Lord of the Rose tros-1

by Douglas Niles

  Several of his outriders approached now. The half-giant halted and shook his head, casting a spray over the hobs of his personal bodyguard. The lead scout, a small, wiry goblin named Rib Chewer, sprang from the back of his lupine mount and knelt before Ankhar.

  “Master, we have followed many humans to a place on this river. They cannot cross in the high water, and they have no wall to protect them. We can kill them all!”

  “Good. Where this place?”

  “It lies but a half-day’s march to the west of here. There is no river crossing above or below for two marches.”

  “What about knights?” asked the hulking chieftain. “They got garrisons to north and south. They moving?”

  “No, Master!” the goblin uttered a wet cackle. “They have withdrawn into their fortresses. They cower in their castles like old women. They are afraid to face us!”

  Ankhar stroked his broad chin, reflecting. His horde was spread across a hundred miles, but this town was a good objective. There would be good sport in the killing, and even if they found little treasure, there was sure to be food and drink enough to satisfy his troops for several days.

  “Son.” It was Laka, tugging at the loop on his belt where he slung his mighty, emerald-headed spear. She waved the skull totem back and forth, and Ankhar resentfully met those dark sockets with his own eyes.

  “What word of Prince?’ he asked.

  Instead of answering, Laka shook the head so the pebbles rattled and bounced in a wash of noise that was like the warning of a rattlesnake. No green light came into that empty visage. No words of counsel or warning emerged from the dead teeth.

  “Tell god we win another victory,” Ankhar said to his foster mother, his jaw jutting.

  “You not tell god!” spat Laka, springing closer to the half-giant, shaking the death’s-head at his face. She danced around in agitation. “The god tell you! And you listen!”

  “The god tell me nothing-I see humans for the killing!” Ankhar retorted. “So we attack!”

  Laka, sulking, went back to her tent-the only such structure in the whole camp, because the old shaman needed privacy for her meditations, invocations, and prayers. Ankhar tried, without success, to shake off a feeling of disquiet as he turned back to his goblin scout. That worthy lieutenant had been carefully studying the outskirts of the camp, though he had no doubt overheard the conversation between his army commander and the witch-doctor.

  “You do well, Rib Chewer,” the half-giant said. “Send riders to far wings of horde. March to this town today. We gather over night. Tomorrow morning we attack.”

  “Aye, Master!” cried the goblin, cackling again as he sprang into his saddle. The worg snapped and growled, drool slicking the long fangs, dribbling from the narrow jaws. With a howl, Rib Chewer kicked the beast in the flanks, and the wolf started across the plains at the easy lope that it could maintain for the rest of the day.

  By the time it finished, the horde of Ankhar would be gathering for the attack.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The Battle Of Mason’s ford

  Hey, you. Come here.” The speaker was a Knight of Solamnia, Order of the Rose-the first knight the travelers had seen in the small riverfront town where they had been trapped for a day.

  “Me?” Jaymes asked. He was seated on the ground, mostly covered by his woolen cape as he leaned against the wall of a store. The rain was still coming down, and he along with the other members of his sodden little party were huddled together under the overhanging eave of the building.

  “Yeah, you,” said the knight. “Come with me.” He was a young man, with a full shock of brown hair and a mustache trimmed neatly over the upper lip of a handsome, full-lipped mouth.

  “What’s going on?” Dram asked the knight, blinking himself awake after being elbowed by the warrior.

  “You’ll find out soon enough, dwarf. You, human-you heard me, come along. We don’t have a lot of time.”

  With an indifferent shrug, and a glance at the dwarf, Jaymes pushed himself to his feet and ambled along after the knight, who led him around the building and along the muddy street toward the largest inn in the main square. “Wait in there,” the knight said, pointing toward the front door. “Tell them Sir Rene will be right there-I’m just going to make a swing past the sawmill.”

  Upon entering, Jaymes found the great room crowded with men: burly farmers, a dozen lanky plainsmen in buckskin, a few well-muscled woodcutters and boatwrights. A half dozen knights were standing around or seated at a large table in the front of the room. None of them paid any particular attention to Jaymes, who, after a moment’s hesitation, walked up to the knights and said, “Sir Rene is coming soon-he’s going to the sawmill first.”

