The Crown and the Sword

by Doug Niles

  “General! They’re sending fire ships!”

  The alarm was brought to him by a breathless messenger. Markus looked onto the river and saw several massive barrages, ablaze, drifting along with the current. In another few moments they would come into contact with the wooden—flammable—bridge.

  Once again it was Sir Templar and his knight-priests who came to the rescue. The young cleric roused himself and started to weave another spell. Within moments a cloud took shape in the air, dark and glowering, that hovered directly over the blazing barges. Soon a light drizzle started to fall from that cloud, and the rain quickly became a soaking shower. Soon the fire rafts merely sizzled, steaming heaps of ash, drifting harmlessly, utterly doused. Carried by the current, they eventually nudged against the pontoons, but presented no threat to the bridge or the attacking Rose Army.

  The Rose Knights were all across now, and the columns of infantry came behind. They, too, spread across the plain. Hundreds of men rode toward the horizon, unimpeded by defenders.

  An officer rode up from the south, and Markus recognized one of his captains, a man whose company had been attacking at the ford.

  “How fares the crossing?”

  “The knights who came across the bridge made a flank attack, General, and carried away the defenders at the edge of the ford. Our men are advancing to the east even as we speak.”

  Only then did Markus relax. He eased himself from his saddle, for the first time noticing the aches and weariness of a long day’s battle. But the fight had been worth it.

  The Army of Solamnia was across the Vingaard.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  THE DUCHESS

  ‘Use that whip, dammit!” barked Dram Feldspar, as the heavy freight wagon struggled through the last leg of the ford over the Vingaard River.

  The hill dwarf teamster in the driver’s seat, already lashing his team of six oxen for everything he was worth, didn’t bother to reply to the mountain dwarf. Instead, he roared at the beasts, hauled on the reins, and called the laboring animals every manner of vile name. The massive bovines responded by lowering their heads, straining in their harness, and hauling the massive wagon up the bank and out of the water. Rivulets streaming from the cargo bed, the wagon rumbled and skidded into the ruts on the muddy road.

  “Now you, there—move!” shouted Dram, turning to the next—and last—in the long line of wagons. He reached up to grasp the bridle of the massive draft horse leading the team and tugged until his face turned an alarming beet red, as if by dint of his own strength he could pull the animal and heavy wagon where he wanted it to go.

  Whatever small contribution he made, it worked. The four big horses pulling this last wagon surged and strained, and finally pulled free of the river. The broad, hair-skirted hooves of the team churned through mud, and the wagon rocked and jolted through the ruts worn by the wheels of previous vehicles, finally rumbling onto the plains road.

  Dram’s legs were about ready to give out. Sweat ran in his eyes, and his left shoulder throbbed where he had been kicked early on in the fording process. But finally the entirety of the huge wagon train was across the Vingaard and rolling toward the distant heights of the Garnet Mountains. The big vehicles carried everything needed to rebuild the Compound on its new site, including all of the raw materials, equipment, and personnel to resume operations. Fortunately, as they moved away from the river, the roadway hardened and the dry, solid ground allowed the laboring beasts to pick up speed.

  Wearily Dram returned to his horse, where it was being held by a young hill dwarf. Normally he detested traveling by horseback, but now he was honestly grateful to pull himself up into the saddle and to let the animal carry him along. He rode a stocky, short-legged gelding—little more than a pony, actually—but the gruff mountain dwarf had become rather fond of the steed during the long days of riding across the plains.

  Now he spurred the gelding into a trot, conscious of the fact he looked far from graceful as he clutched the reins with one hand and the bridle with the other. The saddle jarred and shifted beneath him, and it was all he could do to keep his balance. But it was important he catch up with the head of the column, already several miles away across the plain.

  He jounced and bounced past dozens of large wagons. Many were hauled by teams of draft horses. These contained the household supplies as well as food and other sustenance (thirteen wagons hauled thirty-two casks of beer, each) for the whole community that lived and worked in the Compound. The even larger freight wagons, hauled by teams of oxen, carried the vast stockpiles of precious black powder, as well as the charcoal, saltpeter, and sulfur that were the raw materials of Dram’s work.

