by Doug Niles
“Who? Pap, or Salty Pete?”
“Pap! It was Pap’s compound! Usually we helped him, but that day he sent us out to chop on the coal vein. Said he needed more black rocks, even though the hopper was still half-full. So we were gone when it happened.”
“When what happened?” pressed Dram.
“Something killed your Pap?” Jaymes tried to sound sympathetic.
“Something sure did,” Carbo acknowledged. “Anyway, Dungarden was gone, and so were all the gnomes.”
“Except for us, and a couple of others who were down by the fishing nets.”
“All gone!” said Sulfie, still fighting tears.
“Destroyed, you mean? asked Jaymes, a glimmer in his eyes.
“Completely gone,” said Carbo sadly. “We heard it—like one big clap of thunder, and a huge cloud of smoke flew up into the sky. Rocks flew for a mile around the big hole in the ground. Everyone in Dungarden was dead. There was just nothing left.”
“So you came here, to Caergoth?” Dram coaxed. “How long ago was this?”
“We—the Heirs of the Compound—came here three summers ago. We are just starting to make some progress recovering our Pap’s work. Now, if you will be on your way, we can get back on the job!”
“Not so fast,” said Jaymes. “What of this brother you mentioned—this Salty Pete? Did he come to Caergoth too?”
The two gnomes exchanged a furtive glance. “No,” Carbo replied after a long pause. “Poor Pete. He didn’t make it. Got killed by dracos in the Brackens.”
“Why did the dracos kill Pete?” asked Dram, as gently as he could manage. “Tell us.”
“We got attacked by these big dracos. They spit acid, killed two oxes, and carried Pete off into the swamp called the Brackens. We got away with one wagon. Dracos got the other one and Pete.”
“The Brackens? Where’s that?” asked the dwarf.
“I know,” Jaymes replied. “It’s a swamp, where the Upper Vingaard River meets the Kaolyn River. Nasty place.”
“Yup,” said Carbo. “Real nasty.”
“Hmm. So your Pap and Salty Pete are dead. What about your Pap’s work? What did you bring with you from Dungarden?” Jaymes probed.
“One wagon, the one the dracos didn’t get,” said Sulfie. “One of the two we rode out of the mountains.”
“Picks and a scoop shovel,” added Carbo, fidgeting. “Now you can go away, right?” His eyes, as if against his will, flickered anxiously toward one of the far counters.
Jaymes followed the look. “That little keg—did you bring that from Dungarden?” He rose and started across the room.
A loud knock on the door interrupted them. The warrior turned while Dram fingered his axe nervously, and the bearded gnome, with a snort of exasperation, stomped over to fling it open.
“What?” he demanded, before adding “Go away!” The gnome slammed the door shut, but a diminutive, rotund figure had already somehow slipped past Carbo to enter the room.
“You!” the new arrival said, pointing a filthy finger at Jaymes. It was an unfamiliar gully dwarf, cloaked in an even heavier—and more aromatic—layer of the scum that was the usual final layer of any Aghar’s outfit. “You killed Highbulp!”
The gnomes stepped back in fear as the warrior’s eyes narrowed and the dwarf stepped forward indignantly. “That’s a lie!” Dram growled. “The great Highbulp was alive when we left him a half hour ago—he was going to have a drunk, I mean a drink, somewhere.”
“He dead now,” said the Aghar matter-of-factly.
“What! How did he die?” Jaymes asked. The gully dwarf’s eyes widened, and he stepped closer to the gnomes, who were muttering anxiously to each other.
“Knight kill him. Cut him with big sword. Alla his blood come out.”
“Then why did you say that my friend killed him?” demanded Dram.
“Knight was hunting human fighter—him with big sword!” The Aghar waved his finger accusingly at Jaymes.
“How do you know all this?” asked the man.
“Me watching from shadows. Gonna come to rescue when I hear him make Highbulp say ‘Firesplasher Lane!’ Same thing you ask Highbulp. Knight cut Highbulp then. Go tell more knights.”
