The Crown and the Sword tros-2

by Douglas Niles

  Jaymes hesitated, eyes narrowed. His aggressive advance had provoked no response. The spears remained pointed, rank after rank of them, at least a dozen deep standing before them. But once again, the guardians had stopped moving.

  “Try talking, then,” the marshal growled. “See what happens.”

  “Hey!” Moptop said cheerfully, stepping in front of one swordsman, fixing a beaming smile upon the stony countenances of the warriors. He spun on his heel, cheerfully making eye contact around the whole ring of them, those in front and those who had closed in from behind. “You guys must be really patient. I mean, to stand here all this time waiting for something. Were you really waiting for us? Because we didn’t even know we were coming here, ourselves, really. Of course, I am a professional guide and pathfinder extraordinaire, but-here’s a little secret-I was just a teensy bit lost, myself.”

  He glanced sheepishly over his shoulder at Jaymes, who held his sword at the ready but made no move to attack. In his own way, the man was as impassive and unreadable as the rocky guardians. The kender seemed to feel the burden of being the only truly animated person in this place, and he resumed his pleasant chatter with a gesture that conspiratorially encompassed all the surrounding guardians.

  “Well, geez. Can you guys back there even hear me? I mean, maybe you could back up just a little bit. Someone is going to get hurt on those pointy spears.” He touched one of the weapons and gingerly tried to push it aside. There was no movement.

  With a sigh, Moptop looked around again, his shoulders slumping. Finally he turned back to Jaymes. “I give up. They don’t seem to want to talk. Makes me wonder what they’re thinking, looking at those rock faces. Are they afraid? Do they want to kill us? They were moving and marching just a little while ago, and now they might as well be statues again.”

  “Could they be afraid?” Jaymes had been only vaguely paying attention to the kender’s prattle, but that phrase tickled his mind, wiggling around and churning up another conversation. “You’ll at least get a sense of its intentions, its fears.” Coryn had said to him, explaining the power of his sword, the power of mind reading!

  Slowly, gradually, he raised Giantsmiter and pointed the blade, aligning the weapon with the face-with the blank, stony eyes-of one of the statue legion.

  The first sensation was a warmth that was not uncomfortable, but almost immediately Jaymes began to hear murmurs. They were strange and muted, like hearing a crowd of people conversing some distance away-too far to make out individual words. The kender’s chirping background presence was also there, curious and bubbling. As if sensing the intrusion, Moptop glanced over his shoulder, his eyes meeting Jaymes’s for a moment-and the kender’s thoughts were suddenly articulated in the marshal’s mind.

  … Goofy sword… kinda funny looking, even… but these guys aren’t the humorous sort… sort of thought he might try to do something useful instead…

  Jaymes looked back at the statues and mercifully, the kender’s blathering ceased. The man looked directly into the face of the nearest statue, focusing on the stony warrior’s blank eyes. And as he did so, he heard a swelling of sound, and felt another creature’s feelings twisting around inside his own skin. He strained to make out the noises and couldn’t suppress a shiver as a powerful, raw emotion swept through him.

  Fear!

  He was sensing the thoughts and emotions of these guardians, Jaymes knew, and they were afraid-indeed, terrified of the menace that had woke them from their centuries-long slumber.

  “Why do you fear us?” he said softly. “We mean you no harm.”

  The answer did not come in words, but in pictures inside his mind. He experienced a torrent of images, felt a sense of horror and mystery. He perceived the image of a great, fiery giant and sensed that the guardians were most afraid of that extraordinary being. Feeling their terror, Jaymes wanted to look away but forced himself to hold firm, to continue to learn, to understand. He felt the statues accuse him, felt a swelling compulsion to harm him and the kender, a hostility coming from all directions.

  They blamed Jaymes and Moptop for something, but for what?

  He suddenly felt a strong sense of self within one of the statue creatures; this one spoke for the others. Adamites. The word came to him, whispered in his mind.

