And indeed, Selinda did. The drink was tart, with a hint of some kind of berry that covered up stronger, unusual tastes. It felt soft yet prickly on her tongue, and when she sipped it, she found the sensation strikingly pleasurable. Before she knew it, her glass was empty, and Hale was motioning for another…
And another after that. It seemed the drink was focusing her thoughts, heightening her awareness, and she found herself laughing very loud at something-she couldn’t say what it was. The lights were suddenly very bright then seemed to fade almost to black. They flared up again with a sudden, wavering brilliance that she found absolutely hilarious. She wondered at the fact that no one else seemed to take notice of the distortion, but she didn’t wonder very much as the music started up again.
A fiddle player had joined the man with the exotic flute, and they picked up the tempo into a lively jig. Suddenly Selinda was up and dancing, and everyone was clapping in time to the music, cheering her on, and it was simply the most wonderful, exhilarating experience in all of her life. Laughing, she encouraged the musicians to play an extra song, and was terribly disappointed when, a long time later, they pleaded the need for rest.
She felt a little unsteady on her feet as she made her way back to the table, where the proprietor still sat, beaming happily at her. He was such a nice man!
“Perhaps the mistress would come with me now?” said Hale.
A glimmer of alarm tried to find its way through her fuzzy brain. But all she could think of were Hale’s eyes, so dark and mysterious and utterly, completely compelling. “Very well,” she said, realizing that she had to speak very slowly to make herself understood. “But where are we going?”
“This way,” he whispered, pointing to a dark hallway at the back of the inn.
“Why?” she tried to ask. It seemed like a very long way away, but she was terribly curious. Slowly, she pushed herself to her feet, surprised at how strong his hand was as he helped her up.
“Don’t worry, and don’t wonder,” he said softly. “I promise you that it will be a magnificent surprise.”
“The knights have an army in front of the city of Cleft Spires, and another army marches this way, across the plains,” reported Rib Chewer. “Many horses in the north. With knights. And long spears.”
Ankhar nodded. He was not surprised by any of the reports, and he knew better than to ask the rather stupid goblin for precise calculations. The City of Cleft Spires, he knew, was Solanthus, thusly called because of the twin blocks of stone that loomed high above the center of the place. He knew the city was cherished by the knights and that they would move to protect it from any threat.
But he had already made a different plan, and the scout’s reports only reinforced the course of action he had chosen. Solanthus lay over the horizon, only about twenty miles away, west and a little north of his position. The Garnet range loomed directly to the west, with the tops of the peaks concealed behind a mass of dark clouds that promised heavy rains, possibly even snows, in the high country. Ankhar smiled at the thought.
He gathered his captains, as well as his stepmother, for a conference. The ogres were restive and grumpy, having marched farther and faster in the past fortnight than at any previous time in their lives. Still, they looked at him respectfully, and Ankhar took heart from the fact that they were still prepared to follow him.
“Up there!” he said, pointing into the mountains. “Knights are all before us, on plain, in city, north of city. But they are not up there.”
“We find treasure and booty in the mountains?” asked Bullhorn skeptically. “Or just cold and snow and hard rocks for beds?”
“We will not stay in the mountains,” Ankhar said. “We just go through them, and come out the other side. The knights look for us over here-and we are over there!”
He gestured in triumph to the lofty ridge, hoping that his plan was sinking in.
“Over there!” cried Laka, cackling shrilly. “Across the mountains-there we find treasures, and slaves, and war.”
For a moment the ogres looked skeptical. Finally, General Bloodgutter roared out a challenge. “We march! Who is afraid of the mountains?”
Bullhorn raised his face toward the heights, and bellowed his own challenge. “Mountains will not stop me! Go over mountains! Make war!”
“Over mountains! Make war!” The chant was soon picked up by the rest of Ankhar’s captains. A few moments later, the great horde turned from the flat plains into a valley that, Ankhar knew, would take them all the way to the summit of the range, and still remain north of the vexing mountain dwarf realm of Kayolin.
