by Dragon Lance
“Are you sure, Barnabas?” Vinas asked. “This is the most dangerous detail in the army.”
“Therefore the most glorious,” said the cocky soldier. “Just think, all eyes in both armies will be on me.”
Vinas crossed arms over his chest and leaned back. “The eyes of Anistas, too. She knows you volunteered, right?”
He smiled brightly. “She’s the reason I volunteered.”
A deep sigh. Vinas said, “I’m sure we could get the wizards to figure a way of getting the wagon to the gate without a driver. Or perhaps they could cast a globe of protection around you.”
Barnabas waved away those ideas. “Then it would seem we didn’t trust them. This gesture is important – a single, unarmed driver bridging the no-man’s-land between us.”
Vinas’s mouth flattened into a hard, determined line. “I can learn something from your courage.”
Barnabas shrugged. “I’m getting cold. I’d like to get this over with so I can head back to the fire.”
Vinas only nodded.
Barnabas slapped the reins against, the horses’ flanks, and the snow-choked wheels lurched into motion. He gave one last wave, then confidently guided the horses onto the road that led toward Solanthus’s gate.
Commander Solamnus was suddenly acutely aware that the whole plain had gone silent. He looked down the uneven clusters of soldiers. Conversations had died away, reports had been cut short, jokes had stopped in mid-telling and laughs had been choked to silence. It was the same way on the walls above. Guards watched warily as the wagon pulled within arrow range. The Ergothians moved in slow, black clumps toward the gate.
There was a war wizard near Vinas, and he snagged the woman’s thick robe. “Augment my voice. I want them to hear me on the wall.” With a gesture, it was done, and Vinas addressed the whole silent throng, inside the castle and out.
We send the first provisions wagon. The driver is unarmed. The wagon is full of food and drink. Please, give safe passage to this soldier, and enjoy what he brings you.
Puffs of gray breath drifted up from the horses as they labored, drawing Barnabas and the food after them. The guards on the wall did not raise their bows, but only stood and stared at the strange spectacle.
“Who’s the brave soul?” came a voice beside Vinas.
He turned and saw it was the priestess Anistas.
To his look of surprise, she responded, “I know, I know. It’s colder than I like out here, but Barnabas asked me to meet him here. He said it was important.”
Vinas took hold of her shoulders and stared solemnly into her eyes. “Anistas, that is Barnabas.”
Her face went as white as the snow, and he tried to steady her. She pulled free and pushed past him, onto the road. Vinas pursued, grabbing her arm and holding her back.
“Stay here. If you go, too, the Ergothians will wonder what trick we’re up to, and Barnabas would be in even greater danger.”
Anistas struggled to break free, but couldn’t. She turned her head to stare down the road.
Barnabas was halfway to the castle, well within range for even a mediocre marksman. Still, the guards made no move to stop him. The wind swirled in white eddies, like ghosts dancing on a cloud. As the horses drew closer, the wagon looked small against the massive wall.
“I thought they just might accept the token,” Vinas muttered to himself with a cautious smile. “If they wanted to attack, they would have done so by now.”
The horses had reached the moat. Barnabas reined them to a stop. He stared forward at the thick, iron-banded drawbridge that tightly sealed the entrance to the castle. The underside of the bridge was draped with dead moss that had accumulated over the years when the bridge was rarely if ever lifted.
For a moment, Vinas’s heart caught in his throat. If they won’t lower the bridge, he thought, they won’t take the supplies, and if they don’t take the supplies, Barnabas is a deadman.
Suddenly, the drawbridge lurched downward. It caught short, then spooled slowly toward the ground. The clangor of metal links rolling from the capstan came a moment later, a sound so welcome that it brought a great, spontaneous cheer from the troops of Vingaard.
The drawbridge set to ground. Barnabas waved his thanks to the men on the wall, who returned the gesture. Barnabas flapped the reins, and the wagon shuddered into motion. The bridge was little wider than the wagon, and it held no rails to prevent a fifty-foot plunge into a moat of ice. Barnabas guided the wagon slowly out along the bridge, at last reaching the closed portcullis.