  “They’re called adamites,” he said. Then he felt the accusation and understood the fear.

  “They think that it is we who have freed the elemental king!” the marshal exclaimed. “They’re his jailers, and they failed to keep him secure. They blame us.”

  “Hey, it wasn’t us that let him loose!” Moptop proclaimed in a wounded tone. “Why, we’re trying to stop him. Jaymes here-that is, my friend the Lord Marshal-is going to personally kill him, or put out his fire, or something.”

  More jumbles of pictures swirled through the swordsman’s mind, and he realized that the creatures had actually understood the kender’s speech. Now their thoughts were questioning, demanding.

  “The king was taken by my enemy,” Jaymes explained. “I am on a quest to stop him. I only seek to reach Solanthus. That’s where he’s gone-where he’s proving a danger to the whole world.”

  Now a vivid image appeared in his mind, the Cleft Spires-the rocky landmark that dominated the besieged city. “Yes!” he cried. “That’s the place-that is where we are going, where we must go to find the elemental king.”

  There came a shifting, a rattling of movement as the circle of warriors opened, several of them raising their spears and stepping away to open up a path. The route led toward the exit, the tall gap at the far end of the hall that had been Jaymes’s destination. The other guardians stood expectantly, weapons still poised, but made no move to attack.

  “I think they want us to go that way,” Moptop said, starting toward the gap in the ring. He waved his torch, lighting the way. Jaymes didn’t hesitate to follow, for now sheathing his sword. It wouldn’t have mattered if they preferred a different route. The warriors formed twin ranks to either side that pretty much limited them to the one course.

  The stone warriors channeled the two into a wide, high tunnel, a file of the guardians shuffling along beside them on both the right and the left sides. For more than a mile, the human the kender walked in this strange fashion, moving forward as quickly as they could, climbing a winding ramp between the silent, shifting ranks of stone warriors.

  Finally they came to a flat stone wall, an apparently solid surface that blocked all further progress. Here the columns of warriors stood shoulder to shoulder on both sides of the pair, leading up to and merging against the wall. There was no other way forward.

  Once more the marshal felt the tickle in his brain, and a picture that formed there showed him that the wall of stone was tenuous, more a gauzy curtain than a solid barrier. “Keep going,” he ordered the kender, and for once Moptop didn’t balk at his orders. The kender took another step, raised his hand as though to touch the stone, and yelped in surprise as the rock wall yielded to his push. His hand, his wrist, his whole arm sank out of sight, and with a delighted skip the kender sprang forward and vanished.

  Jaymes, following more slowly, stepped behind, and also passed through the wall as if it didn’t exist. Then the cave was behind them, and a backward glance showed only a stone wall. He touched the gray surface and felt it was as hard as any granite face.

  The next thing the lord marshal noticed was the sunlight, a crack of blue sky gleaming high above him, shining down between two sheer, smooth cliffs. To the right and the left, the floor between the cliffs was smooth, and some distance ahead he could spot the walls of a building and the spire of a temple.

  “I know where we are!” the kender cried. “These are the Cleft Spires-we’re come out of there standing right between them! Hey, am I a great pathfinder or what?”

  “True enough,” Jaymes grunted, feeling generous. “It looks like we’ve arrived in the middle of Solanthus.” He slipped his sword into its scabbard, slung it once again over his shoulder, a
nd started along the narrow gap toward the light, the open air, and the besieged city.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CROSSING THE VINGAARD

  General Dayr stood on the west bank of the great river. The land on the opposite side was concealed by a dewy mist that hung low across the placid water, but over that cloudy vapor, the first rays of the sun already poked from beyond the eastern horizon. For now, the fog provided valuable cover for his gathering army, but it wouldn’t last long in the face of warming sunlight. To take advantage of the obscuring mist, he needed to launch his attack now, get his army most of the way across the river before they could be discovered by Ankhar’s troops-troops that were firmly dug in, and poised to meet an attack.