The dwarf and the warrior exchanged a glance. Jaymes crossed to the workbench in two long strides, snatching up the keg, shaking it once, checking to see that the stopper was securely fixed. It vanished under his cloak. The gnomes squawked in protest, but just then a violent crash rang outside, followed by shouting voices—a man’s voice barking orders mingled with the higher-pitched sounds of protesting gnomes.
Dram stepped to the door, opened it a crack, and peered out.
“He’s not at Number Two—but he’s on this street somewhere. Take every door!” they heard.
The dwarf stepped back, closing the front door and dropping a heavy iron bar into place. Jaymes, meanwhile, fixed his eyes upon the only other door, a small hatch-like cover low in the rear wall. “Does that lead outside?” he asked the terrified Sulfie.
“After a while it does,” she admitted.
“Come on.” Jaymes took the squirming gnome by her wrist. Dram grabbed Carbo. The man lifted the hatch, tossed Sulfie through, held it open for the dwarf and the male gnome, then ducked through himself. “Hey, me too!” cried the gully dwarf, just before Dram slammed the hatch, leaving him behind.
They found themselves in the main room of another gnomish domicile, not quite as crowded and cluttered as Carbo’s house. With a nod to her neighbors—a half-dozen gnomes regarding them with goggle-eyed stares—Sulfie led them down a narrow hallway where Jaymes, even though he was stooping, knocked his head against a low ceiling arch. They emerged at last into the street.
Many gnomes milled about, but no knights were in sight. Castle Caergoth rose from its commanding height, and the dwarf led them away from the fortress, at a fast trot.
They hadn’t even reached the first intersection when a squad of knights, all wearing the tunic emblazoned with the Crown, charged into sight. The leader, a big man with the golden epaulets of a sergeant, spotted Jaymes, who was head and shoulders taller than anyone else on the street.
“There!” cried the knight. “Stop him—Jak, go tell Captain Dayr! We’ve got him cornered now.” Four knights advanced, shoulder to shoulder, blocking any escape. Doors slammed shut all up and down the block. Sulfie and Carbo tried to make a dash for the nearest houses but were held firm by the dwarf and the warrior.
“You two are coming with us,” Dram growled. The dwarf offered his companion a questioning look. “That is, if we’re going anywhere.”
“Step back,” snapped the warrior. He reached over his shoulder, drew the great sword in a single, smooth movement. Flames exploded from the blade. Two of the knights hesitated, awestruck at the sight of the mighty sword, but the other two charged forward, their blades upraised.
The first lost his sword, and fingers, as the fiery weapon slashed across his hands. He screamed and tumbled back as his comrade attacked, slashing back and forth with his long sword.
The second Knight of the Crown charged right onto the blazing tip of the warrior’s blade and fell dead next to his wounded companion, who was kneeling, moaning and clutching the bleeding stump of his hand. The two remaining knights advanced more cautiously, shoulder to shoulder across the narrow lane.
“You might cut us down, Assassin!” hissed one of them, “but by the gods, we’ll cost you time!” They rushed him.
The warrior had sheathed his sword and snatched out his crossbows. Both knights sprawled to the ground, each felled by a steel dart that punctured deep through the muscle of the thigh.
Jaymes spun and raced after Dram and the two gnomes, who were disappearing around the next corner. Another company of knights came into view. Arrows struck the flagstones behind the warrior as he darted down the connecting lanes.
“Damn them anyway!” the dwarf cursed, halting when he found himself facing of a whole rank of crossbowmen. They wer
e Knights of the Sword arrayed in three ranks—poised for a volley, with their steel-tipped quarrels that could punch through plate mail armor.
“Down!” shouted Jaymes, tumbling into the dwarf and gnomes, bearing all of them to the pavement as the arrows whistled past just above their heads. Sulfie shrieked as one of the missiles grazed her. Dram grunted as he rose to his feet, pulling one of the short arrows from his shoulder and tossing it aside.
The bowmen were already reloading, and shouts and pounding feet could be heard coming from another direction. “Got any clever ideas?” the dwarf asked the human irritably.
A cloud of white smoke erupted around them. The murk swirled through the air, obscuring them from view. All of a sudden a woman stood before them, in a white, bright robe. Beautiful, dark-haired, she reached out to pull the gnomes, the dwarf, and the warrior near to her.