  Other oxen dragged massive timbers of ironwood, hewn from the coastal forests and first hauled up and over the Vingaard range, now drawn hundreds of miles to the east, following Jaymes’s orders to reestablish the Compound in the Garnet Mountains. The Compound had been closed down and packed up in a little more than week, and by that time Dram’s agents had returned after purchasing every wagon within a hundred miles.

  It had taken the long wagon train five days to reach the Vingaard River and two more to get all the wagons across. It was fully a week after the fording that the massive column finally drew near to the lofty, snow-peaked mountains of the Garnet Mountains. Dram had sent a scout party, led by his wife, ahead of the main body. As the mountains took shape on the horizon, Sally returned to the caravan to inform him they had located a valley with the requisite characteristics: flat ground in the bottom, plenty of water, and hardwood forests nearby.

  “It’s right up there, through that notch in the foothills,” she explained, pointing. Though she had been apart from him for a week, she avoided meeting Dram’s eyes.

  “Good,” he replied. He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Look, I know this is hard on you—leaving the Vingaards and all. I just want you to know that I’m grateful; I’m glad you’re here.”

  “I am here,” was her reply. She left unspoken the truth they both understood: she was a dutiful wife and would follow her husband wherever he needed to go.

  “All right!” Dram shouted, urging on the lead wagons. “We’ve got a destination. Let’s roll on up there so we can get to work!”

  As befitting Solanthus’s status as a stoutly fortified city, the ducal palace was more like a castle than a grand manor. Situated near the center of the city, it was easy to find, and as the kender and lord marshal emerged from between the Cleft Spires, they made their way directly to the grand structure. Four tall towers rose, one each at the corners of the walled compound, which occupied an entire city block.

  The streets themselves were nearly abandoned. The swordsman drew minimal interest from the few passersby, though the citizenry inevitably gave the kender a look of horror and clutched whatever purses and valuables they carried tightly to themselves as they hurried past.

  Moptop ran ahead of Jaymes as the two approached the massive gate at the front of the palace. Immediately a pair of guards scrambled from a little hut beside the gate, one taking each of the kender’s arms and lifting him right off the ground.

  “Hold it right there, you rascal!” one declared, shaking the little fellow rather more than was strictly necessary.

  “Hey! Ow! That hurts!” cried Moptop, squirming fruitlessly in the double clasp.

  “He’s with me,” Jaymes said, striding forward. “Let him go.”

  “And who in the name of the Abyss are you?” asked the second guard, his hand on the hilt of his sword. When the marshal didn’t slow his approach, the man released the kender and drew his weapon, extending it aggressively.

  “Hold it there, stranger,” he said in warning then addressed his companion without shifting his gaze. “Lew, better call out the sergeant major.”

  “Do that,” Jaymes replied. “But let the kender go.”

  “Who are you, sir?” huffed the mustachioed knight who emerged from the guardhouse a moment later. “What’s the meaning of all this?”


  “I’m Lord Marshal Jaymes Markham, commander of the Army of Solamnia. I’m here to see the Duchess Brianna, and this kender is my guide. I ordered him released, and if your man doesn’t comply, I’ll see that he’s not fit to hold so much as a chicken leg when dinner comes around!”

  “There, there,” soothed the older guard. “Lew, release the kender. Max, go tell the majordomo that the duchess has a visitor—give him a good description. In the meantime, why don’t we all just calm down and get this sorted out?” He fixed Jaymes with a wary look. “Though, if you’d been around here for a while, you’d know that none of us has had so much as a glimpse of a chicken leg in quite some time.”

  Moptop made a great show of wounded dignity in adjusting his topknot and tunic, making sure all his pouches were in order. He stalked back to Jaymes with the air of one who had endured a great insult, but the dignified effect was somewhat ruined when he stuck his tongue out at the scowling Lew.