On the other side of the crest, he knew of a wide river valley that would lead them down to the plains. No one lived in that valley; he knew because he had marched through there only a few years before. No one was there to stop his plan.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
TAKING THE TOWER
Hoarst returned to the Black Army with a small keg in his bag of holding. It contained perhaps two gallons of precious liquid-very precious in so many ways, he thought a little wistfully. Would he ever find another concubine quite like Sirene? He doubted he would. But like a passing breeze-or a teleporting wizard-that regret vanished when he beheld the neat rows of tents, arrayed at the southern end of the hidden valley in the Vingaard range.
It was time to get to work.
The companies of Blackgaard’s force, ten units of three hundred men each, had moved there. They would travel light, leaving their tents and baggage behind, because, after all, soon they would all be sleeping comfortably in the High Clerist’s Tower.
Hoarst found Blackgaard sharpening his sword in the predawn mists. The Gray Robe was interested to note the commander did that mundane chore himself, but he made no mention of it.
“The bridge was finished just yesterday,” the captain reported to his mage. “Your timing is impeccable.”
“Good.” Hoarst patted the bag of holding. “I have the means of attack right here. It all went as planned.”
The bulk of the keg had vanished within the magical confines of the container, but Blackgaard understood his companion’s gesture. “Excellent,” he replied. “It’s time to move out.”
The columns of companies quickly fell into line and started up the steep road, switching back and forth to ascend the sheer wall that was the valley’s southern barrier. Their goal was only fifteen miles away, and Blackgaard intended to have them in position by nightfall, so they could have some rest before making the attack after moonset, in the darkest hour just before dawn.
The Black Army marched with the ease of a veteran formation. The soldiers were mercenaries, true, instead of men who fought for colors, state, or oath, but they were the finest, toughest mercenaries in the world. They took pride in their reputation. No untoward click of metal against metal, no cursing or grumbling or even careless stumble would mar their advance.
Within an hour the leading company reached the crest of the ridge bordering the valley and led the column out of the sheltered vale and into the windswept wilderness of the high Vingaard range. As if crossing a line of demarcation, they left the fields, pastures, and groves of their own settlement behind and entered a realm of stark gray stone, white glaciers, deep chasms, and lofty peaks. There were no trees there and few stretches of level ground.
The captain’s engineers had done a splendid job on the road. It would not suffice as a trade caravan route-it was too steep-but it was wide enough for five men to march abreast, even where it was scored along the side of a sheer cliff. After crossing the first ridge, the route cut along the precipitous side of a mountain, staying a hundred feet below the crest for the sake of concealment. Descending gradually, it curled around the shoulder of the solid massif then dropped sharply to pass between a pair of conical summits.
Beyond, the route was confronted with the obstacle of a half-mile-deep chasm-the barrier that had prevented any previous attack against the tower from the north. But the bridge that had been erected for the a
ttack was a true work of art, slender and graceful, spanning the narrowest part of the chasm on a single arch. The stone surface thrummed to the march of the Black Army and carried the whole force safely across by midafternoon.
There was one last ridgeline to crest, and there the companies narrowed into double, and finally single, file. That part of the route, scaling the highest summit, was of necessity rough and ill-prepared. Since it was close to the fortress, the diggers had worked only very cautiously there so as not to risk discovery.
Night was falling as they approached the summit. Blackgaard had previously scouted out a shallow swale near the top, and there he put the small army into an overnight bivouac. There were a few stubby cedars growing in the little valley, but Blackgaard would allow no fires. Even though the rising ridge blocked their line of sight to the fortress, the smell of smoke had been known to thwart a surprise attack.
Lying on the hard and rocky ground, the men slept as much as they could, which was not much at all. Mostly they watched the red moon, then the white, slowly traverse the night skies. Lunitari set behind the western slopes at about midnight. Solinari, closer to full and trailing behind his red cousin, did not set until past three. Only the stars, far more of them than a man could count, brightened the vast arch of the cosmos.
