by Dragon Lance
IX
That Night, 14 Sirrimont, 1199 Age of Light
“We will crush them,” Commander Solamnus predicted.
He loomed over the map table. His shadow fell across the schematic of Vingaard Keep and all of northern Ansalon. His eyes narrowed to slits. “It is the only humane thing. If I came upon a dog in as wretched a state as we have heard is the case in Vingaard, I hope to the gods I would have the compassion and nerve to stamp its skull into the ground.”
He looked around the room at the grim faces of his colonels and the captains of his special forces. No one replied.
“We will crush them with one terrific blow. Then, if there remains anything to save – anything or anyone – we will save it,” Vinas said. He raised the amber liquid in the glass before him and flung back the drink.
“Weren’t we to bring them back into Ergoth, Commander?” asked Chancellor Titus.
“Let their deaths be the price of saving all the other border states that are poised to break away. If we destroy Vingaard, the rest will fall in line.”
While he spoke, Vinas’s eyes were fastened, unblinking, on the jagged red schematic where the map depicted Vingaard Keep. At last he looked levelly into the eyes of the priest. “Does the Temple of Paladine object to my plan?”
Titus looked like a wounded boy. “No, Commander.”
“Good,” replied Vinas. “This action will be merciful only if it is swift and sure. Genocide cannot suffer doubts or half measures; otherwise it is only cruelty and torture.” He paused to suck in a breath. The room was so silent that everyone there heard the deep, long inhalation. “I have heard many of you boast about the army here in Solanthus, as well you should. These companies – heavy horse, griffon cavalry, heavy infantry, war wizardry – form the most formidable single army Ansalon has seen in a thousand years. But, even though this army comprises sixty elite companies, it is only one third the force under my command.”
He paused, waiting for the whistles of admiration to taper off.
“That is a secret that, until now, was known only by the emperor and myself, as well as the commanders of my two other divisions. I share the secret with you, trusting you to keep it. Tell anyone beyond this room, and I will hang you on the curtain wall of Vingaard Keep.”
The amazed murmuring stopped. Vinas continued. “We want Vingaard to watch us, to be terrorized by our audacious advance. We want them to be certain that this division can and will slay them, drink their blood, and grind their bones into meal – all in the space of days.”
Chancellor Titus spoke up again. “Won’t that convince them they have nothing to lose, make them fight to the death?”
“No,” replied Vinas sternly. “Only dreamers fight to the death. There are only a handful of such fools in the world. All others surrender and hope they will not be beaten too often by their new masters.”
The chuckles that greeted that dark assessment were nervous and dry.
“I have tried your way, Paladine’s way, Chancellor. It leads only to greater suffering and longer war. Every foe we defeat with rumor and terror we will not have to defeat with the sword. Let them learn to love us once we are standing on their necks.”
He paused, gathering his thoughts. “My other two armies have been busy. Let me tell you what mischief they are up to....”
*
General Ventrus hunkered down beside a tree trunk. The man’s Qualinesti cloak blended into the twilight grays of the bark. Behind him, his platoon similarly blended in. He thought he had seen something ahead. Gray-grizzled eyebrows lowered over intense eyes of blue. He blinked. He had seen something: the edge of the Hylo Forest.
Ventrus smiled grimly. His jaw clenched. This had been the worst hundred miles he’d marched. The forest was rotten with kender. The curious little critters were like mosquitoes – always buzzing nearby, ready to stick it to you, suck you dry, and flit away. Perhaps that explained the stern orders from Commander Solamnus: “Pass through Hylo, but avoid kender contact at all cost.”
Thankfully, Ventrus’s platoon hadn’t run afoul of any of the creatures. He’d taken every precaution to avoid that possibility. His army of six thousand soldiers – II Redroth – had been broken down into platoons of twenty, each of which moved separately and stealthily through the woods. They all wore Qualinesti cloaks, dampened their armor with balled-up rags, and even donned soft leather shoes. If the other platoons had done as well as Ventrus’s, the kender were completely unaware of their passage. Now, they were almost out of kender country.
