The delaying action of the Mimbrate knights was costly. Riderless horses galloped wildly about the battlefield, quite frequently adding to the havoc by trampling through the Mallorean ranks. Here and there among the red tunics that carpeted the field lay the single gleaming form of a fallen knight. Again and again the Mimbrates hurled themselves against the advancing red tide, slowing the Malloreans, but not quite able to stop them.
“It’s going to be tight, your Majesty,” General Varana advised as he and King Rhodar rode toward the hastily drawn lines blocking their escape. “Even if we break through, the bulk of the Mallorean forces are going to be hot on our heels.”
“You’ve got a great talent for the obvious, General,” Rhodar replied. “As soon as we get through, we’ll put the archers at the rear and let the Malloreans march through a rain of arrows. That will hold them back.”
“Until the archers run out of arrows,” Varana added.
“After we break through, I’ll send the Algars on ahead. Fulrach’s got whole wagonloads of arrows at the rapids.”
“Which is two days march ahead.”
“Do you always look at the dark side of things?”
“Just trying to anticipate, your Majesty.”
“Would you mind anticipating someplace else?”
The Algars had moved out to the right flank of the retreating army and were gathering in their characteristic small bands, preparing to charge the Nadraks drawn up on the hills above the river. Hettar, his scalp lock streaming, moved forward at a steady lope, his sabre drawn and his eyes like flint. The Nadraks appeared at first to be awaiting his charge, but then, amazingly, they turned away and rode rapidly toward the river.
From the midst of that sudden surge, a half dozen men riding under the Nadrak banner swerved out toward the advancing Algars. One of the riders was waving a short stick with a white rag tied to it. The group reined in sharply about a hundred yards in front of Hettar’s horse.
“I’ve got to talk to Rhodar,” one of the Nadraks bellowed in a shrill voice. He was a tall, emaciated man with a pockmarked face and a scraggly beard, but on his head he wore a crown.
“Is this some trick?” Hettar shouted back.
“Of course it is, you jackass,” the scrawny man replied. “But it’s not on you this time. Get me to Rhodar at once.”
“Keep an eye on them,” Hettar told a nearby Clan-Chief, pointing at the Nadrak forces now streaming toward the Mallorean trenches lying in the path of the retreating army. “I’ll take this maniac to see King Rhodar.” He turned and led the group of Nadrak warnors toward the advancing infantry.
“Rhodar!” the thin man wearing the crown shrieked as they approached the Drasnian King. “Don’t you ever answer your mail?”
“What are you doing, Drosta?” King Rhodar shouted back.
“I’m changing sides, Rhodar,” King Drosta lek Thun replied with an almost hysterical laugh. “I’m joining forces with you. I’ve been in touch with your queen for weeks. Didn’t you get her messages?”
“I thought you were playing games.”
“Naturally I’m playing games.” The Nadrak King giggled. “I’ve always got something up my sleeve. Right now my army’s opening an escape route for you. You do want to escape, don’t you?”
“Of course I do.”
“So do I. My troops will butcher the Malloreans in those trenches, and then we can all make a run for it.”
“I don’t trust you, Drosta,” Rhodar said bluntly.
“Rhodar,” Drosta said in mock chagrin, “how can you say that to an old friend?” He giggled again, his voice shrill and nervous.
“I want to know why you’re changing sides in the middle of a battle – particularly when your side’s winning.”
“Rhodar, my kingdom’s awash with Malloreans. If I don’t help you to defeat them, ‘Zakath will simply absorb Gar og Nadrak. It’s much too long and involved to talk about now. Will you accept my aid?”
“I’ll take all the help I can get.”
“Good. Maybe later we can get drunk together and talk things over, but for right now, let’s get out of here before ‘Zakath hears about this and comes after me personally.” The King of Gar og Nadrak laughed again, the same shrill, almost hysterical laugh as before. “I did it, Rhodar,” he exulted. “I actually betrayed ‘Zakath of Mallorea and got away with it.”
“You haven’t gotten away with it yet, Drosta,” Rhodar told him dryly.
“I will if we run fast enough, Rhodar, and right now I really feel like running.”