Then it was time to move out.
Hoarst went first, leading a single company of three hundred handpicked men. As they crossed the summit of the ridge, their target came into view. Even in the moonless night, the alabaster walls of the High Clerist’s Tower stood out against the black mountain range. Dominated by its tall, central spire, the fortress had stood in that spot since the Age of Might, a symbol of the Solamnics’ mastery of that corner of Krynn. Lesser towers, immense walls and gates, and the secondary fortress known as the Knights’ Spur, all stood as reminders that the place had held out against great armies many times in the past.
The lead company started down the bed of a narrow ravine, descending sharply. Occasionally the path twisted around to give them another glimpse of their destination, but mostly it was a deep, narrow trench and all they could see was a narrow sliver of sky overhead.
The Thorn Knight was the first to reach the base of the ravine. They were less than a mile from the north wall of the tower when Hoarst called a halt. His men gathered around as he reached into his bag of holding and pulled forth the cask that he had brought from the Dargaard range. The wizard produced a very tiny cup and opened the spigot. One by one, his three hundred men were given a sip of the potion that had been brewed at such cost.
When they were done, the wizard dropped the keg on the ground. It was no longer needed-like the drained corpse of Sirene, it was an empty shell that had to be unsentimentally discarded. Hoarst lifted his hands, outlining his gestures with the tiniest hint of light magic so that his men could observe him. With one smooth gesture, he commanded them to move out.
Swiftly, silently, and magically, his company of soldiers began to fly.
General Markus was restless, unable to sleep. Always an early riser, on that morning it seemed as though he had not been able to close his eyes for more than a moment or two all night. Giving up sleep as a lost cause, he rose, dressed himself in his leather garrison tunic with the red rose emblazoned on the crest, and decided to walk the parapets of his mountain fortress.
He found the guards awake and alert, as he knew they would be. Most of the defensive positions of the High Clerist’s Tower overlooked the road through the pass. That was the highway Jaymes had ordered widened, the route where the emperor’s army had marched to and from Palanthas. Nothing stirred on the road that day.
Markus had been the commander of the tower garrison since shortly after the defeat of Ankhar’s army. Jaymes Markham had given the trusted, veteran captain the choice of going back to Caergoth, to command the Rose Army, or of taking command of one of the remote outposts in the outer empire. Markus had leaped at the chance to come to the tower and never regretted the choice.
There he was his own master, and the master of a place that was hallowed throughout the long history of his order. He trusted his men, and they all but worshiped him. There were no politics, no distractions-thankfully, no women! — and there he could live the austere soldier’s life that he loved. It was a life of duty and service, maintaining the security of a very important landmark.
He never forgot the fact that the High Clerist’s Tower was a bastion of the ages, the site of some of history’s greatest battles. It was the battlefield where Sturm Brightblade, the knight who restored honor to the Solamnic orders during the War of the Lance, had fallen. It was where the Heroes of the Lance had slain their first dragon. And it was the key trade route of the new Solamnic empire. Every night, no matter how ill he slept, Markus went to bed proud he did his job to the best of his abilities.
Why, then, did he feel such unease and disquiet?
Still restless, the veteran captain moved from the gatehouse through the lower courtyards, where all was quiet. He climbed the towers on the curtain wall, finding the sentries awake, bored but watchful. He considered going all the way up to the High Lookout-the loftiest spot in the whole tower, except for the tiny enclosure known as the Nest of the Kingfisher, atop a narrow spire-but he knew there were trustworthy guards up there, and it would take him until dawn just to climb the hundreds of steps.
Instead, he made his way to the northern walls of his great fortress. They looked down into vast canyons, utterly dark and silent, and up on frowning cliffs and jagged peaks. There were places in view that were higher than the fortress walls, but they were too far away for archers, or even catapults, to come to bear. The night was motionless, dark with shadows.
