Lord of the Rose

by Doug Niles

  “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 dwarf’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.

  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 river. 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 c
leverness 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.”