“Assassins. Magical creatures, sent here to kill.”
Her brow furrowed. “How did they get in? No one has ever penetrated the wards of Shinare which shield Golden House!” She nudged the debris of one shattered monster with the toe of her golden slipper. Shaking her head, she said, “Golems! I’ve not seen the like since I was married to my first husband.”
“Golems?”
“Beings of clay or stone, animated by magic and set to a specific task. They’re mindless and will persist in their duty until destroyed.”
She set the candelabrum on a table and planted her hands on her hips. The gesture parted her loosely tied robe and revealed she wore nothing underneath but a slender golden band encircling her waist. Tucked into the band was a stiletto.
“This is my fault,” she said. “My enemies must have learned of our meeting and fear I will make an alliance with you.” Her honey-colored eyes narrowed. “This isn’t the first attempt on my life. I shall make inquiries, and those responsible will be found.”
Hanira asked how he had bested the powerful golems.
“My dagger is enchanted,” he lied, placing a hand on the hilt. “I tried to fight the things with my court sword. It was no better than a feather duster.”
She put her arm around him soothingly, steering him back toward her bed chamber. At first Tol resisted, thinking he should return to camp, report what had happened here tonight. If truth be told, he was sore and injured, and Hanira was a beautiful woman; the danger seemed over. He let himself be led.
“I suppose Helx may be behind this,” Hanira mused, as they walked together slowly. “I rejected him tonight, and he has the money to hire any mage he wants.”
Hanira doctored his injuries, soaking a cloth in spirits and dabbing away the blood from his ear. From a small aromatic cedar box, she took balm, which she applied to his bruises. Finally, she tore a silk sheet into strips and made a tight bandage for his arm.
When she was done, he held up his wrapped arm, admiring her work.
“As a girl I was apprenticed to a healer,” she explained, “but circumstances led me elsewhere.” She’d become a courtesan at seventeen and had remained one until she married her first husband at twenty-two.
Tol had been nearly lulled into sleep again, when a tumult arose at the chamber door-a mob of servants led by Zae. Armed with kitchen knives and makeshift clubs, they’d rallied to defend Hanira.
“Mistress! Are you well? All the wards are down!” Zae cried, her eyes taking in the wreckage. She was still in her dressing gown, gray hair askew.
Hanira assured her people she was uninjured. A male servant behind Zae relayed terrible news. Six men lay dead in the courtyard. Four of Hanira’s household guards and Tol’s own escort had perished trying to stop mysterious intruders.
Tol was furious with himself. Sarkar and Belath had paid a high price for his dalliance.
Four marks past midnight, Zae reported, the main gate had been battered down by three powerful attackers. Hanira’s guard had tried to stop them but were slain. Sarkar and Belath, sleeping in the guards’ house, heard the noise of battle and rallied to action. The rest of the household, unarmed servants and lackeys, had cowered in their rooms until Zae finally managed to muster them in the entry hall.
Hanira thanked them all profusely, promising rewards to all for their bravery. The servants departed, leaving the syndic and the general alone once more.
“Zae is quite a woman. You’re lucky to have her,” Tol said.
Hanira closed the medicine chest. “I don’t have her. She had me. Zae is my mother.”
A strange and fateful night, and by dawn Tol still was not sure what to make of the peculiar events. He saw to the burial of brave Sarkar and Belath, and he was expected at Lord Regobart’s morning council to plan the armistice terms between Ergoth and Tarsis. Hanira saw him off, but since the attack, she’d shed her seductive air and behaved in a more preoccupied, businesslike fashion.
Even as he was about to leave her mansion, a quartet of riders skidded to a stop in the courtyard. They were men of Tol’s Army of the North, led by Frez. The steadfast warrior sprang from the saddle, calling for his commander.
“I’m here,” Tol answered, stepping outside. Briefly he filled Frez in on what had happened last night, about the golems, and the fate of Sarkar and Belath. Frez had important news of his own to impart.
“Couriers arrived this morning, my lord! Couriers from Daltigoth!” Frez replied. “The emperor is dead!”
Pakin III, emperor of Ergoth, had been in poor health for the last dozen years. His eldest son, Amaltar, had ruled as regent for the past decade.
“Has Prince Amaltar ascended to the throne?” Hanira, standing at Tol’s shoulder, asked.
“The warlords have pledged their loyalty to him,” said Frez, “and my lord, we are recalled!”
Tol stiffened as if struck. “Recalled?”
All the highest imperial warlords had been summoned to attend the coronation. Only Lord Regobart was excused, as he must conclude the negotiations with Tarsis.
“We’ll leave at once!” Tol declared. He strode forward a few steps, then halted abruptly. He looked back at Hanira. “I won’t forget you.”
She laughed lightly, and the old, knowing look came back to her face. “No, you won’t.”
They rode hard back to camp.
Chapter 3
For a nation of warriors, a change of monarchs heralded a risky time. Ambitious power-seekers could spring from nowhere and lay claim to the throne, throwing the empire into another dynastic struggle. The Pakin clan had been quiet for years, its last pretender having been shortened by a head almost two decades earlier, but there were still Pakins about. Nor was Amaltar safe from his own family. His younger brother, Prince Nazramin, possessed considerable power and influence. Nazramin was the very ideal of the hard-riding, hard-living warlord of old Ergoth. Indeed, many Riders of the Great Horde preferred him to Amaltar, whom they saw as a pallid, palace-dwelling schemer. Sensing Nazramin’s popularity with some warlords, Amaltar had forbidden his brother to participate in the Tarsis campaign, lest he reap more glory at his elder brother’s expense.
At the moment Tol thought little about such things. He cared only that he was going to Daltigoth at last. After ten years away, he could at last get to the heart of deeply troubling matters. The renegade wizard Mandes, whom Tol had rescued from a band of wild bakali years before, had gone to the capital after Tol’s destruction of the monster XimXim and his defeat of the Tarsan general, Tylocost. Although sent by Tol to carry word of his victories, Mandes had usurped those triumphs. The defeat of Tylocost was credited to Lord Urakan, who had died in the battle. The death of XimXim Mandes claimed for himself.
That was but half the cup of Tol’s bitterness. More painful, and far less explicable, was the complete silence from his beloved Valaran. Ten years had given Tol much time to speculate. Val was only one of Amaltar’s several wives and had assured Tol the prince cared little for her, yet Tol wondered if Amaltar had discovered their relationship. Perhaps Valaran had been compelled to keep silent, had fallen ill, or had found someone else to love, someone not so long gone and so far away.
Tol had long consoled himself with a single thought: Valaran was in Daltigoth, and one day he would return to her. That day had finally come.
The Army of the North would remain at Tarsis under Lord Regobart’s command. Tol and a small escort would travel fast and light to the capital. He chose five to accompany him: Kiya, Miya, Frez, the healer Felryn, and Darpo. Darpo was recovered enough from his wound to ride but not enough to fight. However, he was one of Tol’s longest-serving retainers and Tol did not wish to leave him behind.