  Unfortunately, the Crown Army was not yet ready. Dayr could only watch and wait in frustration as the boatmen labored to finish assembling their flimsy craft, and as the columns of infantry-divested of much of their armor in order to reduce weight-gathered impatiently on the riverbank. One by one the boats were slid into position on the bank, but by first light there were still only a few dozen of them.

  The general knew that ranting and railing at his men would only undermine their spirits. The men could see the mist as well as he could, and they understood the dangers they faced in this risky assault. So Dayr bit his tongue and simply paced back and forth.

  By the time the mist burned off, after an hour or so, there were fifty boats in position, but that was only enough to launch a small fraction of Dayr’s force. Now the far bank was revealed to all, and he could only curse and pace in agitation, knowing the attack would be far bloodier than it needed to be.

  And, indeed, the enemy looked prepared to fight. On the opposite bank stood rank after rank of goblin archers. Between the blocks of bowmen, lines of brutish cavalry-more goblins on their savage wolf mounts-waited. Their lines extended up and down the bank, as far as Dayr could see, and his scouts reported there were more enemy troops beyond his sight in both directions.

  General Dayr had no choice but to proceed with the attack. Two other wings of the Solamnic Army would be driving forward at the same time, and the coordinated triple prongs of the offensive would be mutually supporting. Even if his army didn’t get across, the theory went, the enemy would be forced to commit vital reserves in the defense.

  It was nearly noon before Dayr had the four hundred boats he deemed necessary. There were other craft still gathering, but they would help form the second wave.

  “Commence the attack!” he shouted. The Crown pennant fluttered in the breeze over his head, and all along the line, signalmen hoisted similar flags, so flags communicated the command along nearly seven miles of river frontage. Immediately the boatmen slid their canvas-skinned craft into the water, where they splashed and bobbed lightly beside the bank. While the launchers held them against the current, the lightly armored infantry and archers climbed in. Six men in each craft took up paddles, and the boatmen began to stroke the water, pulling for the middle of the river.

  More boats remained on the bank, with others still being assembled. Reserve troops advanced to nearby positions. Dayr was unwilling to crowd the river with too many boats at once. So the second wave would set out only after the first group had almost landed.

  “General-Father! I beg you-please allow the knights to go as well!”

  The speaker was Captain Franz, leader of the Crown Knights, a veteran of every one of Dayr’s-and Jaymes’s-battles in the campaign of liberation. And he was the general’s only son. Franz had risen through the ranks to become an eminent leader in his own right. He and his armored warriors, the White Riders, were not part of the river crossing force, a fact that had caused him considerable frustration during the day of planning.

  “My son, we’ve been over this-the boats are too small.”

  “But, Father, if we establish a foothold on the far bank, you will need us to drive back the counterattack that is bound to ensue. You’ll need us there! We could go in the reserve boats-at least two horses can fit into each boat!”

  “I wish I could honor your request, my son,” said Dayr, not unsympathetically, “but each boat can hold twenty footmen, as compared to two knights and their horses. If we secure the bridgehead on the far bank, we’ll swiftly send across your regiment, and you’ll have plenty to do, taking the lead role in breaking away from the bank.”

  It was also true, Dayr through grimly, that a heavily armored knight, in a sinking boat, was doomed to drown, while lighter infantrymen would have a chance to swim to safety.

  “But, Father”-the knight’s tone was almost frantic-“it’s not fair to shield us from the risk!”

  “I’ve made my decision, Captain. Your regiment would be of little use in the landing. Now stand ready to move when you are needed,” the general ordered.

  The knight captain stood beside his father, both watching the progress of the boats. The line of fragile little craft was more than halfway across the river by now, paddles still churning. The current bore the boats slightly downstream, but this effect had been factored into the launching. To Dayr, it looked like they were on course.

  As the first boats drew closer to the far shore, volleys of goblin arrows arced through the air, soaring high above the water then plunging down to hiss into the river, with more than a few of them slicing into the boats and their human cargo.