  “All right. Find a place. We’ll get started in a moment,” said one of the knights, a gray-bearded veteran who didn’t look up from a piece of parchment marked with some diagrams and numbers.

  Seeing no easy way out of the situation, Jaymes went over to one side of the room and leaned against one of the stout supporting pillars. He made sure that the hilt of his sword was covered by his cape and crossed his arms over his chest, waiting.

  Sir Rene, trailed by a couple more men, came in a few minutes later. The knight went to the table then turned around to face the assemblage. Rene gestured to one of his companions. “Tell us what you saw,” the knight said.

  The man nodded and stepped to the front of the room. He had the brown, weather-beaten face of a man who had lived his entire life out of doors. His expression was grave but unafraid.

  “The goblins are coming here. They came out of the mountains and burned Garnet to the ground seven days ago. Several thousand strong, with outriders on worgs. We fought off an attack by a hundred of them outriders yesterday. We were a score of men before that fight. We are a dozen now.”

  “Are they coming up or down the river valley?” asked a recent arrival, a farmer with big hands and mud-spattered trousers.

  “They’ve spread from Garnet city south to the main branch of the river,” the man answered grimly. “There is no escape from them on this side of the river.”

  “But we can’t cross the river!” objected another fellow, an older man still wearing a greasy cook’s apron.

  “No, we can’t. Not for at least another two days, and then only if the rain stops,” Sir Rene admitted. “That’s why I’ve gathered you all here. If we are attacked-and it looks like we will be-we’re going to have to fight for the lives of everyone trapped here.”

  “We’re not warriors!” protested the man wearing the cook’s apron. “We demand the protection of the knights!”

  Rene gestured to the five other men-those who wore the Rose emblem-seated at the table. “Well, you have the protection of six knights. Even if there was time, we couldn’t get reinforcements here across the river. So you all have the choice of waiting here to be massacred or of joining the fight.”

  His remarks provoked angry muttering and many apprehensive looks, as the men in the room sized each other up.

  “How far away are they?” Jaymes asked in a loud voice.

  Rene looked him in the eye and nodded, apparently relieved to hear a practical question. He nodded at the plainsman who had made the report. “Streamfisher here says they’re already gathering just beyond the horizon. It seems likely that they’ll be in position to attack by tonight, or at the latest, tomorrow morning.”

  He cleared his throat, planting his hands on his hips. Sir Rene might be the youngest of the knights, but the others deferred to him.

  “We want to pull everyone back into a semicircle near the riverbank. The young and the old, those who can’t help with the fight, we’ll shelter in the ferry building, and in several of the warehouses that haven’t flooded. The rest-starting with the men in this room, while including every sturdy youth, every strong woman brave enough to wield a staff or a pole-will help hold the line.”

  He outlined a defensive plan that was centered on the inn and another large establis
hment across the street. To the left of these, the flanks would be formed by the sawmill and boatyard, where unfinished hulls and overturned riverboats would form makeshift bulwarks. To the right, a stone-walled stable provided a decent strong point, and a large mill-together with its water wheel and dam on the riverbank-would form the far anchor of the line.

  “We’ll make firebreaks on the streets between each of these structures,” Sir Rene explained. “We’re lucky enough to have two score barrels of oil in one of the warehouses, so we can soak the timber enough that it should burn even in the rain. We have a little more than fifty men here, so we’ll post eight or ten at each strong point, with one knight acting as captain of each group. Collect all the able-bodied people you can find. Our survival depends on driving off the attackers and inflicting enough damage on them that they lose their stomach for the fight.”

  A fat old man, presumably the innkeeper, brought out a couple of bottles of fiery spirits. The knight directed that they be passed around the room, so everyone who wanted might take a sip.

  “I give you my knight’s pledge, on the Oath and the Measure, that we will stand at Mason’s Ford as long as blood flows in our veins. I ask you men to make the pledge, on this toast, that you will give us whatever aid is in your power. Together we must stand!”

