Amaltar asked to see one of the objects more closely. Valdid picked up a spearhead and handed it to the prince. Amaltar examined it closely.

“Chamberlain,” he said, “we had reports of foresters using metal, didn’t we?”

Valdid bowed to his lord. “Yes, Highness. Bronze arrowheads and the like were sent to us by several commanders, from all parts of the forest.”

The prince lifted a hand. “Send for Harpathanas Ambrodel, envoy of the Speaker of the Stars,” he commanded.

Valdid dispatched two heralds to the task. Prince Amaltar descended from the dais, tapping the spearpoint against his palm. He stood nose to nose with the elf warrior.

“You’ve been trading weapons to the forest tribes, yes?” he said, dark eyes narrowed. When the elf did not answer, the prince shouted, “Haven’t you?”

Kirstalothan averted his face and said nothing.

“What part did Morthur Dermount, alias Spannuth Grane, have in this plot?” Still the stubborn elf would not reply.

Amaltar stepped back. “Take him away and make him talk. I must know all about this!”

Hood replaced, the hapless Silvanesti was dragged out. No sooner had he departed than Valdid’s heralds returned. They held a hasty whispered conference with the chamberlain. Valdid’s face reddened.

“Let me guess,” Prince Amaltar said, anger in every syllable. “Harpathanas is no longer in camp?”

Valdid sputtered, “His tent is still pitched alongside yours, Highness, but no one is within! My heralds report that none of the Silvanesti has been seen since yester eve.”

Amaltar hurled the spear tip to the floor. “Is there no end to the treachery of elves?” he cried. “I see now why the Speaker’s envoy made so many perilous trips through the Great Green to visit us-he was distributing arms each time!”

“So it would seem, Highness,” said Egrin. “I’ll wager they hired Morthur Dermount to obscure their deeds with his magic.”

Amaltar went to the warden and took him by the shoulders. “You’ve done well, Egrin. By your service, you’ve opened our eyes to a deep and dangerous plot.”

“I thank you, Your Highness, but the honor of this service is not mine.”

Egrin held out his hand to Tol, kneeling with Narren by the piles of bronze weaponry.

“This lad, my shield-bearer, led the men who captured Kirstalothan and brought back the evidence of Silvanesti perfidy,” the warden said. “He also defeated the chief of the Dom-shu in single combat and made him Your Highness’s prisoner.”

Amaltar regarded Tol with unconcealed surprise, ordering him to stand. Although the shilder was little more than half the prince’s age, the two were of a height. Amaltar studied him for a moment, then said, “You shall be rewarded.”

“Thank you, Your Highness,” Tol said nervously. “But I was just one of a larger band of willing warriors. My deeds were no greater than theirs.”

Egrin described Tol’s rescue of the two beleaguered hordes with a hundred footmen.

Amaltar openly stared. “Who are you, boy? From which line do you descend?”

“No line, Your Highness. My father is a farmer, as was his father, and all the fathers before him.”

The crowd of nobles, courtiers, and foreigners whispered amongst themselves, making much of Tol’s humble origin. As their titters and ugly comments came to his ears-”peasant upstart” being the kindest of the lot-his embarrassment vanished. He straightened his back and glared at the gaudily dressed idlers around him.

Prince Amaltar returned to his throne. He held up a hand for silence.

“You have served the empire well, Master Tol, and the empire does not forget. Three days hence, I shall confer on you the rank of Rider of the Horde, with an award of five hundred gold crowns.”

Turning to Valdid, the prince said, “Let it be written in the chronicle that Tol of Juramona was raised this day to the rank of warrior, with all mention due that honorable position. Draw five hundred crowns from my personal cache to give to him.”

“Yes, Highness,” said Valdid as the scribes busily took down the prince’s edict.

The audience was over. Tol stood dazed. The bronze weapons were cleared away for shipment to Daltigoth, where Prince Amaltar would place them and the story of their origin before the emperor. It could mean war with Silvanost. At the very least, it meant a temporary halt to the campaign in the forest. Faced with such a well-armed force, a radically different strategy was required.

Guards lifted Makaralonga to his feet. Hearing the chiefs chains clank, Tol’s attention snapped back to the here and now.

“Your Highness!” he said with newfound boldness. “What will become of the chief?”

Lord Urakan frowned at the shilder’s presumption and said, “He will lose his head! That’s the fate of all those who lead wars against the empire!”

“Must it be so, my lord? Chief Makaralonga is an honorable foe. He surrendered to me because I promised to spare his life.”

“His life belongs to the empire,” Urakan snapped.

Prince Amaltar sighed deeply. A liveried lackey placed a golden goblet of wine at his side.

“I’m afraid my imperial father will insist on his death,” he said, sipping wine. “It is the law of the realm.”

“Then, Highness’-Tol stepped up to the foot of the dais-“as part of my reward, may I be his executioner?”

The tumult around Tol died. Everyone from Egrin to Valdid betrayed open surprise.

The prince’s black brows rose. “Strange request,” he said. “Why do you want to do it?”

“I captured him, Highness. If he must die, let it be by my hand, with the same sword I used to defeat him.”

Silence reigned in the assembly. At last, the prince smiled and waved a hand at Chamberlain Valdid.

“Put that in the scrolls too,” Amaltar said. “I give the task of executing the captured Dom-shu chief to Master Tol, in token of his service to the empire.”

And so it was that six days later Tol found himself standing alone before the fighting men of Juramona, dressed in new leather armor and a brilliant white mantle. The three hordes-Firebrands, Panthers, and Eagles-and the shilder company, the Rooks, were drawn up on a hillside outside the imperial camp at Caergoth. They were awaiting the arrival of Crown Prince Amaltar. A south wind blew, piling clouds into gray pinnacles, promising much rain. Tol wore his empty saber scabbard, and an equally empty sheath for his war dagger. Even here, in the open air, the crown prince would allow no weapons near his person.

An honor guard two hundred strong thundered out of the camp. All rode white horses with bright crimson trappings. In their wake came more than a hundred mounted courtiers in their finery of velvet and silk, polished leather and thick brocade. Behind the courtiers were eight richly bedecked young women, each in her own chariot drawn by a pair of horses. The open, two-wheeled carts, the preferred mode of travel in the capital, were ill-suited to rough ground, and the women clung to their drivers as they bounced along. The eight women were Amaltar’s wives-polygamy was another custom reserved to persons of the highest rank.

The honor guard split into two sections, drawing up on each side of Tol. Courtiers formed a living avenue for the imperial party, and the chariots bearing Amaltar’s wives rattled down the line. They drove past Tol, pivoted, and stopped on the slope between him and his comrades.

At last, with the stately deliberation acquired by long practice, Prince Amaltar cantered up on his black horse. He rode well, and looked at ease in the saddle. That, like the crown of Ergoth, was his birthright. His ancestors, back to the great and terrible Ackal Ergot, had lived and died on horseback. In the words of the poet, the first conquest an Ergothian warrior had to make was “the kingdom of the saddle.”

Amaltar reined up. His personal entourage, including Lord Urakan and Chamberlain Valdid, fell into place behind him. All looked solemn and serious, save for Urakan. His beetling black brows met over his nose in a deep scowl aimed directly at Tol. The youth realized that although he might have won the gratitude of the prince, his deeds had annoyed the noble general in some unfathomable way.