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.

To his astonishment the face of Pelladrom Tumult was revealed, the young noble Tol had seen standing at the new emperor’s side. Why was a high-born, well-positioned young warrior leading a gang of thugs smashing up pushcarts?

“Who is he?” Egrin asked. Tol told him, and the marshal said urgently, “Cover his face!”

Sellers were returning to the square, collecting around the famous Lord Tolandruth. Tol let the blue kerchief fall, hiding the dead man’s features. Egrin summoned two of his own men to remove the body.

“I offered him quarter, but he forced this conclusion,” Tol said, as the scarf was tied in place over Pelladrom’s face and his body thrown over a saddle.

Drawing near so only Tol could hear, Egrin whispered, “Lord Enkian is on his way to Daltigoth for Prince Amaltar’s ascension.”

Enkian was Warden of the Seascapes, the province farthest from Daltigoth. Summer rains had swollen the major streams between the northwest coast and the capital. It might be another three or four days before Enkian arrived.

Tol sighed. Enkian had never liked Tol and would be furious at the killing of his youngest son, but the fight had been a fair one. Tol said as much, but Egrin shook his head, insisting, “You don’t understand. Enkian does not come alone! He brings five hordes!”

“Five thousand men?” Tol said, voice rising.

Although out of favor with the prince for his criticism during the war, a noble like Lord Enkian, coming to pay his respects to Pakin III and swear loyalty to his successor, was allowed to bring an entourage to the capital. For a modest man like Egrin, that meant twenty riders. A rich, prominent lord like Tremond of Thorngoth might bring a hundred, all dressed in his personal matching livery. Five hordes was not an honor guard but a warband.

Egrin’s face and voice were grim. “We had word of this as we rode south. People thought the Tarsans were invading!”

“What does he think he can do with five hordes? Seize the city? The Daltigoth garrison numbers ten times that many.”

“I don’t know what he intends, but he will not take the death of his son kindly. If he has five thousand men at his back, you must be careful, Tol!”

“Let him seek me out,” Tol said. “I’ll not hide what I’ve done.”

Unhappy, the marshal agreed. He returned to his waiting retainers and ordered two off their horses. With canvas and planks from a shattered stall, the soldiers made a litter for Kiya. She didn’t like being carried but her knee was painful enough that she relented after only a few protests. Egrin had accepted Miya’s enthusiastic offer to lodge with them in their hired villa, so Tol and Miya mounted the empty horses and led the Eagles home.

Despite the dark turn the day had taken, the journey to the villa was a happy one. Like the Dom-shu sisters, Egrin was very dear to Tol. The elder warrior was his second father, a substitute for his real family, whom he had not seen in years.

Three years after leaving to live in Juramona, Tol had returned to visit his family. He’d intended to remain a week but had departed after only three days. Although pleased to see them again, and they to see him, it had been an awkward visit. They didn’t know how to act around him, and he no longer seemed to have anything in common with them. His life in Juramona was utterly foreign to them. Where his mother, Ita, had cried for the changes in her boy, Bakal was gruff, yet obviously proud of Tol’s position as shield bearer to Egrin, Warden of the Eastern Hundred. As his mother hugged him goodbye, Tol had surreptitiously pressed into her hand a little money he’d saved. After taking leave of his father, and enduring a quick, embarrassed kiss from middle sister Nira (eldest sister Zalay was preparing to deliver her second child), Tol had mounted his horse and ridden away.