Roused by bloodlust, the creatures threw themselves at the defenders with renewed intensity. Several more humans fell, and for a moment Jaymes, Dram, and the hammer-wielding smith faced a dozen jabbering goblins in the middle of the dam. The three drove them back, killing half, but the defense was faltering.
“The fuse-light it!” shouted Jaymes, clearing a swath around him with whistling sweeps of his bloody blade.
“All right, give me half a minute,” the dwarf replied, skidding down the backside of the dam, pulling open the door to the pump room where the keg of gnomish powder was stored.
“The rest of you-back to the water wheel!” Jaymes shouted to his ragtag militia. He and the smith stood back to back, slaying any goblin that came within reach of either hammer or sword, while the rest of the defenders raced along the crest of the dam toward the shelter of the sturdy wooden structure.
Goblins spilled over the top of the dam, down to the flat, dry shore of the millpond, and they started making their way along the base of the earthen embankment. The smith staggered, dropping his hammer, groaning as he clasped a bloody wound. The warrior stepped back, giving the big man his left hand for support while, with the sword held in his other, he forced back a swarm of attackers.
“It’s burning-run for it!” shouted Dram, bursting from the pump room, sprinting toward the wheel house with a pack of howling goblins pursuing him just a few steps behind.
Step by step, Jaymes edged back, still carrying the bleeding smith. When the wounded man lost his balance and slumped to one knee the warrior stood fast, hacking the head off of a goblin who charged in. The sight of the rolling head gave the next in line a moment’s pause, enough for Jaymes to pull the smith to his feet again. The two of them tumbled back to the door of the wheel house just as Dram scrambled up. Willing hands pulled the wounded man inside and the dwarf dived behind.
Jaymes stood alone outside the door, holding his sword ready. The goblins paused, gathering their courage for a renewed assault. Now they spilled along the pond side. The warrior kept his eyes on the pump room, where a small puffs of smoke indicated that Dram’s makeshift fuse was burning.
Abruptly, churning black vapor erupted from the pump room. Sparks shot through the murk, and red cinders scattered over nearby goblins, sending them scrambling away, swatting frantically at their burns. More and more embers shot from the pump room. The acrid cloud billowed. Bitter vapors made the goblins cough and choke, and many fell back in fear.
But that was all. The burning keg sputtered and fizzled and smoked up a storm, obscuring a large section of the dam. But it did nothing else, caused no damage to the embankment. All too soon the fire had burned itself out, and the acrid smoke was wafting away.
“By Reorx! That’s not right!” Dram cried, standing in the door of the water wheel building.
Jaymes cursed and turned back to the battle with a clenched jaw.
After their momentary consternation, the goblins took stock of the situation and rushed the door of the millhouse, howling in glee.
Jaymes stood alone before the door. He held his blade in both hands, and methodically twisted the hilt in his calloused palms.
Blue fire burst from that potent blade.
Ankhar watched the panic and the retreat. He was hypnotized by the suffering of one hobgoblin, his leg severed below the knee, try to crawl back to the camp on the plains. The wretched creature bled to death within a hundred paces of the outer pickets.
The half giant felt an unfamiliar disquiet. Things had not gone well today. This town should have been easy pickings compared to the walled city of Garnet, which he had so successfully sacked.
Of course, it was all due to that wretched Blue Fire sword. Goblins had always hated that ancient weapon. The warrior who surprised them with it had wielded it well, he had to admit, singlehandedly breaking the left flank of the horde’s attack.
Foremost among his regrets was the memory of that dead, silent skull, the talisman that had stared at him when he had been determined to act with or without his god’s approval. This was a lesson that Ankhar would remember.
It was the lesson of Truth.
“They almost broke through at the sawmill,” Sir Rene told Dram and Jaymes, as they looked around at the detritus of battle. The mill building was battered but still intact. “Sir Hubert tells me it was a very close-run affair, here. You did well to hold them.”
“We did what we could,” Jaymes said dryly. “I don’t think we could have held out any longer if they had attacked one last time.”