  Jaymes took a long pull when one bottle came to him, wincing as the fiery liquid seared down his gullet. He passed the bottle to the next man, saw that Sir Rene was watching him.

  “You’ve got my pledge,” the warrior said loud, so that the others might hear. “Where do you want me to fight?”

  Dram had hung back from the crowd, listening, and now he went up to Sir Rene and volunteered to fight alongside the others. The knight looked him up and down and shrugged. “Why not?”

  Meekly trailed by the two gnomes, the dwarf went with Jaymes to his assigned post at the mill. They were joined by two dozen defenders-three or four sturdy men, and a mixture of youths, old men, and a few grim-faced farm wives. They were all under the command of the weathered knight Jaymes had spoken to upon arriving at the inn. He introduced himself as Sir Hubert and went about positioning his small force as dictated by the terrain.

  The millpond was lower than the river, separated by a raised embankment that ran like a causeway along the bank of the swollen Vingaard. The pond was surrounded by a shore of dry ground, and Sir Hubert assessed it as the most likely route of attack if the goblins came along the river.

  “If we had another day,” the knight said in disgust, “we could dig a hole in this dam and flood out the flat. Without that luxury, we’ll have to hold them at the embankment. Failing that, fall back to the wheelhouse. That will be our last redoubt.”

  He immediately sized up Jaymes as a capable fighter, putting him in command of a small group defending the dam, the pond, and the water wheel. The warrior posted his volunteers, assigning Dram the left flank while Jaymes himself stood on the right.

  They stayed in those positions all night, through intermittent shower and drizzle. The defenders took turns sleeping. Those who stayed awake staring into the murk saw no sign of the enemy. As dawn turned the black night to a soggy gray, Jaymes spoke to the dwarf and the two gnomes.

  “That keg we brought from Caergoth-we might need to give it a try here. Can you rig a fuse that will stay dry?”

  Aided by Sulfie and supervised by Dram, Carbo found a small pump room, a watertight chamber located in the base of the dam. Arranging the keg in there, he ran a line of the black powder to the door of the small compartment. It was dry enough within that a spark could be struck.

  Jaymes took stock of the weaponry available to his small detachment. Three of the youths claimed to have some proficiency as hunters and were armed with bows and arrows. These he posted in the top of the wheel house, with orders to hoard their precious missiles until they felt certain of hitting their targets. Apart from Dram’s axe and his sword-still lashed to his back beneath his cape-they were armed with an assortment of large knives, one or two swords, and several stout poles. One burly man, a smith, had a large hammer that he flipped around deftly, pledging to crush the skull of any goblin that came within reach.

  “You’ll soon have an opportunity-look, there they are!” Sulfie cried, as the rain faded to a light drizzle.

  The worg-riders emerged like ghostly shadows from the murk of the gray mist, loping on their fearsome mounts. There were dozens of them, riding past the dam surrounding the millpond, gazing at the steep embankment, moving on toward more favorable terrain. A few hooted at the defenders on the earthen dam, waving spears, cackling wildly. Gradually they faded from view, riding in a wide circle around the fringe of Mason’s Ford.

  Sir Rene came through the mill and found Jaymes on the rampart. “They’re probing with their riders,” the knight informed him. “They will fall upon us soon. Already we’ve seen a least a regiment’s worth forming up to come down the main highway.”

  “A formed regiment?” the swordsman asked.

  “No, not like trained troops. More like a mob. They’re collecting and working themselves up for a nasty attack.”

  Jaymes nodded, squinting into the distance where they could begin to make out ranks of goblin infantry coming closer, marching in tight, surprisingly regular lines.

  “How’re you for close weapons?” Rene asked. “It won’t be long before the work gets bloody.”

  “I have a sword,” the warrior replied with a shrug. “It’ll be enough for me when I need it.”

  Rene chuckled. “Too bad we don’t have more like you. Well, good luck.”

  “The same,” Jaymes offered. The knight made his way toward the neighboring stable, where the tethered horses had caught the scent of the worgs and were kicking and whinnying.