There came another moment of anxiety. Then the portcullis began its clanking path upward. The army cheered again, and festival songs broke out here and there among Vinas’s men.
The portcullis rose the height of the wagon rails and stopped. From beneath it came ten armored men, who walked warily to the wagon. The officer of the group stopped to talk to Barnabas while the rest lined up beside the wagon, pulling back the tarp, and gazing within. When they seemed satisfied, they went to the opposite side of the conveyance, checking what lay there. As heads began to nod in satisfaction beside the wagon, the officer finished his conversation with Barnabas and joined the others.
Vinas’s hold on Anistas eased. He then let go of her entirely. “You see? They are accepting the token.”
No sooner had he said this than the ten men heaved on the side of the wagon. The wagon rolled off the drawbridge, taking Barnabas and the horses with it. His shriek came first, and then the horrible sound of horse screams, the clatter of hooves and knees on frozen wood, and a terrific crash as food, wagon, driver, and horses impacted upon the ice below.
Vinas reached out to grab Anistas and hold her, but already she was running up the road, already almost within arrow range. He bolted after her. If only she would slip and stumble, he found himself thinking. If only she would not cross that line.
It was too late. Vinas himself had already crossed into arrow range. What looked like a flock of starlings took flight from the castle. But they flew too fast, too straight, to be birds. The first black arrow caught her thigh and felled her. By the time Vinas reached her, the first shafts were spent, four of them embedded in Anistas. Yet she still breathed.
Vinas tenderly lifted her into his arms, turned around, and walked out of range. The twang of another set of missiles came behind them, but Vinas did not hurry. He walked slowly, reverently, back toward his armies as arrows struck the ground all around them, breaking midshaft upon the frozen earth.
“For pity’s sake —” Vinas shouted to his troops “— for honor’s sake, bring a priest!”
The word honor left a bitter, bitter taste in his mouth.
*
Four Months Hence, 2 Bran, 1202 Age of Light
“How goes it?” came a resonant voice on the grassy hillside.
Crouched intently over a rock that held one of the enchanted chessboards, Jerome started and sat straight up atop his camp stool. “Paladine’s puke! You scared me, sneaking up like that.”
He glanced irritably over his shoulder and saw the large, silhouette of Commander Solamnus. The soldier leapt to his feet, upsetting the camp stool and almost wiping clean the chess board.
The commander himself reached down and steadied the board. “Are you coaxing anyone into playing?”
Jerome was too busy standing at attention to realize he needed to respond.
“I said – relax, soldier – have you gotten anyone to play?”
“No, sir,” said Jerome nervously. “Not any response for quite a while. At first all they would do was knock the pieces off the board every time I set it up. Now, they’re just ignoring it.”
Commander Solamnus stooped, righted the man’s chair, and gestured him into it. Stiffly, Jerome took the seat. The commander said, “It’s the same story down the line. They must have been ordered not to touch the boards. But it looks to me like you’ve got a good game going.”
The man shrugged, reddening beneath his salt-and-pepper hair. “Once they stopped clear
ing the boards, I figured it wouldn’t do any harm for me to play a match – both sides, I mean.”
Vinas nodded. “It’s a good idea. Even if they’ve been ordered not to touch the boards, they could still watch a game. It’s a start. Good thinking.”
“Oh, ah, yes. Thanks,” said Jerome.
The commander nodded toward the pieces. “Continue.”
“Yes, sir,” Jerome replied, as though it had been an order. He reached out slowly, then drew his hand back from the white queen. “I was just trying to make sure of a checkmate. White will have the game if I move the queen to bishop four – if she can’t be taken there.” He and the commander studied the board in silence for a moment, looking for jeopardy for the queen. Then, without either of them lifting a hand, the white queen moved into position.
Jerome stared in disbelief. “Someone’s playing. Someone’s finally playing!”
Commander Solamnus peered toward the wall. “Good work, soldier. Continue.”
