He related the story of Ackal IV’s lingering illness and named Mandes as its likely source.
“My son would never submit to a sorcerer’s whim!” Enkian’s hands were clenched into white-knuckled fists.
Tol didn’t dare give voice to his idea that Prince Nazramin was the true head of the conspiracy. He said only that he didn’t think Mandes was the leader and then told of the sorcerer’s defeat by Elicarno, and Ackal’s order for his arrest, which resulted in Mandes fleeing the capital.
Enkian rose abruptly, sending his wooden chair toppling over backward. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. Slowly he drew himself up, folding his arms across his chest.
“As the head of an ancient and noble family, I should challenge you to a duel to avenge the death of my son,” he said.
The idea was gallant, but ridiculous. Enkian was twice Tol’s age, and had never been known as a fighter. It had been thirty years or more since he’d wielded a sword.
“However,” he continued in a weary voice, “my first duty is to the throne of Ergoth, and the rightful emperor who sits upon it.” The warden’s proud, pained tone softened. “I am aware that life in the capital corrupted my son. You have carefully avoided blaming anyone for leading him astray, and I won’t ask who you suspect. I am not without influence in Daltigoth. I myself will discover who is responsible!”
The knot of tension in Tol’s stomach relaxed slightly. “Then you believe me?”
“I’ve known you many years, Tolandruth. You’re clever, like most peasants, but you’re painfully honest, too. I shall make inquiries about my son’s demise, but I accept your basic account.”
For the first time in their acquaintance, Tol pitied the haughty warlord. Enkian plainly cared about his wayward son, but his loyalty to the empire was greater than his desire for revenge. Sadness welled in Tol’s heart. He asked what Enkian intended to do.
“Eat dinner,” was the reply, as the warden seated himself. “Tomorrow I shall send the Army of the Seascapes home, but I shall remain. Those who used my son will have cause to regret my coming to Daltigoth.”
Knowing his welcome was at an end, Tol excused himself. He inquired where he might find Kiya. The warden gulped wine and told him to ask the captain of the guard.
With a stiff salute, Tol departed. Outside, in the cooling air of evening, he let out the breath he’d been holding. He couldn’t believe he’d come out of this unscathed. Perhaps the Dom-shu sisters were right-maybe the gods did love him.
The captain of the guard detailed a man to lead him to Kiya. Enkian shouted for the captain as Tol and his guide departed.
Opening the door to the hut, the captain asked, “What do you require, my lord?”
“Wine. More wine.”
A soldier was sent to fetch a fresh pitcher. Given the look on his warden’s face, the captain knew it would be a long, sodden night. He wondered what ill news had arrived with Lord Tolandruth.
Alone, Enkian hacked at the capons on the trencher before him. They were underdone, flesh pink with blood. The sight sickened him, and he pushed the plate away. He drained his wine cup for the fifth time. Since his guest had left his own portion untouched, he drained Tol’s cup, too.
The door creaked open behind him. “About time,” he growled. “I hope you brought a cask!”
A hand clamped over his mouth, and a powerful arm encircled his neck. Startled, the warden tried to rise, but a dagger suddenly plunged into his side. The comfortable velvet tunic was no barrier to the keen point. Enkian’s scream was muffled against the clutching hand.
Twice more the dagger struck, and with the last thrust, something gave way. Enkian went limp. His attacker released him. The door rasped open, then quietly shut again.
The warden was slumped on the table, eyes staring at the undercooked birds. A faint hiss of breath escaped his lips one last time.
The captain of the guard returned moments later with the farmer who owned the hut. The farmer bore a small cask of berry wine in his arms.
“My lord,” the captain called, rapping his knuckles on the door. “Your wine is here.”
There was no sound from inside. The captain called again, with the same result. He opened the door.
Tol found Kiya as well as the missing Daltigoth couriers. They were in a tent together, sitting cross-legged on the floor enjoying their simple rations. When he told them they were to be released, the couriers raised a cheer.
“You see?” he said, pulling Kiya to her feet. “We didn’t get killed!”
She nearly smiled, but smothered it with her characteristic tribal stoicism.
He related Enkian’s tale of having been duped into bringing his army to Daltigoth on the pretext of protecting the emperor. Although the warden hadn’t said who he suspected as the author of the deception, Tol had an idea.
Before he could share it, however, shouts sounded outside. A band of soldiers burst into the tent, wild eyed and waving swords and knives. They swarmed over Tol with cries of “Murderer!” and “Hold him!”
The six couriers and Kiya grappled with the warriors, trying to protect Tol. Before anyone was seriously hurt, Tol roared for order in his best battlefield voice. The combatants drew apart reluctantly, each side glaring at the other.
“Our lord is killed!” one Seascaper cried.
“Lord Enkian, slain? When?” Tol asked, dumbfounded by the news.
“You should know, murderer! We found his body after you left him!”
“Don’t be stupid! Lord Enkian was alive when I left. Ask the captain of his guard!”
“We will!”
They seized him roughly, propelling him outside. Kiya and the couriers again tried to intervene, but they were held off by a hedge of sword points.
The whole camp was boiling. Swarms of angry soldiers stormed this way and that, blindly seeking the murderer of their commander. Unlucky peasants were pummeled and questioned. When Tol appeared, the Seascapers converged on him, howling for his head.
He was taken to the hut where he’d last seen the warden. Enkian was laid out on the ground and covered with a cloth. Tol recognized the captain of the guard, kneeling beside his fallen leader, as well as the gray-robed priest, Jarabee. The cleric looked deeply shocked and, to Tol’s eye, quite ill.
“We have the killer!” cried one of the men who held Tol’s arms.
The grieving captain paled visibly. “Release Lord Tolandruth!” he snapped. “I saw the warden after Lord Tolandruth left him. Lord Enkian ordered more wine. Someone stabbed him before I returned.”
The captain shouted for Corporal Thanehill, who’d guided Tol to Kiya. Thanehill, near the rear of the angry mob, came forward. When asked whether the general had ever left his sight, Thanehill admitted he had not.
The hands gripping Tol slowly let go. The mob of soldiers dispersed reluctantly, their thirst for revenge unslaked, their anger unresolved. Kiya shoved her way through to Tol’s side. Soon only Tol, Kiya, the six couriers, the captain of the guard, and Jarabee remained standing over the slain warden.
“Who is second-in-command?” Tol asked.
“I am,” said the captain. “Havoc is my name. Havoc Tumult, nephew to Lord Enkian.”
Tol clasped the captain’s arm. “I regret your uncle’s death. He was a loyal sword of the emperor.”
He explained that the supposed Pakin plot, which had caused Enkian to bring his forces, was all a fabrication.
“But why?” Havoc asked. “And what shall we do now, my lord?”
With no answer for the first question, Tol replied to the second. “You must lead the Army of the Seascapes home, Captain. I will see to it justice is done for your uncle.”