Ventrus scanned the area ahead. The coast seemed clear. He rose from his crouch and stalked slowly toward the forest’s edge. In two hundred more paces, he would no longer need to concern himself with the second half of Commander Solamnus’s orders....
“What ya got there?” piped a shrill voice behind him.
Ventrus jumped straight up, and whirled around. In the dark, he saw a pair of avid, childlike eyes hovering above a keen little smile and a lithe form.
“You’ve been walking for three days and never touched it,” the kender observed. He pointed beneath the general’s cloak, where a short length of steel cable dangled from his belt. Wooden handles hung at either end of the cable. “What is it? What’s it for? May I take a look-see? Maybe it’s loose.”
The second half of the orders from Commander Solamnus...
The general reached for the garrotte, but discovered it absent from his belt, already in the hands of the young kender. He took a quick swipe at it, but the creature yanked the weapon away.
“You dropped it,” the kender said in defense. “What’s it called? What’s it for? Is this a spare? It looks like one I once had. I just can’t remember what it’s called.”
“It’s... it’s a magic collar,” the general said, coughing into his hand. “You wear it around your neck.”
“Oh, yes. A magic collar. I had a whole bag of these once.” The kender flipped the thing over the back of his neck and held onto the handles. “You wear it like this, right?”
General Ventrus shook his head. He reached toward the kender. “No. Here, let me show you.”
With all the trust of a child, the kender let go of the handles. General Ventrus gently took hold of them and pivoted around behind him.
“Oh, so you wear the cable across the front of your neck —” began the kender. His breath was suddenly cut off. He struggled, but was no match for the muscular man.
*
The ogres ran directly into the swarms of arrows. Already their huge gray forms bristled with shafts. Still they came. Their eyes shone with a dazed blue light, a glow not of frenzy but of sorcerous enslavement. Someone was driving these brutes into a hail of Solanthian arrows.
But who?
There was no time for such questions. Already the defenders’ quivers were nearly empty. Already the archers’ fingers bled.
Then the ogres gained the hilltop where the Solanthian scouts had decided to make their stand. The monsters were gigantic. Their gray limbs swung enormously.
They clambered fearlessly over the granite outcrop. They smashed human heads to puddings or struck them clear of their shoulders. Solanthian livery turned scarlet beneath stomping ogre feet. None would survive. None.
And who drove these mad ogres?
*
“So, there is no chance for the kender to report to Redroth, nor any possibility of Solanthian scouts surviving the tide of ogres sweeping their way. The six thousand soldiers of III Caergoth are advancing behind that tide of mesmerized ogres,” Commander Solamnus concluded. “Colonel Luccia, tell the council what you have told me of the positions of our troops and our enemies.”
Luccia nodded. She, like all the others, wore her full dress uniform for this war council. In it she looked as proud and lethal as a falcon. “Vingaard is digging in, all along the main road. They show no sign of additional earthworks or stockades to the west or east. It is apparent they hope for a battle of attrition, whittling our army down as we approa
ch the keep, and then trusting in the moat, curtain wall, and magical defenses to keep us at bay once we have arrived.
“The first major trench work is at the ford of the Vingaard River fifty miles north of here. It is rocky and shallow, but has rapids that rise over a man’s head during spring runoff. We will arrive there in the first of Argon. By then, the deepest points should be only three feet. The crossing is wide and chilly, and the wagons will need to be lashed fore and aft to mounted escorts. We will be sitting targets while we make that crossing, and the rebels know it. They are building catapults and ballistae, and have been logging heavily in the woods upstream.”
“Log jams,” said Gaias at a whisper. “They’re going to try to sweep us away.”
Luccia went on. “They will make us pay for each forward stride. Then they will fall back to trenches in the granite hills beyond and drop us from hiding.”
Vinas watched the soldiers and advisors, looking for hints of fear or weakness. These were the brutal facts of the march ahead. Anyone who would flinch at them without hearing his strategies was a person of ill judgment. So far, none had blinked.