  A detachment of mounted goblins charged, the wolves howling furiously as they skirted the fences around the stable yards. Several of the shaggy mounts leaped those barriers, racing close to the stable so their riders could cast spears at the defenders. These crude missiles lodged in the planks of the stable building or bounced off the stone foundations. A pair of huntsmen shot off arrows in response, and two of the goblins, pierced by shafts, tumbled from their saddles to lie in the muddy corrals. One worg took an arrow in the flank and yelped, limping away.

  On the street between the mill and stable, orange flames surged into life as the first of the oil-soaked woodpiles was ignited. Three ranks of goblins, each several hundred strong, advanced toward the dam and the mill. Their line of march was disorganized but shoulder to shoulder, and they chanted as they drew closer. The chant became more distinct, one word repeated over and over.

  “Ankhar! Ankhar! Ankhar!”

  Those in the front of the first line of goblins broke into a run, whooping and howling. The defenders-including the dwarf and two gnomes-made a thin line atop the embankment, but they had the advantage of the steep slope before them. The goblins’ first impetuous charge served to dissipate the shock of the large, following force.

  The defenders at the mill could hear the frenzied battle on the town’s main street. Weapons bashed shields, armor and, all too often, flesh. Men and goblins died. Sir Rene commanded that key sector, and his orders, calm but forceful, echoed above the fray: “Stand fast on the stairway! Advance on the left! Fire those hay-bales!”

  A few goblins appeared on the riverbank beyond the mill. Over the course of an hour their numbers increased, and by the time a sizeable company had formed the battle on the main street had subsided. These goblins now rushed forward in a howling mob.

  They reached the steep slope on the outside of the millpond and hurtled up the slick, grassy surface. Several of them slipped. Those that climbed did so only by clawing for traction, scrambling and pulling themselves up the steep slope. The first to reach the top had the misfortune to face Dram Feldspar. The dwarf chopped his axe in a single forceful blow, spilling brains and blood. The goblin, killed instantly, tumbled back down amidst the rank of its fellows.

  The dwa
rf’s killing blow seemed only to inflame the inhuman attackers. Bestial faces contorted in fury, and hundreds of mouths gaped wide, displaying sharp teeth. Broad nostrils flared as the gobs shrieked, brandishing their weapons, clutching at the wet grass, pulling themselves up all along the steep embankment, trying to reach the few defenders.

  Carbo had fashioned a sling from a strap of leather. The bald gnome swung the weapon around his head and launched a round stone with speed and accuracy. The missile struck one goblin in the forehead, and the creature collapsed, senseless. Dram darted here and there, his axe bloody, each strike adding fresh gore to his blade. Boys and men wielded their makeshift weapons with courage and enthusiasm, if not with precise skill, and the struggling goblins were smashed back from the height of the embankment. The archers in the mill tower found targets in the mass of enemy troops.

  Jaymes was everywhere along the line, wielding his sword with one hand, stabbing the long blade into the face, throat, or chest of any gob unfortunate enough to crest the slope. His eyes ranged along the position-when one youth slipped in the mud and fell backward, the warrior was there, holding the breach against three attackers who had hurled themselves into the momentary gap. Two fell from his blows, and the third retreated, shrieking and clutching its bleeding scalp.

  Sulfie had armed herself with a heavy shovel, and she banged the blade against any leering face that rose above the lip of the embankment. Carbo stood close by her, launching stones into the faces of the increasingly shrill goblins.

  Two boys, brothers too young to shave, fought courageously with sharpened sticks, poking the makeshift spears into the bunched attackers. A hulking hobgoblin rose from the wavering rank, seizing one of the staves in a taloned hand. With a tug, the beast pulled hard and dragged the lad from the rampart. Screaming in the terror, the youth tumbled into shrieking mob of hacking swords and biting jaws-and there his death was mercifully swift.

  His brother cried out, casting his own weapon into the mob and lunging forward in a frantic effort to help his doomed sibling. Jaymes pulled the lad back by the scruff of his neck. The sobbing boy tumbled down the back of the dam while the warrior returned to chopping and slashing against the suddenly frenzied gobs.