  “You’re the lord marshal, eh?” said the sergeant major, making an elaborate show of spitting a stream of tobacco off to the side. “Don’t have much of a uniform. I suppose that would have been a bit of a distraction, when you rode through the enemy lines, eh? You and your kender guide.”

  “I’ll tell my story to the duchess,” Jaymes said easily. He stood a dozen paces away from the guard post, watching as more men appeared atop the palace wall. A door opened off to the side and still more guards hastened out, quickly circling outward to form a ring around the two visitors.

  “So did you get a look at the half-giant when you slipped past his tent?” continued the sergeant major, swaggering forward. He had an increasingly skeptical look on his face. “Maybe share a cup o’ tea with him?”

  The guards numbered more than a dozen, and all of them regarded the visitors with blatant hostility. Their faces were gaunt and unshaven, and their sunken eyes gleamed with suspicion. The effects of hunger were clearly visible in every face.

  “Psst—I don’t think they’re very glad to see you,” Moptop whispered loudly, tugging on the lord marshal’s sleeve. “Maybe we should go back to the Cleft Spires.”

  “We’ll stay here until we have a chance to talk to the duchess,” Jaymes replied calmly.

  “Maybe she’s got some more important business than talking to a spy,” the guard sneered.

  “He’s not a spy! He’s the lord marshal of the whole army, and I’m his professional guide and pathfinder extraordinaire!” the kender declared, bristling. “And we didn’t come through Ankhar’s army—we found a new way to get here! And you just better—hey!”

  Moptop squawked in alarm and ducked behind his companion’s legs as a shadow suddenly flashed above them. A large net, a circular web with heavy weights around the fringe, soared from the wall, having been flung at them by a pair of guards. It spun itself taut and dropped toward the two travelers standing outside the palace gates.

  In the same instant, Jaymes reached over his shoulder and pulled Giantsmiter from its sheath. Blue flames flashed in the sunlight as he swept the weapon in an arc over his head, neatly slicing the strands of the net as it plummeted. The weights carried the fringes to the ground, but the swordsman and the kender stood, unencumbered, in the middle of the ruined net.

  For the first time, the sergeant major’s eyes showed the shadow of respect. He scowled darkly, while several of his men whispered among themselves. “That’s the sword of Lorimar, all right,” one of them said quite audibly. “Mebbe he is who he says.”

  Further debate was prevented by the arrival of a woman, a very young woman of striking beauty, dressed in a supple leather skirt that reached to her feet. Hair of coppery red spilled across her shoulders, curling and full. Her face was pale except for the dark circles surrounding her sunken eyes. Her cheeks, neck, and arms had the same slightly gaunt look that was characteristic of everyone in the besieged city, but they were also alight with a glow of warmth, greeting, and something else—hope, perhaps.

  “My Lord Marshal,” she said, stepping through the ring of guards to approach and holding out her hand in greeting. Jaymes took it and bowed. “How nice it is to see you here.”

  “The honor is mine, Your Grace,” he replied.

  “Sergeant Major Higgins,” she said, turning and regarding her guard with slight disapproval. “Perhaps you could help our visitor disentangle himself from the net?”

  “But … Your Grace! So you do know this man?” Higgins sputtered. “He’s not from the city—and yet, how could he come through the siege lines?”

  “I have never met him—but he looks exactly as Dara Lorimar described. Those eyes! They look like they could stab you from ten paces away. The beard is a nice touch, my lord. It gives a weight of maturity to your countenance.” She turned to the sergeant major, the hint of a smile playing about her lips. “And from what Dara told me about him, years back, I should think that if Jaymes Markham wanted to pass through the lines of a siege, he would be able to figure out a way to do that.”

  “I showed him the way!” Moptop proclaimed.

  “How very nice of you,” the duchess said with a dazzling smile. “You must be a splendid guide.”