*
Six Months Hence, 28 H’rarmont, 1202 Age of Light
Titus was standing beside the half-empty wagon, lashing down its tarp, when he felt something on his back – something even sharper than the early winter wind. Actually, the sword tip poked at him from somewhere lower than his back.
Raising his hands to his sides, the giant slowly pivoted to see who threatened him. He looked down to see a boy who could have been no more than twelve.
The kid’s helmet was a few sizes too large, and he had to crane his neck back to keep it from sliding down over his eyes. His shoulder guards stood out from his neck like the fronds of a palm. With both arms over his head, he held up a very grown-up sword.
“Hold still, or I’ll stick you through the heart,” said the kid.
“That’s the long way to the heart,” Titus observed, but he held dutifully still.
“I congratulate this wagon for the army of Daltigoth,” the boy declared.
Another voice came, this one craggy and old, but no more imposing than the child’s. “That’s confiscate, not congratulate,” an old man said.
Despite the warning, Titus decided his heart was out of immediate danger. He twisted around to see the boy’s comrade. The old man had a three-day stubble, with a gray mustache and eyebrows that stood out like cat whiskers. His chest was even narrower than the boy’s, though his potbelly made up for the deficiency. His legs were birdlike – scrawny and covered in ragged scale mail.
“Let the arse of that priest alone, son,” the old man advised. “Paladine’s posterior ain’t a good thing to be poking.”
“I captured him and his cart,” the boy explained, not moving the sword.
Two more voices, young and savage, came in the distance. They both talked excitedly, neither heeding the other. As the speakers reached a ring of winter-bare trees at the edge of the clearing, their duologue suddenly stopped and they broke into a run.
“A priest, finally!” one of the young men said. “Run!”
They both skidded to a halt beside Titus. They were filthy as polecats living in a chimney. Their eyes blinked brightly in their dirty faces.
The nearer one said, “I got a wart that won’t go away even if I cut at it, and last time I cut at it I had to walk funny for a week, which is how I got this blister beside the wart” – he slipped off one ragged boot and lifted a bad-smelling foot above his head to show his wart and blister – “and so I want both healed.”
With a single motion of one hand, Titus pushed the noisome foot away and healed it. “Who are you people?”
There came the sound of three young chests puffing out with pride – and that of one decidedly older chest just plain puffing. The boy with the sword said, “We’re the new recruits for Ergoth’s army.”
Titus could no longer help it. He stepped away from the sword. Its tip unsupported, the sword clattered to the ground. The noise startled the group, which leapt back like frightened rabbits.
“Look out!” one of the grubby fellows said, “he’s got a sword!”
“Way to go, Filbas,” the other piped.
“Forget swords,” the old man said, his eyes wide, “look at those hands. He could smash our heads like grapes.” He made a comical pretense of dodging blows.
“Filbert can have his sword back,” said Titus, kicking the blade back to them. They leapt away from it. “I just want answers to some questions.”
“Whatever he asks, don’t answer, or he won’t need you anymore, and he’ll kill you,” advised the one whose foot had been healed.
“Shut up,” advised the other.
Titus ignored them. “Are you really soldiers for Ergoth?”
“Of course we are,” they chorused, indignant.
“Why aren’t you in Solanthus, then?”
Filbas answered, “I said we’re new recruits. And what we’re doing here is getting ready to attack the rebels.”
“You four are going to attack Vinas Solamnus’s eighteen thousand?” Titus asked, incredulous.
“We’re building up to it.” Filbas quirked his mouth.
“We used to be in a company, but the colonel had a bad cough and, well, he didn’t make it. So, we split up. Besides, there’s more than four.”
As though these last words were a signal, another twenty-five ragtag soldiers came over the hill. Their eyes lit with excitement as they saw the wagon and the prisoner, and they ran to help surround Titus.
“Looks like the shoe is on the other foot, priest!” sneered Wart. “Now we ask the questions. Who are you?”
“I am Chancellor Titus, priest of Paladine, and one of the rebel leaders,” said Titus without pause.