  Dayr heard the screams of the wounded, and each cry was like a cut in his own flesh. He knew the men were all but defenseless in those watercraft. The water churned as the troops redoubled their paddling efforts. They knew their only chance was to reach the opposite bank as quickly as possible. Even as the boats moved faster, however, ranks of goblins advanced toward the riverbank. And more arrows, volley after volley, filled the skies, showering down on the water and striking the Solamnics.

  “Launch the second wave!” General Dayr commanded. He and several of his officers, as well as a half dozen couriers and aides, climbed into a boat bobbing in the shallows. They started across with the next group of vessels, churning toward the far bank with agonizing slowness despite the frantic paddlers. Burly young men stroked at the water, but the liquid seemed to resist fiendishly, slowing their progress to a crawl.

  The first boat was nearly ashore, however. The general could see countless others boats drifting aimlessly, crews slain to the last man. Some careened and wobbled, propelled by only one or two unwounded oarsmen. Dayr saw two boats capsize within a dozen paces of the far bank. Men scrambled into the shallow water, stumbling across the muddy riverbed, flailing as they tried to scramble up the muddy slope into the very teeth of the goblin resistance.

  Still the arrows fell, and now the boats of the second wave had become the target. Dayr’s aide-de-camp fell silently into the hull, pierced by an instantly fatal arrow that had plunged almost straight downward into his skull. A boatman in the stern was bailing constantly-the frail craft tended to be leaky-and when he went down with an arrow in his back, the water began to accumulate.

  The battle on the bank raged, a bloody tangle of goblins and men. Swords clashed against shields, and spears stabbed right and left. Howls of triumph mingled with cries of pain-a ghastly cacophony. Men tumbled backward, bleeding and dying, to slump in the shallow water, too weak or injured to pull themselves to safety. Their companions, locked in the desperate battle for survival, dared not pause to offer aid.

  Finally the watercraft of Dayr’s command mingled with the surviving boats of the first wave, pressing against the shore. The general tumbled out, drawing his sword, bellowing commands and encouragement to the men battling for their lives on the muddy riverbank. He took note of the piercing cry of a horn and knew his enemy was issuing some new command but was unsure what it was.

  There came a gap in the surging line, and he saw: the goblin cavalry, on their fearsome warg wolves, was advancing at a trot, ready to commence a lethal charge.

  General Rankin ignored the water that filled his boots, the chill liquid that sloshed over his saddle as he whipped
his charger through the center of the great river. His army was crossing one of the best fords on the upper Vingaard: nearly a quarter mile in length but relatively shallow across the entire span. Furthermore, the gravel bottom, packed down by centuries of wagon wheels, formed a solid bed underfoot. The liability of the ford, of course, was that the enemy knew about its virtues as well as the Solamnics; they had a company permanently posted there on guard, and had already summoned reinforcements when dawn had revealed the Sword Army on the far bank.

  The general rode just behind the vanguard, three companies of the Spireshadow Swords, with their shields and long blades, who were wading the river that, in places, came up to their chests. The solid footing in the ford made a path perhaps a hundred yards wide, and this was crowded with a column of brave soldiers from the Sword Army.

  As they approached the far bank, the men raised their shields over their heads. They were approaching a mixed group of enemy troops, goblins and humans mingled together. The humans formed a shield wall near the bank, while the goblins launched volley after volley of arrows from their stout, curved bows. The missiles showered the men, many thunking into the upraised shields, but others finding gaps, piercing shoulders and arms and torsos. Still, the Solamnics moved forward, keeping discipline.

  Rankin rode past the body of a footman who floated motionless, facedown with an arrow through his throat. The bloodletting was increasingly staining the water red. Another arrow scored a deep gash along the withers of the general’s horse, and the big gelding bucked in sudden fear, almost dumping the wing commander into the water.

  “Steady, steady!” Rankin urged, clinging to his seat as he stroked his animal’s neck. After a moment the charger put its big head down and plunged forward.