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 that Forry Windseed,” said his buckskin-clad companion. “And I’m not Rufus Wrinklecap.”
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 panicked soldiers tried to row to safety. Hundreds who had escaped the carnage on the beach ended up drowning.
“Coulda been XimXim, I guess. We found no tracks on the sand-just lots of dead soldiers,” Windseed said, genuinely puzzled. “Never knew ol’ Xim to take on so many at once, though.”
“Something must be done.”
Heavy silence followed this declaration from Crown Prince Amaltar, until Lord Tremond cleared his throat. Once renowned as the handsomest man in the empire, he had become red-nosed and bloated from the soft life of the capital.
“Perhaps Lord Urakan-,” he began.
“Lord Urakan has five thousand men sick, and he’s lost twice that many horses to the plague. I will not ask him to do more.”
“Regobart has mustered eighteen hordes, Your Highness, ready to ride north,” offered Valdid cautiously.
“Lord Regobart’s army is needed to safeguard the eastern border,” the prince replied. “His absence there could bring on an uprising by the forest tribes, or trouble with the Silvanesti.”
More silence. A loud, sneering laugh came from the far end of the hall. The assembled lords slowly turned toward the sound, and Prince Nazramin sauntered out of the dimly lit recesses of the hall. Draped in a black pantherskin mantle, his armor clinked with each footfall. Having recently returned from the war in the north, his normally long hair was still cropped, his curled mustache clipped, to fit his closed helmet. The contrast between his flaming hair and black attire was striking. He gripped a large pewter flagon in one hand.
“Such brave men!” he said in a loud voice. “Heroes one and all! Won’t anyone here visit the little kender and see what’s amiss?”
Tol opened his mouth to speak, but Egrin restrained him. When Tol shot him an inquiring look, the warden shook his head briefly and mouthed one word: Beware!
“Will you go, brother?” asked Amaltar.
“If my liege sends me, I will go.” There was no respect in the words, only sarcasm. “I have piled up two thousand heads for the empire, and filled the workhouses with five thousand slaves. Still, if the emperor my father needs me again, I shall go.”
He lifted the heavy cup to his lips and drank, his hand trembling ever so slightly.
“Of course,” he went on, “I’ll need a new army. There are plenty of salon soldiers and polished peasants in Daltigoth to fill out the ranks of a new horde, aren’t there?”
Gasps echoed in the audience hall, and several warlords muttered angrily at the slander spoken against them. Many eyes glanced Tol’s way. He broke Egrin’s hold on his arm and stepped forward.
“Don’t,” Egrin warned in an undertone. “He’s baiting you.”
“And I’m taking the bait” Tol faced the crown prince and saluted, bringing his heels together with a loud clank. In a voice meant to carry, he said, “Your Highness, I volunteer to go.”
Amaltar shook his head. “No, Lord Tolandruth. I cannot spare you. Your place is here.”
“Guarding the imperial bedchamber,” Nazramin sneered. “My brother cannot sleep otherwise.”
“Be silent!” the crown prince snapped. “Comport yourself like a prince, not a drunken oaf, or I’ll have you removed!”
Nazramin’s brown eyes glittered. “As you will.”
“Your Highness,” Tol said, “the Horse Guards can remain in Daltigoth. With the kender as guides, I can reconnoiter Hylo with foot soldiers.”
Even Tol’s allies among the warlords chuckled at that.
Tol folded his arms and declared, “Give me three hundred men and I will comb Hylo from end to end. If the monster XimXim is there, I will discover him and destroy him. If he’s not there, I will find out what attacked Tylocost and determine if it is a threat to the empire.” He smiled briefly. “Who knows, I may find an ally in Hylo, and not a monster.”
From laughter, the hall now filled with contentious words. Amaltar called for quiet, and Valdid rapped the mosaic floor with his staff until the warlords reined in their tongues.
The crown prince sat back on his throne, rubbing a finger across his clean-shaven chin. “What do you say, Mistress Yoralyn?” he asked.
Seated far to the side, the head of the White Robes in Daltigoth could not address a council of war unless spoken to by the prince or emperor. Having been given leave, though, she now said firmly, “Put your trust in Lord Tolandruth, Your Highness. He will succeed.” Nazramin snorted into his pewter mug.
“We’ll go with Lord Tolandruth,” offered the turbaned kender, who was not Forry Windseed.
The wrangling threatened to resume, but a tall, gaunt figure emerged from the curtains behind the throne, silencing all arguments.
Although no longer the vigorous warrior of earlier decades, Emperor Pakin III still commanded the deep respect of his subjects. Everyone knelt, even Nazramin. Pakin III looked them over calmly.
“My, how you all talk. Too much talk will be the death of us,” he said. “The council is over. Amaltar, send Lord Tolandruth. Give him what he wants and let him go to Hylo.”
Amaltar stood, clapping his heels together in salute to his liege. “It shall be done! Lord Tolandruth will be given his pick of three hundred soldiers, and all the supplies he needs. The kender will show him the way. He will take orders directly from the throne. Let it be so recorded.”
The emperor shuffled back up the dais toward the curtains. The legion of scribes seated below the prince’s dais made the proper notations. Egrin shook his head at his former shilder. Prince Nazramin looked triumphant.
Once he was alone with Tol in the courtyard of the Inner City, Egrin gave vent to his misgivings. “Prince Nazramin maneuvered you into this,” he said. “He wants you out of Daltigoth. He’ll do anything to ensure your mission fails.”