Someone landed a terrific blow on the small of Tol’s back. Pain seared through him, and he staggered forward. He stumbled against a fruit seller’s stall, collapsing on a tray of ripe grapes. Half blind with pain, he still managed to get his stick up in time to ward off the next swing.
A full-fledged riot had broken out. Some opportunists in the square were trying to loot the stalls, but if the traders would not stand up to masked gangsters, they apparently had no qualms about cracking the heads of common thieves.
The churning crowd had delayed Kiya and Miya, but at last they fought their way to Tol’s side, screeching forester war cries that gave their blue-masked foes a start. Kiya fended off attackers while Miya boosted Tol to his feet.
“Where’ve you been?” he gasped.
“Buyingbeef,” Miya quipped. “Prices dropped suddenly!”
Kiya battered down a Skylander, but more took his place. Blue-masked enemies were thick around them. The press of so many foes forced Kiya back to her sister and Tol.
“You two done resting?” she snapped.
Tol answered by laying out four opponents with as many blows. He got a nasty chop in the ribs and staggered back again, gasping. There were too many, too many attackers in too close quarters.
The gang leader who’d ordered his men to pound Tol appeared again. Now he personally went on the attack, holding his stave in two hands, like a quarterstaff. Tol fended him off, but this man was not like the other Skylanders. This man had warrior skills.
Tol used his shorter stick to deflect another attack from the leader. The fellow sidled left, seeking to cut Tol off from Kiya and Miya. Sliding on the crushed fruit underfoot, Tol drew off. He feigned confusion, dropping one end of his stick. The leader promptly swung his cudgel up in a powerful underhand stroke, aiming for Tol’s unguarded chin. Tol hurled the table leg, which rapped his opponent across the nose. The gangster yelled and fell flat on his back amidst the purple pulp of a cartload of grapes.
Tol advanced quickly, snatching up the fellow’s own staff. He stood over him. “Yield,” he commanded, breathing hard. “Guardsmen are coming!”
“Liar!” the masked man hissed. He drew a long, thin knife from his boot and cut at Tol. The sharp tip snagged on Tol’s pants leg. He sprang back out of the way.
Discarding the borrowed stave, Tol drew his saber. He hoped the lingering hiss of blade on scabbard would bring the gang leader to his senses. It did not. Undaunted, the masked man thrust at him again.
Tol presented his far longer blade, ordering his opponent to disarm.
“Mercy?” sneered the masked man. His face above the blue kerchief was young, but his dark eyes were those of a fanatic. “But I heard Lord Tolandruth was such a fierce warrior!”
Tol was surprised to be recognized, but easily knocked the man’s knife back. “I don’t know you,” he said. “Why should I want your blood?”
“Because I’ll have yours if I can!”
He slashed at Tol. Catching the point on his handguard, Tol drove the masked man back with a strong shove. He raked the tip of his sword down the man’s chest. Homespun tweed split wide under Tol’s blade. Metal gleamed beneath. His foe was wearing a scale shirt!
Taking advantage of Tol’s brief surprise, the masked man lunged again, blade driving straight at Tol’s heart. No armor protected him, but Tol stood his ground and at the last minute bound up the short blade with a twisting movement. He straightened his arm, and two decades of training and battle experience turned the knife aside. The point of Number Six drove inexorably through scale mail, into flesh, bone, and heart.
The attacker’s eyes went wide in shock, his fingers opening.
The knife clattered to the pavement and a moment later his lifeless body joined it.
Tol planted a foot on the dead man’s chest to pull his sword free. Around him the riot continued. There was no time to reflect on this senseless death.
Kiya was down, one leg crumpled under her. Miya stood over her, ferociously fending off more enemies. Tol ran toward them, yelling. The sight of his bloody blade gave the Skylanders pause, and they fell back from the beleaguered Dom-shu.
Kiya’s face was ashen with pain. Her knee was purpling, and she could not stand. Furious that she’d been hurt, Tol charged into the blue-masked gang, slashing right and left, curses flying uncharacteristically from his lips.
An oiled cudgel whisked by the tip of Tol’s nose. His attacker recovered and raised the stick again. Tol let him swing, turning the edge of his sword to meet the blow. The end of the cudgel hit the dwarf-forged blade and split neatly along its entire length. Startled, the Skylander dropped the remnants of his stave and fled.
Tol was about to give chase when he heard a clattering noise. There was no mistaking the hoofbeats of iron-shod war-horses. The City Guards!
Over the heads of the struggling mob Tol saw a wedge of riders entering the square at the south end. They were soldiers all right, but not city guardsmen in white mourning mantles. This trailworn group sported muddied red capes.
Using their horses and the butt ends of their spears, the riders tried to part the crowd. The mob was so thick the horsemen could make little headway.
Tol and Miya stood over the injured Kiya. Common folk gave them a wide berth, and the masked troublemakers disappeared. The Skylander threat was gone, but waves of panic and rage flowed through the crowd, and Tol feared his little party would be trampled. He and Miya beat back anyone who ventured too close.
A horn blared over the chaos. Tol and Miya exchanged a disbelieving look. They knew that call.
“Juramona!” cried Kiya hoarsely.
In a final pell-mell rush, a troop of horsemen parted the mob. Tol at last beheld the banner on the tip of the trumpeter’s spear: the Eagle Horde!
Hailing the riders, Tol slammed his sword back into its sheath. The officer in the midst of the troop removed his helmet.
“Egrin! It’s Egrin!” Miya cried, slapping her sister happily on the shoulder. Kiya winced but looked pleased as well.
To Tol’s glad eyes, his former mentor seemed unchanged by the years. His auburn hair and thick beard might be a bit more gray now than when they’d first met, but Egrin still sat tall in the saddle, his back straight as a tent stake.
Reining up before Tol, Egrin saluted. “My lord,” he said. “It is good to see you.”
“And you, my old friend! How did you find me?”
The elder warrior smiled slightly. “All of Daltigoth knows where Lord Tolandruth dwells. I merely asked the first soldier I came across.” Dryly, he added, “Once in the area, I had but to follow the sounds of battle. I knew you would not be far away.”
“Marketing in this town is rude business,” Miya said, grinning. She’d helped her sister stand and now supported Kiya. “Try to strike a bargain and see what happens!”
Egrin dismounted, chuckling. After clasping arms with Tol he said to the Dom-shu women, “It’s good to see you both. I rest easier every night knowing you guard Tol’s back.”
Kiya grunted. “He needs us,” she said sourly. “Thirty-two years old and he still runs at danger like a young hothead.”
Tol protested, “I am a temperate man!”
“Temperate as a bull,” Miya said. She asked Egrin, “Has he always been so?”
“No more so than most young men. I would call him bold rather than hotheaded.” The marshal regarded his renowned former comrade fondly. “Bold, with a knack for doing the unexpected.”
“And lucky,” Kiya said. “Lucky as the gods’ favorite.”
Tol gruffly put a stop to their discussion. A grimmer task needed doing. Kicking through the debris, he found the body of the gang leader he’d dueled. He squatted in the wreckage of the morning market and rolled the dead man over. He removed the fellow’s blue mask.