“Whoa! Without even trying we nabbed a big one!” said the other grubber.
“I was trying,” Filbas put in.
“I say we torture war secrets out of him,” suggested Wart.
“You won’t have to torture me,” Titus said. “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. Commander Solamnus has no war secrets.”
“If the priest ain’t got secrets, let’s hang him,” said the other grubber. A cheer went up from the scrofulous crowd. “At least we could have some fun.”
The speaker suddenly had a very similar experience to the one Titus had had moments before: he felt a jab in his back. Not one, actually, but four.
He turned his head to see a severe-looking farmer pressing a severe-looking pitchfork against his back. “You’ll do no such thing. Now, you brigands be running along.”
Spitting venom, the grubber said, “Who’s going to make us. You and what army?”
“This army,” said the farmer.
The surrounders were now surrounded by a hundred villagers who now had full pantries, thanks to Titus.
The farmer said, “I’m sorry you had to run into this lot, Titus. We’ve been trying to keep them out of your hair, but they’re as thick as fleas in these woods. Thick as fleas, but no more dangerous.”
Titus waved away the apology. “Thank you for rescuing me.”
“As far as we’re concerned,” the farmer said matter-of-factly, “these folk are the invaders. We’re part of Solamnia.”
*
Sixteen Months Hence, 13 Chislmont, 1204 Age of Light
After Barnabas’s death, every provisions wagon sent to the castle was propelled by magical means – without horses or driver. The safety measures proved wise. For the first three months of the siege, every wagon that rolled to the drawbridge of the castle was flung unceremoniously into the moat.
The armies of Solamnus had been grieved to see such waste – ninety-two wagons before it was done, and tons of food wasted. So much lay in the moat at the end of those three months that it was said an attack could be made across a bridge of pork shanks and flank steaks. Many advisors had begged Vinas to end the daily ritual, but he had been adamant.
On the thirteenth of Chislmont, though, two years back, the first wagon was accepted into the castle. Since that time, not a single wagon had been tossed away, and one yea
r ago to the day, the wagons had started coming back empty, to be reused. Vinas’s overworked wheelwrights had breathed a sigh of relief at that.
Commander Solamnus had made it known to his troops that on the anniversary of the auspicious date, he wanted to send another horse team and rider, and was looking for volunteers. Though he had many to choose from, one volunteer was especially insistent.
“Are you certain about this, Anistas?” Vinas asked her, standing in the very spot where he had once asked Barnabas the same question.
She nodded, fingers twisting the reins of her horses.
“Just the way he did it. I want it all to be the same.”
“All but the ending,” Vinas said, his voice a mixture of concern and reproof.
“Yes, of course,” she said. “Of course.”
“Well,” Vinas said, “I need someone to brave this path for all of us. You are among the bravest folk I know.”
She nodded, her eyes already steely and fixed on the castle looming ahead.
“Paladine be with you,” said Vinas.
With that, she touched a spot beside her heart, where an arrow had once nearly taken her life. It was a gesture that always gave her strength.
She slapped the reins. The horses pulled forward. The wagon jolted onto the road.
The huge ring of Vingaard’s warriors – grown to twenty-five thousand over these two years – fell silent.
Despite the slow trot of the horses, Anistas felt an impulse to leap off the wagon, as though it were careening out of control toward a cliff. She squelched the desire, purposefully keeping the reins loose and even in her grip.
The road curved muddily away behind her. The horses trudged up an embankment greening with spring. Anistas sat straight and tall. The augmented voice of Commander Solamnus rose all around her.
I am sending in an unarmed woman with a wagon of provisions. Please let this priestess arrive unharmed, and receive the gift she offers.
She was in arrow range now, but no shafts took to the air. They hadn’t fired at Barnabas, either – and he was dead, all the same.
The castle loomed ahead, growing impossibly large. Anistas realized she hadn’t breathed in what felt like minutes. What if this is my last moment? she wondered. What if this blue-gray sky and these tender first shoots of grass are the last things I ever see?