“It’s … it’s her!”gasped Dram, shocked. He stared goggle-eyed. “Lady Coryn!”
“Hurry,” she snapped. “There will be plenty of time for fond reunions if we get out of here alive. Now, move!”
Even Carbo and Sulfie hastened to oblige, moving in close to either side of her billowing white robe. More arrows clattered through the alley, but the smoke made the shots go wild. The warrior was the last to join them, as he was busy slashing his blazing sword back and forth, knocking several of the threatening shots aside.
“Well?” demanded Coryn. “We’re not waiting forever.”
The warrior looked at her, then at the rank of knights, now reloading for their third volley. Jaymes winced, shaking his head.
“Damn,” he muttered, charging into the swirl of smoke.
“Put your sword up,” she suggested, with just the hint of a wry smile. He nodded, smoothly sliding the weapon into the hilt concealed beneath his cape, then reached out to grasp the hand extended by the white-robed Coryn.
They stood in a tight circle—the dwarf, the man and woman, and the two gnomes. The lady in white chanted something guttural, and a swirl of magical power enveloped them. There was a sense of sickening disorientation, then the cloud of smoke and magic that hid them from the knights vanished.
With it went the knights, the ghetto, and in fact in the whole city of Caergoth. They blinked to find themselves still holding hands, all in a circle, now standing in the sunlit quiet of a vast plain, sheltered by a verdant, overgrown hedge. A wide river valley, marked by the silver course of a great stream, was visible below them. There were no other people anywhere in sight.
“Coryn,” said the warrior. “We owe you our thanks.”
She snorted, unamused. “Save that. First we have to talk.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
PLEDGES OF WAR
The pursuit of the assassin of Lorimar, Lady Selinda admitted to herself, was a bright spark of excitement amid what was shaping up to be a rather tedious conference. Not that the dukes would allow her to accompany the three hundred knights who rushed to bring the villain to justice—they turned deaf ears to even her most persuasive entreaties. Even so, she felt a thrill as, with Lady Martha at her side, the Princess of Palanthas climbed to the top of the castle’s gate tower, from where they could watch the progress of the knights streaming the streets of the great city.
The lady had brought a spyglass, and the two women took turns looking through the device. Selinda was amazed at the effect—when she focused the lens, she felt as though she were looking down from a low rooftop right in the neighborhood instead of from this lofty vantage high up on a castle tower.
The knights could be observed making their way in three columns. The gleaming silver armor of Caergoth’s mounted finest reflected the bright sunlight as the Knights of the Rose headed down a wide avenue. The princess couldn’t help but notice the Sword knights of Solanthus, and the Crown of Thelgaard, looked shabbier in comparison. Their armor, even when metal, barely glinted in the daylight, and their horses were thin, often scarred, by comparison to the huge, well-groomed war-horses of their host’s detachment.
“That’s Thelgaard’s men in the middle,” Lady Martha explained, though the black banner displaying the white crown gave clear enough proof of their allegiance. To the left, the blue pennant with the image of the silver sword flapped in the wind as the knights of Duke Rathskell swung around to the left flank.
“What is that wretched place down there?” asked Selinda, perceiving that the three detachments were encircling an area of flat-roofed shacks, lean-tos, and other hovels along a strip of waterfront.
“We call that the ghetto,” Lady Martha said, a trifle embarrassed. “It is wretched, and no respectable human would go there. For a long time it was inhabited only by Aghar and criminal scum, though since the War of Souls it has become a sort of haven for gnomes. In fact, they’ve built it up a bit since going there—making stone houses, that sort of thing. Poor little folk—they suffered as much as anyone during the years of the Scourges, so my husband has been gracious enough to let them have the place. Indeed, they are better neighbors than the gully dwarves!”
“No doubt,” Selinda agreed, acutely aware that her father’s men had virtually eliminated the filthy little Aghar from Palanthas. Those glimpsed by her escort were seized and, she assumed, expelled from the city.
Her eyes wandered beyond the ghetto to the great docks that serviced the ocean-going galleons. She spotted her father’s ships, nine in all, serenely at anchor in the great port. The tenth—her flagship, Pride of Paladine—was securely lashed to the wharf. The voyage from Palanthas to Caergoth had been reasonably comfortable, she recalled, and the food served to her and the few noble-ranking officers who had shared the captain’s table, excellent. No trace of seasickness had bothered her, and she relished the salty breeze, even the occasional burst of spray splashing across the deck.