“Eh?” croaked one of the knight guards from the outer parapet. “What kind of bird-?”
The sound died out in a gurgle of air and blood. Markus had been a soldier all his life; he knew the sound of a throat being cut.
“Alarm!” he cried. “Raise the alarm. Light torches, by Kiri!”
Immediately fires flared into being, a dozen brands igniting across the many ramparts. For a horrified instant, the captain could only gape in disbelief. His lofty parapet, nearly a thousand feet above the canyon bed, was swarming with attackers clad in black leather armor. They came not just over the walls, but also from the base of the interior wall and tower-and many were dropping right out of the sky!
The defenders never had a chance. Markus’s knights, the men who so adored and trusted him, fought bravely, but there were only twelve men posted on the remote platform, and they were swarmed by at least ten times their number. Each knight faced two, three, even four attackers at once. Steel slashed at them from every direction. And the enemy were skilled attackers.
Markus saw the last of his men die-within seconds after the battle had started-before managing to retreat into the tower’s interior, pulling the heavy iron-banded door shut behind himself. He dropped the bar and braced it with his hands.
The alarm was ringing across the pass. Torches flared all over, as men sought targets and shouted questions and challenges.
A sergeant pounded by the steps below Markus, carrying a torch and holding his sword at the ready.
“General! What’s going on?” he cried.
“Up here!” Markus cried. “Two hundred men, maybe more, have gained the north parapet-right outside this door! Get reinforcements up here on the double!”
“Yes, sir!” The veteran soldier sheathed his sword and sprang down the stairs, his torch flaring. Markus still had his hands on the locking bar, but he grew more and more unsettled when there came no attempt made to force the barrier.
A moment later the general heard dozens of boot steps pounding up the stairs. He went to an arrow slit and looked out, wondering why none of the attackers had started to pound on the door. Markus could only hope that fresh troops arrived in time to help him make a desperate stand.
But when he looked out the arrow slit, he saw why the attackers weren’t pressing the att
ack there. The reason was clear and astonishing: they weren’t trying to batter down the door because they were simply flying away, soaring through the air to attack another position.
Hoarst and his flying company struck three different parapets, all positions high up on the north wall. In each place they killed the posted guards and created such commotion that additional troops from the tower’s limited garrison were dispatched to the critical juncture. And by the time the reinforcements reached each scene, the attackers were gone. Soon the whole tower was ablaze with torches and littered with dead bodies.
The High Lookout bristled with archers, and arrows were launched against bats, clouds, and imaginary targets in the sky. Hoarst would send his men against the lookout soon-they had about an hour of time before the potion of flying wore off-but first he had an even more important objective.
The Gray Robe’s advance company swept downward, off of the high wall, toward the north gate. Only about a dozen of his men had been lost in those initial skirmishes, and Hoarst took the rest in a long, sweeping descent from the lookouts and into the courtyard that was just within the fortress’s northern gate.
There they found several dozen guards, and there the flying soldiers of the Black Army attacked ruthlessly. Half the defenders fell even as the attackers were dropping to the ground, swords extended and chopping. For a few moments, a melee swirled in the courtyard, blades clashing and men shouting, screaming, and dying.
Hoarst saw a knight rushing toward the massive rolled chain of the portcullis. He knew that if the man released the chain, the heavy barred gate would come crashing down, and it would take at least an hour for his men to hoist it up again.
The wizard pointed his finger and spat a word of magic. Arrows of light and energy, deceptively beautiful yet terribly lethal, shot from Hoarst’s fingertip. Two, four, six of the magical arrows seared into the back of the running knight, dropping him to the ground, his body blistered and bleeding. The stricken man reached out a desperate hand toward the chain release, but another attacker was there. The Black Army man crushed the knight’s hand with his heel of his boot then stabbed him through the neck with his sword.
Measure and the Truth tros-3 Page 21