Rene shrugged but looked at the warrior shrewdly. “Apparently they didn’t have the stomach for tremendous losses. The plainsmen report that the whole horde has moved on-apparently they’re heading for Thelgaard. And the river is falling-the ford will be useable by tonight, I’m guessing.”
Jaymes nodded. Sir Rene rubbed a hand across his mustache then looked at the warrior. He gestured to the more than a hundred goblin corpses scattered around the wheel house.
“Lots of burns on these bastards. That’s probably one thing that scared them off.”
The warrior narrowed his eyes, said nothing.
“I’m going to send a report to the dukes. They’ll need to know about this battle. For one thing, first reports suggested this enemy was untrained, but I will suggest that is not the case.”
Jaymes nodded. “They attacked in some semblance of rank-they could do a lot of damage, with good training.”
“And I’ll be telling them about the brave defense. About the warrior with the sword who stood alone before the wheelhouse and left a hundred dead goblins, many of them burned.”
“That may be true enough,” Jaymes replied cautiously.
“I’ll be sending my report with a courier first thing in the morning,” Sir Rene said, awkwardly. “Just in case… you know. In case you are the modest type and want to cross the river this evening and get out of here before my report arrives in Caergoth.”
The warrior nodded. “We’ll be on our way.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Encounters around a river
The lone knight spurred his horse, urging the animal to greater speed. Mud sucked at the hooves, and the animal staggered but found the strength to plunge ahead, raggedly cantering across the flat ground. Eyes bulging, nostrils flaring, the war-horse persevered, carrying the weary rider through the graying twilight. Finally the army camp materialized in the dusk, a scattering of smoky fires, sodden tents, and apprehensive troops.
The big horse slowed as it stumbled past the outer pickets. The knight guided it between the aisles of tents toward the largest canvas shelter in the encampment. The banner of Thelgaard, a white crown on a black field, hung limply from the tall staff, dripping water that pooled unnoticed among the soaked expanse.
Guardsmen made way for the rider. One, taking note of the rose emblazoned on the man’s breastplate, turned and shouted, “A messenger from Caergoth arrives!”
Duke Jarrod emerged from the tent, shrugging an oilskin cape over his broad shoulders, looming above the attendants and nobles clustered around him. His beard bristled, and his huge hands were clenched, as if he sought already to strike a blow against some new foe.
“What word from your lord, man?” Jarrod demanded, his voice booming out as the horseman reined in.
“Duke Walker’s vanguard is eight miles away-the bulk of his army no more than twelve, Excellency,” reported the rider, slipping from the saddle and kneeling on the muddy ground before Jarrod. “He is making camp for the night but expects to cross the river first thing in the morning. He will arrive here by mid-day.”
“Ah, you bring good news, at last,” the huge lord said, his bearded face breaking into a broad grin, fists unclenching as he clapped his hands in relief. “With Caergoth beside us, we will bring this rabble to heel for good!” He turned to one of his officers. “Captain Dayr-send word to Duke Rathskell. We will count on him to hold the left and let Caergoth fill the middle as soon as he crosses the ri
ver. My own force shall stand here on the left, anchored on the bank of the Upper Vingaard.”
“Very good, Excellency,” Dayr said with a nod. He was a smaller version of his lord, bearded and swarthy, with well-muscled forearms outlined by the black silk of his soaking sleeves. He hastened away, calling for a scribe to ready pen and parchment.
More shouts came from guards at the eastern edge of the encampment, and before Dayr had even finished the flowery introduction-he was still reciting “Lord of the Sword, Master of the Garnet Spur”-the intended recipient came riding up to the headquarters tent with an entourage of a dozen officers and nobles.
“My lord!” exclaimed Thelgaard in genuine surprise, as Duke Nathias Rathskell of Solanthus slid from his saddle with a dancer’s grace. His thin rapier was, as usual, balanced at his side, but he looked down in distaste as his feet sank a couple of inches into the muddy ground of his rival’s camp. “I had just ordered word sent to you-we hear that Caergoth is but a half day’s march away.”