Yet now the prospect of re-boarding the galleon for the long return trip home suddenly terrified her. She couldn’t explain her feeling, but she shuddered at the sight of the big ships, quickly pulled her eyes away, looking off to ascertain the progress of the arrest. In her heart, she knew nothing would compel her to board the vessel home. Such a trip would be disaster—this much she knew as the Truth.
It was possible to return to Palanthas overland, but how could she make that happen? Captain Powell would never understand her apprehension. She would have to give the matter some thought.
At the fringes of the ghetto, she saw, the knights were dismounting, leaving their horses in the care of squires as squads of armed and armored men deployed into the neighborhoods. They started into the squalid neighborhood streets and alleys, weapons drawn. There was no great hue and cry, however—even the bright banners were tucked away as the men started their search.
Selinda could see throngs of little people—gnomes, she guessed—prodded at sword point into the small squares and plazas that dotted the ghetto. Occasionally she heard the bark of an indistinguishable, but forceful, command. More than once she saw a gnome or some other wretched denizen squirming in the grip of a strong knight. For a long time this methodical search proceeded, as a a great many citizens of the ghetto were corralled, interrogated—sometimes roughly—then restrained in the increasingly crowded open spaces.
“They must have learned something—look!” cried Lady Martha breathlessly, as the individual parties of knights all hastened toward a small corner of the ghetto. The hapless gnomes left behind swiftly vanished into the tangled lanes, going inside and shutting their doors. Since her hostess was clutching the spyglass in her hand but not using it at the moment, Selinda grabbed the device and put it to her eye.
The knights were forming lines of battle. In addition to the gleaming swords Selinda scanned ranks of archers, less heavily armored then the swordsmen but readying their deadly crossbows. One by one the streets surrounding a small area were cordoned off, and archers deployed behind the ranks of swordsmen, all of them moving with methodical discipline. A wider ring, comprised of Caergoth’s Rose knights to judge from the immaculate armor, stood ba
ck from the attacking formations, presumably to intercept the Assassin if he should try to slip through the encirclement.
Abruptly, noises of smashing wood, cries of alarm, and other sounds of violence carried upward. Selinda spied knights and gnomes running to and fro. A rank of archers raised their weapons, and sunlight reflected from the silvery darts as they arrowed down a narrow street. Overhanging roofs blocked the targets from the ladies’ line of sight, but Selinda saw a small party of fugitives break for a small alley—apparently the lethal arrows had missed their targets. Focusing in more tightly, she glimpsed a dwarf. The fellow was dirty, covered in soot and brown muck, but she got a very good look at his face when he turned around to shout some imprecation at his pursuers.
Beyond him a tall swordsman came into view, and Selinda felt a tingle of recognition as she glimpsed blue flames, quickly extinguished, flickering along the edge of that mighty blade.
“Giantsmiter!” she gasped. The man turned to confront his pursuers, his face taut. Yet from the glimpse she got of him, he showed no fear. In spite of the warm sunlight on the parapet, the princess shivered with unexpected terror and excitement.
“What’s that—by the gods, not a fire, I hope!” Lady Martha exclaimed, also sounding half alarmed, half titillated.
Selinda swung the glass and spotted a churning cloud of foggy vapor, swirling thickly in the middle of the street.
“White smoke,” the princess noted. “Not likely from a fire.”
But what was it? The cloud of mist spun and whirled, masking the fugitives. Knights closed in on the small alley from both directions, their hoarse battle cries echoing in the still, midday air. The Assassin and his accomplices were trapped, Selinda realized—there was nowhere for them to go.
Yet why were the knights milling around, now, in apparent confusion? The cloud slowly dissipated, and angry outbursts, accusatory shouts, rose from the tangled streets. Once again knights were dashing around everywhere, smashing down doors, pulling gnomes out into the street. The searching was frenzied, undisciplined. Many knights remounted, and three distinct columns—minus half their number, who remained behind to continue the search—started back up to the castle.