“Once we win past that point, we will be fighting a running battle for the next forty miles, all the while climbing a shallow grade toward the uplands just south of Vingaard. There, the ground becomes impassibly wet, and the road descends into a gorge carved by the Vingaard River. It is in this rock sarcophagus that the second line of redoubts will be.”
A young officer rose, and straightened his jacket. “How many troops does Vingaard have?”
Luccia looked up at him. “Troops? They have very few trained troops, only about fifteen hundred. But they have mustered every farmhand and fishwife in a thousand miles, for a rabble army close to twenty thousand.”
Gaias looked grave. “Twenty thousand, double entrenchments, and a castle,” he said, considering. “Too bad for them they do not have Vinas Solamnus.”
For the first time in hours, the commander smiled. It was not his old, cocksure grin, though. This smile was more like a determined gritting of teeth.
“Yes, Gaias. Too bad for them. And now, let me tell you why....”
*
Sixteen Days Hence, 1 Reorxmont, 1199 Age of Light
On the brow of a short hill that overlooked the Vingaard River, Vinas reined Courage to a halt. His personal guard drew up beside him.
Gaias was nearest to hand, as always these days. He sat his battle-armored roan like the grizzled ghost of every second who ever quietly followed his commander unto doom.
Titus, beside him, stood. He had walked most of the four hundred miles from Daltigoth. He said it was because his legs were as long as any horse’s and at least as strong. Of course, the inspiring vision of a ten-foot-tall man of Paladine walking on his own two feet might have influenced his decision, too.
Luccia guided Terraton to the hilltop. The griffon folded his wings and headed for a jutting rock on one side of the summit. There, he crouched, elevated and separated from the others, but in a fine pounce position in case any of the skittish and delicious horses came near. The rest of Luccia’s voracious cavalry had already been dispatched with orders. If she had read the sun right, they would have already crossed the river. They would be digging beaks and talons into flesh even now.
The Vingaard River was wide, shallow, and fast-running. On any other day, its expanse would have mesmerized the soldiers. The jabbering conversation of water over rocks, or of wind through vallenwoods, would have made any listener feel a sudden longing for wild and lonely places.
Today, though, the river would be anything but lonely. In addition to six thousand imperial troops, four hundred horses, and a provision train of eighty-three wagons, there would be spears, ballista shots, boulders, and rapids-borne logs. Once the soldiers fought past those, they would enter the deep forest where those attacks had originated and meet the hands that sent the deadly barrage their way.
Torrential water was the worst battlefield. Not only did it grab at the feet and clothing and numb the legs, but anyone who fell in the crossing – whether from arrow or slippery stone – would be swept away immediately. Armor and currents would conspire to take such soldiers to the blackest depths. There they would thrash until the river buried them.
Luccia looked up from the rolling rapids and into the face of the imperial commander. His flesh was cold and drawn, as though somewhere along the line he had already drowned in the icy depths.
“Are the war wizards in place?” Vinas asked blankly.
Gaias nodded. “Yes. They begin on your mark, Commander.”
“Mark,” said Vinas softly, still looking at the river.
Gaias made a small hand sign that was relayed down the silent line of soldiers and out to the mages poised on the river bank.
There came no fireworks, no hum or crackle of power. Nothing seemed to change.
“Wait here for me,” Vinas said quietly. It was a command to all of them, though after he spoke it, he turned and stared pointedly at Luccia.
With a nudge of his heels, he started Courage forward at a casual trot. The horse pranced for a moment as Vinas’s stern hand on the reins kept the creature firmly and smoothly under control. Sitting bolt upright, Vinas rode down into the river. Black hooves sent up white ridges of foam. Soon, the river rose above fetlocks to hocks to finally slap coldly along the horse’s flanks. Vinas’s boots were submerged.
“He’s almost within bow shot,” Luccia murmured to herself.
Gaias overheard and nodded solemnly.
Titus, whose muttered devotions had begun the moment Courage had entered the river, now dropped to one knee. In that posture, he was still almost the same height as the rest of the army.