Rathskell’s thin face brightened a bit at this news, but his familiar scowl returned. “That is indeed encouraging,” Rathskell allowed, “but we must needs address the gap between our forces. I stand east of the river, in line and ready to meet the foe coming up from the south. I had expected that you would draw out your own force to meet me. We now have a gap of some two miles between our forces.”
Thelgaard waved away the complaint. “That gap is Caergoth’s. He will have five thousand men across the river in the morning. They will secure our center.”
The Duke of Solanthus peered to the west. “How do you know he will come?” he asked.
Jarrod gestured to the recently arrived messenger, who hurried forward and repeated his lord’s declaration. Still, Solanthus remained unconvinced. “My own outriders report that the horde is but a day’s march south of us. If Caergoth is delayed, we leave ourselves open to defeat in detail. The gap is a danger.
“Bring your forces up to mine, then,” Thelgaard said with an indifferent shrug. “I have my own right anchored on the Upper Vingaard, and I do not care to relinquish that security. If you are too timid to await developments on the plain, all you need do is march into the gap on your right, joining me here. You should have nothing to fear, then.”
Rathskell glowered but managed to suppress his anger and reply. “A simple march, at night, in the rain, leaving my tents and baggage train exposed? I think not. Besides, I am stretched thin as it is, and if I pull too far this way I leave our whole force open to a flanking maneuver, if this Ankhar takes his troops on a wide circuit away from the river.”
“You give this scoundrel, this half-giant leading the ogre horde, credit for cleverness he does not possess,” said Thelgaard.
“He was clever enough to overwhelm Garnet in one afternoon,” Solanthus responded. “I would have a care not to underestimate him, if I were you.”
“You worry about your concerns, and I will worry about mine. Did you not hear about Mason’s Ford? Five days ago, a few knights and a rabble of peasants were enough to give these wretches pause. Do not inflate your fears, my good duke.”
Rathskell’s face flushed at the insult, but he grimaced and once again maintained his poise. “Yes, I heard about that fight-and a noble stand it was. Perhaps this barbarian, this Ankhar, will learn from his mistakes. He has crossed the North Garnet and comes toward us swiftly enough. He may not repeat his blunt tactics again.”
“You jabber like an old woman! He is a monster, an illiterate subhuman!” Thelgaard proclaimed, to the approving nods of his own entourage. Let his men see how a real lord infused his men with confidence!
“Surely you can spare a screening force, at least? Horsemen who could cover the gap and report on any developments?” Though Rathskell was making an effort to be reasonable, his mustache was quivering with indignation. “You have yourself in a square formation here, covering a mere quarter mile of frontage, with half your force arranged solidly on the riverbank. I have the same amount of men spread out in a line two miles long!”
“Your deployments are your own concern, of course,” Jarrod of Thelgaard replied. “I have simply taken wise precautions to see that I cannot be outflanked. I do not intend to place the safety of my army in the hands of anyone other than myself.”
“Suit yourself, then,” Solanthus replied through clenched teeth. “You well know that I cannot close the gap, since I would place both of our forces open to a flanking run across the plains-and it would cut me off from my own city, if Ankhar moves east. We must count on Caergoth to uphold his promise. But if they come through that gap, Excellency”-he sneered at the honorific-“you understand that you will be on your own.”
“That,” said Thelgaard, a broad grin cracking the bristle of his great beard, “is a risk that I am well prepared to take.”
He was still grinning as his noble counterpart mounted and led his party of officers back into the rainy night.
Ankhar raised his hand, thrusting the glowing speartip high over his head in the rain-soaked night. The green light, Hiddukel’s blessing, stabbed through the murk and mist, a beacon to all his vast legions. The half-giant howled as he waved that enchanted weapon back and forth, feeeling the rush of power surge through his veins.