  Moptop beamed in return, and seemed to grow a good two inches.

  The city of Solanthus was still intact, Jaymes could see as the duchess led him through the streets toward the western quarter. The buildings were mostly made of stone, and many of them loomed two or three stories high. Their facades were undamaged, their stonework and outer staircases clean and neat. But upon close inspection he saw that many structures had an unfinished look, and this was because wooden porches had been pulled down. Benches were gone, and even unnecessary doors had been removed.

  “We burned almost all of our wood during the last winter,” Brianna explained. “Even so, we lost a thousand people—mostly the very old and the very young—to the cold.”

  “Your brave stand has been remarkable,” Jaymes acknowledged. “The whole of Solamnia is heartened by your example.” Even to his own ears, the words sounded hollow. How could anyone who was not here understand what these people had been going through?

  He noticed, as they passed corrals and stables and small barns, that there were no animals about. They, like the wood, had undoubtedly been consumed during the nearly two years of siege.

  “We were faced by a new attack just a few days ago,” Brianna explained as they walked, without ceremony, through the city streets. “It was a being of magic, gigantic in size, terrible in its destructive force.”

  “I received word of that,” the lord marshal replied. “A wizard told me—she described the creature as an elemental, a magical composite of fire and water, earth and air.”

  “Oh! Did she tell you how we might kill this magical foe?” the duchess asked.

  “Not in so many words,” Jaymes said, shaking his head. “That’s one of the reasons I came here; I am helping her search for the answer.”

  “Come this way, and I will show you some of the damage it wreaked.”

  They passed several knots of defenders, all of whom stood at attention when they saw it was the duchess approaching. The men of her garrison obviously regarded her with affection bordering on awe. They hastened to clear a path for her, lunging to kick pieces of rubble out of her way, following her reverently with their eyes as she walked past them. Despite her beauty, there was nothing of lust in their expressions—rather, they reflected more the adoration a young boy might show for his mother.

  Jaymes noted the duchess’s eyes were filled with sorrow, however, as she guided him and Moptop through the city, escorted only by a quartet of palace spearmen who materialized an unobtrusive distance behind them. Word spread, seemingly through the cobblestones themselves, announcing her approach. The people turned out along the whole way, leaning from upper windows, lining the walks beside the narrow streets. They did not cheer, but quietly nodded, bowed, and curtsied as the duchess passed.

  These same people regarded Jaymes with frank curiosity and an occ
asional scowl of apparent hostility.

  “They remember the promises of Caergoth and Thelgaard,” Brianna explained apologetically, “and the knights who never appeared here. Very little is known about you, of course, though we have word that your army came north across the Garnet River. But they have had so little cause for hope in this last year.”

  “As of now, my army should be crossing the Vingaard. Relieving your city is our objective, but even so it will take days for my armies to close in upon the enemy camp.”

  “Until then, of course, we must continue to survive,” said the princess coolly. They came around a corner and saw a whole block of devastated buildings. “Come this way. We’ll climb the wall, and you’ll be able to get a good look.”

  They made their way up a narrow stone stairway, quickly ascending to the top of a city wall. The duchess climbed the steps with easy grace. At the top, she gestured to an adjacent area that looked like the desolate ruin of some long-past civilization.

  “Just a week ago this was a complete, fortified castle,” Duchess Brianna remarked sadly. “But the fire-giant did all of this damage in less than an hour. More than a hundred men died.”

  Jaymes nodded his head. He had seen Garnet after it was sacked and burned by Ankhar’s horde, but this devastation was worse. The rubble contained jutting pieces of broken stone and shattered timbers, but the wreckage was so thorough, he found it hard to imagine that the materials he could identify had once been part of an actual building.

  He eyed the duchess, whose faraway look was full of unspoken heartbreak. She was so very young, a year or two past twenty at the most, but she carried herself with impressive dignity and purposefulness. Her leadership, the marshal knew, had inspired the long and stubborn resistance that Solanthus had offered to the besieging army.