane clear through the mob. When Amaltar emerged from the deep shadow of the Ackal Gate, a roar went up from the multitude-not a roar of approbation, but a cry of fear and anger. Until the crown of Ackal Ergot rested on his brow, Amaltar was emperor in name only, and his role now was that of a foreign warlord storming the city.
The people played their part with gusto, as this was their only opportunity to vent any resentment to their master’s face. Tol was taken aback as the good folk of Amaltar’s capital screamed, cursed, and shook fists at their ruler.
Prince Hatonar and his four siblings were intimidated by the fury of the mob and shrank together, slowing the pace. Their father overtook them and pushed them firmly along. His words were lost in the din, but his stern countenance and commanding gestures conveyed his meaning: This was no time for faint hearts.
The procession continued along the broad streets of the outer city. Through street and square, they marched inexorably toward the high walls and spires of the Inner City.
Tol sweated, the gold case in his outstretched arms seeming to grow heavier with every step. He watched the crowd for signs of trouble, a nearly impossible task as everyone was playing the part of hostile, subjugated citizens. The enormous mob could have charged at any time, overwhelming the cordon of warriors holding them back, but in spite of their seeming fury, the people of Daltigoth played their role fairly. None tried to get past the lines of warriors.
They rounded the corner into Empire Way, the broad boulevard leading directly to the plaza at the entrance to the Inner City. The long, hot walk was nearly over. Now facing east, Tol squinted into the sun’s glare.
Midday was not far off, and against the dazzling blue sky the single dark gray cloud remained overhead, as motionless over the palace as when Tol had left that morning. As he watched, the cloud grew larger and more attenuated.
Tol increased his pace, gaining slowly on Amaltar until he was only four paces behind instead of the prescribed ten. He wanted to be within range to rush to Amaltar’s side if anything unnatural occurred.
The cloud spread itself wider and wider. Though thin, it blocked the bold glare of the sun and the marchers felt a sudden chill. Would Mandes dare interfere with the coronation? Amaltar was his patron, after all.
Over the bang of the drums and clatter of sistrum and cymbal, through the mock rage of the crowd around them, Tol heard a rushing sound. He hustled forward to within two steps of Amaltar, still watching the sky. From every direction, black dots had appeared, moving swiftly toward them. Raucous cries rose above the tumult below. The dots soon resolved into ravens, a vast flock of them.
Amaltar looked up, slowing. Immediately Tol was at his side, whispering into his ear, “Whatever happens, Majesty, do not leave my side! I shall protect you! “
“They’re only birds,” said Amaltar, but his expression was uncertain.
Only birds, but thousands of them, black as coal and screeching like demons. The flock collected over the plaza, wheeling and darting a few hundred paces above the restive crowd. Every time the ravens tried to dive on the people, they entered the thin mist and were repulsed. The cloud was as airy as morning fog, but somehow it thoroughly repelled the army of ravens. This strange spectacle distracted the people below; and their rants against the “invader” Amaltar faded.
The spectacle in the sky did not last long. Stymied by the cloud, the flock of birds broke apart, flying to every horizon as suddenly as they had come. When the last one was gone, the cloud finally melted away, leaving only blazing sun and polished blue sky.
“What was that?” Amaltar wondered, along with every other soul in Daltigoth.
“An omen, Majesty,” Tol said, trying to sound cheerful. “A good omen for the start of your reign!”
The emperor did not look convinced. “Stay by me, Champion.” Tol vowed he would.
At the gate of the Inner City, Amaltar’s children divided, flanking the entrance on either side. Tol halted while the emperor continued on. Standing before the closed gate, clad in white-girded armor, was Draymon, commander of the Palace Guard.
“Stand off, invader! This is the sacred realm of His Majesty Pakin III!” Draymon intoned.
“Your ruler is lost and must yield,” Amaltar recited the ritual reply. “Death awaits any who resist!”
“Then fight, hated foreigner! The house of Ackal Ergot shall not fall!”
So saying, Draymon slipped inside the gate. Amaltar strode forward and struck the gate three times with his ceremonial sword. Each blow was punctuated by beats on the drums. On the third strike, a squad of palace guards hauled the gate open wide. Draymon and his men went to their knees. The mob in the plaza calmed.
“Spare us, O conqueror!” the commander exclaimed. “We did but serve our great lord!”
“Where is the noble Pakin III?”
“Yonder, on his bier.” Draymon pointed behind him. Through the forest of banners, the catafalque’s white curtains stirred in the breeze flowing through the open gate.
“I will pay homage to your defeated lord.”
Accompanied only by Tol and the golden case he bore, Amaltar entered the grounds of the place in which he’d grown up, no longer a prince, but as master. Pale and sweating inside the armor of his powerful ancestor, Amaltar did not resemble a conqueror but a worn and sickly man. More than once Tol had to pause as his imperial master faltered slightly, staggering under the weight of Ackal Ergot’s armor and the burden of his empire.
Oropash, Helbin, and the senior wizards stood waiting by the catafalque. Catching sight of Tol, Oropash paled and Helbin scowled. With Mistress Yoralyn gone, they were the only wizards who knew Tol possessed the nullstone, fatal to all their art. The two wizards mastered their emotions and lowered their eyes out of respect for their new