The great horde numbered more than six thousand now, with several more tribes of gobs having come down from the mountains, drawn like bees to honey as word of the sacking of Garnet spread. From the high valleys they had joined the ranks, eager and willing to obey his orders, with the promise of more pillage and plunder just ahead.
The trading center of Luinstat was to be his next target, and he knew the markets and warehouses there were stuffed with goods from across Solamnia. Three armies of knights had emerged from their cities to defend the place, but at last report the human forces remained scattered, with the largest still on the other side of the river. The two smaller armies stood nearly astride Ankhar’s northward path.
“Halt!” roared the hulking commander, and the thousands of troops around him immediately came to a standstill upon that command. The half giant nodded, pleased at the increased discipline, the steadiness of march and unity of purpose that his followers had developed, improving with every passing day.
“You learn!” he crowed. “You march together now, like veteran soldiers. You attack together! Attack when Ankhar gives the order, not when you see foe. Sometimes Ankhar tell you to retreat. Sometimes retreat can turn enemy into fools!
“These my words. They are Truth!”
“Truth! Ankhar! Truth!” The cry was echoed from six thousand throats, the deep sound booming across the plains. Again and again the goblins and hobgoblins echoed the words.
“We make camp here for the night, brave ones,” Ankhar roared. “Prince of Lies tells me that tomorrow we feast on blood!”
The answering roar washed across the great leader’s shoulders. He didn’t feel the rain, and even the thick shroud of the night was naught but a filmy barrier to his keen, dark-sensitive eyes. Now those eyes made out Laka coming towards him. The old crone grinned, making a display of her sharp teeth, shaking the rattle she had made from the skull of a human slain in the sacking of Garnet.
“Portents favorable, mighty lord,” the crone cackled. “Humans have doubts. They fear Ankar’s might, cunning, and courage.”
“That what I hoped,” he replied evenly. “Will Hiddukel aid us?”
“No doubt, son. He whisper doubts in lordly ears, shake courage of men when they sleep. He sew confusion and hesitation so you, chosen one, may reap harvest in blood.”
Ankhar raised his broad nostrils, sniffed the moist air, and nodded in pleasure. “I smell wolf. Outriders approach.”
His warriors were making their crude beds on the open plain-no tents and bedrolls necessary for these hearties! — as the first of the worg-riders loped into camp. The massive wolves seemed to grin with their long tongues hanging down from their fanged jaws. Several of the goblin riders slipped from their saddles and h
astened to approach the hulking war-leader.
“What word of foes?” demanded Ankhar.
The captain of the scouts, the lean and wiry goblin known as Rib Chewer, knelt in the mud at the half-giant’s feet. “My lord, they appear confused. There is one force solid upon the riverbank, no more than two leagues south of here. Compact like a hedgehog it is, a camp bristling with spears. But blind and stupid as a hedgehog too-with no outriders or pickets more than an arrow’s flight from the main body.”
“Which troops are these?”
“They fly the banner of the White Crown, lord. The other group of knights, they who flaunt the sigil of the silver sword, is a league away from the crowns, away from the river. They are poised in line on the plain, facing to the south, and very well-entrenched it seems.”
“There a league of space between them?”
“Aye, lord,” the goblin replied. “There is nary a picket nor a watchman in all that gap. The Sword Knights have a line at least as long, with outriders even farther toward the mountains. They gave us a merry chase, but their great steeds could not perform on the muddy ground.”
“No.” The half-giant nodded in satisfaction. He knew that the wolves were light and lean, steady of endurance and quick and savage in attacking. They made perfect light cavalry, especially when they were guided by the most intelligent and articulate of his scouts.
“What about other great army, Rose Lord’s troops? They look so splendid and move like drunken snails.” Ankhar scowled into the night. That was the force that worried him most, those gleaming knights on horseback and in chariots, the catapults and ranks of deadly crossbows. He had been dismayed to learn, from his oracle, Laka, that the mighty Rose Lord’s army had marched from Caergoth, but they had approached the river at a very lackluster pace, and he hoped that his own rapid advance would bring him to battle before the Rose Lord was on the field.
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