The commander rode onward. Courage’s legs churned the white flood. Vinas took a long, deep breath and began to speak. The words, as they left his lips, roared outward. His voice had been magically augmented by Titus to be heard clearly five miles in any direction. Courage shied for a moment from the deafening noise, but Vinas held him steady.
“I am Commander Vinas Solamnus of Daltigoth. Surrender to me, or die. You are fairly warned.”
A slim figure emerged from the woods, an elven long-bowman. His green-gray tunic and breeches made him seem to wink in and out of the tree line. He nocked an arrow and sighted directly, levelly, at Vinas. Then he drew back the string and loosed.
The arrow darted faster than Vinas’s eye could follow. He heard the thrum of the bowstring only an instant before the razor head struck his eye. He felt nothing, neither the punch of the blade through the socket and into his brain, nor even the jolt of impact.
It was as though his eye were diamond-hard. The arrow pinged off, fluttered weakly away, and plunged into the torrid tide. Vinas allowed himself a small sigh of relief, though the magical amplification made it sound like an irritated snort. Just as well. The defensive enchantments had worked. Now he would test the offensive ones.
“You were warned,” Vinas said, his voice booming.
Vinas raised a hand toward the stunned, unmoving elf and splayed his fingers as if casting a spell. An illusory orange light gathered at his fingertips and then arced between him and the elf.
The archer was struck. His bow jolted from suddenly nerveless hands. His faced seemed to glow, and then his hair and clothes spontaneously caught fire. He appeared to deflate, becoming at last only gray cinders that sifted down from his vacant form like sand through an hourglass.
Just as suddenly, it was over. Only the ceaseless river remained. The magic had worked flawlessly. Nothing could harm the commander or his mount.
A deep rumble sounded in the forest beyond the river. Foliage crackled violently. A ballista bolt, large as a small tree, climbed free of the branches and soared up into the sky. It dragged along a severed twig of leaves that flapped in the wind.
Vinas held Courage steady beneath him and, as the bolt reached the apex of its flight and began descending directly toward them, he managed to proclaim, “Sur
render to me, or die.”
The bolt hit, taking Vinas firmly in the chest. The sharpened end of the log splintered on impact and peeled back in whimsical curls. The bolt seemed to hover there a moment before splashing to the water.
Again Vinas lifted his hand and spread his fingers, almost casually this time. Orange sparks coalesced and sped outward, tracing the exact arc of the ballista bolt back to its source. The energy disappeared for a moment in the thick woodlands. Then came a pop and a roar. Flames leapt up above the treetops, flinging one hapless engineer from the ballista he had manned. The man plunged back to earth, burning, and crashed to the ground, among other flaming forms.
On marched Courage. A boulder was the next item to take flight. It turned, slow and massive, in its tumbling path, before it struck Vinas, and rolled easily off his back. Even as the water splashed up over him, Vinas flung his hand forward, and the magic of the sorcerers in the woods destroyed another war instrument.
The scatter shot flung from another catapult missed entirely. Either the engineers had not enough time to test the range, or they were terrified by the approaching commander. Vinas proudly thought it the latter. The point was moot as they and their machine burst into consuming fire.
Vinas was almost across now – one man and one horse routing the entrenched rebels. They gave away their positions with each frantic response. Their attacks were in vain. Each was answered by deadly magefire.
Courage climbed patiently up the rocky bed, rising until only his hooves were still in the water. Cold water sheeted off the horse’s sides. Feeling his own boots slosh, Vinas wondered how he would ever get the eighty-three wagons across. First things first.
Courage climbed the bank, snorting happily to be out of the frigid waters. Two more arrows flashed toward Vinas, only to ping off the horse’s hide and flip away harmlessly. The bowmen responsible were soon exterminated.
“I say again, surrender to me or die. You have seen I cannot be harmed, and that I can certainly harm. Heed my words and live!”
Another archer decided otherwise, and didn’t have time to regret his choice. He blazed away into nothingness.