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The rest of the warlords caught in the rod’s power were jumping and climbing down from the platform.

“Geth …” Chetiin said in low warning.

“Watch the crowd,” Geth growled. “I’m going for Ashi.”

Before the goblin elder could say anything else, he moved, throwing himself against Tariic’s puppets. Confronted by Wrath, the Darguuls drew weapons, though they didn’t strike to kill—Tariic’s command had been to seize. Geth lashed out with the twilight blade, trying to drive them back while using the false rod, still gripped in gauntleted hand, as a club against those who got close. For a moment, it worked—until Munta the Gray thrust himself between the others. The old warlord’s sword caught Geth’s and held it. Dark eyes in a wrinkled face blazed. “Traitor!”

The hatred and ferocity in his voice made Geth bare his teeth. “Munta, it’s the rod! Tariic has—”

Nothing in Munta’s face or posture hinted that he even heard him. “You’re mine,” he snarled. “When I drag you before Tariic, he will know I’m still fit for battle!”

He threw back Wrath and swung his own sword with a strength and speed that Geth wouldn’t have expected in someone of his age. The shifter blocked the blow with his gauntlet, then jabbed at Munta with the false rod.

The old warlord’s sword whirled around and struck the rod at a sharp angle. The edge of the blade bit deep into the byeshk. Geth thought he felt a sting in his hand as the magic Tenquis had woven into the false rod unraveled. Munta must have felt something, too. He hissed and stumbled, dropping hard onto one knee.

“Sorry, Munta,” Geth growled. He swung the damaged rod down onto his gray head. Munta collapsed like an empty sack.

Geth let the false rod tumble onto him as he jumped over the old warlord’s sagging body. More hands grabbed for him. He struck them away with his gauntlet. Ashi saw him, and her struggles intensified. She freed a leg and gave Aguus a hard kick in the chest. She freed a fist, but Garaad grabbed it again.

“Ashi, I’m coming!” Geth roared, but the crowd was all around him now. Every step was a battle. Chetiin was fighting at his back, stabbing at knees and legs and chests whenever someone fell.

Somewhere a tiger roared. “Dagii!” said Chetiin.

Geth twisted his head around. Across the seething mob that filled the plaza, Dagii had drawn his mount up before Ekhaas—but one glance at the warlord’s face told him that his appearance was no rescue. “Tariic has him. I don’t see Aruget or Midian!”

Up on the platform, Tariic stood back with a look of supreme confidence on his face. To one side of him, Pradoor’s head turned back and forth, ears twitching as the blind goblin listened to the sounds of the fight. To the other, Makka strained like a dog on a lead, eager to join the battle but held back by his master. Geth grimaced. Tariic didn’t need Makka’s strength to defeat them—the sheer numbers of the crowd would drag them down. Soon.

Then somewhere behind Geth, hooves beat on stone and a voice rose in a rasping shout—“For the blood and line of Castalla!” Geth turned again, the other way this time.

Tenquis, mounted and riding at a full gallop, plunged through the crowd, splitting it apart. In one hand, he held a rope gathering together the reins of the other horses; they followed him in a bucking, whinnying wedge of muscle and hooves. The tiefling rode with his head low over his horse’s neck, gaze fixed on the platform.

Hands dragged at Geth as he turned his head between lhesh and artificer. Tariic raised the Rod of Kings and drew breath. One shouted command would halt the wild charge.

“Tenquis, watch out!” Geth roared.

But Tenquis had already released the other horses and pulled back on the reins of his own. The beast reared up on its hind legs. Tenquis’s free hand flicked out. Pale liquid spread out from a vial clutched in his ingers and seemed to evaporate on the air.

At the same instant, thick greenish vapor burst up in a smoky curtain around Tariic, Pradoor, and Makka. Whatever command Tariic might have issued disappeared in a strangled cough.

And the anger