‘Zakath, dread Emperor of boundless Mallorea, was a man of medium height with glossy black hair and a pale, olive-tinged complexion. His features were regular, even handsome, but his eyes were haunted by a profound melancholy. He appeared to be about thirty-five years old, and he wore a plain linen robe with no ornament or decoration upon it to indicate his exalted rank.
His pavilion stood in the center of the camp of the Malloreans, a vast sea of tents standing on the plains of Mishrak ac Thull. The earthen floor of the pavilion was covered with priceless Mallorean carpets, and the polished tables and chairs were inlaid with gold and with mother of pearl. Candles filled the pavilion with glowing light. Somewhere nearby, a small group of musicians played subdued melodies set in a minor key.
The Emperor’s only companion was a half grown cat, a common, mackerel-striped tabby with that gangling, long-legged awkwardness of the adolescent feline. While ‘Zakath watched with a sort of sad-eyed amusement, the young cat stalked a scrap of balled-up parchment, her feet noiseless on the carpet and her face set in a look of intent concentration.
As Princess Ce’Nedra and her companions were escorted into the pavilion, ‘Zakath, seated on a low, cushioned divan, held up his hand for silence, his eyes still fixed on the cat.
“She hunts,” the Emperor murmured in a dead voice.
The cat crept nearer to her intended prey, crouched and shifted her hind feet nervously, her bottom twitching from side to side and her tail lashing. Then she leaped at the parchment. The ball crackled as she pounced on it, and, startled, she jumped high into the air. She batted the ball experimentally with one paw; suddenly finding a new game, she bounded it across the floor with a series of soft-pawed jabs, scampering after it with awkward enthusiasm.
‘Zakath smiled sadly. “A young cat,” he said, “with much yet to learn.” He rose gracefully to his feet and bowed to Ce’Nedra. “Your Imperial Highness,” he greeted her formally. His voice was resonant, but there was that peculiar deadness in it.
“Your Imperial Majesty,” Ce’Nedra replied, inclining her head in response.
“Please, Goodman,” ‘Zakath said to Durnik, who was supporting the still-dazed Polgara, “let the lady rest here.” He indicated the divan. “I’ll send for my physicians, and they will see to her indisposition.”
“Your Majesty is too kind.” Ce’Nedra mouthed the ritual phrase, but her eyes were searching ‘Zakath’s face for some hint of his real intentions. “One is surprised to meet such courtesy-under the circumstances.”
He smiled again, rather whimsically. “And, of course, all Malloreans are supposed to be raving fanatics – like Murgos. Courtesy is out of character, right?”
“We have very little information about Mallorea and its people,” the princess responded. “I was not certain what to expect.”
“That’s surprising,” the Emperor observed. “I have a great deal of information about your father and your Alorn friends.”
“Your Majesty has the aid of Grolims in gathering intelligence,” Ce’Nedra said, “while we must rely on ordinary men.”
“The Grolims are overrated, Princess. Their first loyalty is to Torak; their second to their own hierarchy. They tell me only what they want to tell me – although periodically I manage to have a bit of additional information extracted from one of them. It helps to keep the rest of them honest.”
An attendant entered the pavilion, fell to his knees, and pressed his face to the carpet.
“Yes?” ‘Zakath inquired.
“Your Imperial Majesty asked that the King of Thulldom be brought here,” the attendant replied.
“Ah, yes. I’d nearly forgotten. Please excuse me for a moment, Princess Ce’Nedra – a small matter requiring my attention. Please, you and your friends make yourselves comfortable.” He looked critically at Ce’Nedra’s armor. “After we’ve dined, I’ll have the women of my household see to more suitable clothing for you and for Lady Polgara. Does the child require anything?” He looked curiously at Errand, who was intently watching the cat.
“He’ll be all right, your Majesty,” Ce’Nedra replied. Her mind was working very rapidly. This urbane, polished gentleman might be easier to deal with than she had anticipated.
“Bring in the King of the Thulls,” ‘Zakath ordered, his hand wearily shading his eyes.
“At once, your Imperial Majesty,” the attendant said, scrambling to his feet and backing out of the pavilion, bent in a deep bow.