by Doug Niles
Growling and pointing, the goblins balked again at the sudden display of magic. Soon they would deploy archers, Jaymes guessed. He gave instructions to the newcomers. Glancing at the goblins, they saw the urgency.
“So, I should have guessed. Is this your wizard?” asked Marckus, regarding the enchantress, the dwarf, and the gnomes. “Hello, Lady Coryn,” he said, with a formal little bow.
“Hello Marckus,” she replied. “You look spent.”
“Just doing my job,” he said. “I had help—from your friend, here.”
“Yeah, yeah. Will one of you help me put these under the bridge?” Dram cut in. “One at each of the four northern supports.”
Several knights helped lower the dwarf, supported by ropes, until he could crawl along the pillar that supported the marble slabs of the bridge. He lodged the first cask in place, then crawled out, trailing a piece of string that, he explained to Jaymes, was a refined version of their earlier fuses. “Leave it be for now,” the dwarf counseled.
In short order, the rest of the casks were placed underneath the span, with the shortest fuse at the south end, increasingly longer lines toward the north. With the touch of matches, the long fuses were fired. Immediately they started to sputter and flame.
“Run!” cried Jaymes, ordering the rest of his men away. Seeing the fire dance along the fuses, they needed little urging to sprint for the south bank. Dram and the gnomes followed.
Jaymes brought up the rear, but as soon as the humans started to flee, goblins and draconians surged onto the bridge, howling. A great, painted hobgoblin led the way, waving a studded mace. The span vibrated under the pounding of hundreds of boots.
That first hob disappeared as a towering explosion lifted a whole section of the bridge into the air. Smoke and fire billowed skyward, soaring up hundreds of feet, sending shards of white marble cascading down into the Garnet River.
The subsequent explosions came in staggered sequence. Each one of the four casks of powder blasted out another portion of the bridge, and with each section a score or more of enemy warriors were blown to pieces, or hurled through the air and into the river. Many goblins were trapped on standing parts of the bridge or pinned under wreckage. Without their connecting supports, the last parts of the bridge swayed and, one by one, toppled into the river.
When the last blast had sounded, and the smoke began to clear away, the King’s Bridge was a ruin. Fully half of its length was gone.
No army would be crossing to the south of the river any time soon.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
THE ROSE HAS THORNS
Go along bank! Swim! Get after them! Kill them!”
Spittle flew from Ankhar’s jaw as he roared commands at the mass of his troops milling around on the north bank of the Garnet River. His frustration was so great he was trembling. Pacing in agitation, he kicked more than one slow-moving goblin so hard he broke its bones.
The smoke had drifted away by now, revealing huge gaps in the bridge that had stood for more than a dozen centuries. At least four of the vast support pillars were smoking wrecks. He didn’t know how many of his troops had perished in the hellish eruptions, but certainly many hundreds. What kind of terrible magic had these cursed knights used against him? He looked around, wanting to shake an explanation out of Hoarst, but the Thorn Knight was missing.
“Move!” he bellowed, waving his spear at a group of hobgoblins hesitantly probing the marshy bank. Three of them leaped into the water and were carried downstream by the current. Flailing and splashing, they tried to return to the shore, but only one—aided by the clasping hands of his comrades—was able to reach safety. The other two went under and didn’t come up.
“Wait!” The voice came to him as though from a distance, familiar, but irritating him like a bug that wouldn’t go away. “My son—wait!”
Ankhar heard the cry only after Laka had repeated it many times. He ordered his units to spread out along the bank, to seek a crossing of the Garnet River so he could continue the campaign against the shattered Solamnic Army. Finally the half giant turned to glare down at his foster mother.
“See—bridge gone!” he roared. He gestured to the long, ragged files of weary soldiers on the far bank, shuffling in the direction of Caergoth. “That army beaten—but it getting away! I must destroy!”
His frenzied anger would have driven any other member of his army into panicked retreat, but not his wizened foster-mother. Laka put a frail hand on the half-giant’s great paw, and—though he wanted to brush her away—he could not ignore her insistent touch.
“Listen to prince!” the old she-hob said, shaking the rattle she had made from Duke Rathskell’s head.
The eyes glowed, and the jaw spoke. Ankhar scowled at the talisman but knew that he must listen—he had to listen.
“Enough of blood,” came the hissing commands.
“For now did fall,
“The river stands
“A fortress wall.”
“But …” He waved his hand at the escaping Solamnic formations.
“Listen to Prince of Lies,” Laka repeated. “To you, he speaks Truth. Remember: Truth!”
The half-giant rubbed his fingers across his eyes, trying to hold back the headache that was starting to throb. He hated this Truth, but he knew that his mother and their dark god must be right.
“One time before you make war without prince’s blessing,” Laka reminded him unnecessarily.
Indeed, Mason’s Ford stuck in his memory like a thorn. On that occasion he had attacked merely because he felt the impulse to do so. He had ignored his own warriors’ disorganization and fatigue and hurled his troops against a feeble defense that had, nonetheless, inflicted the only defeat Ankhar had suffered. It was a defeat that would have been avoided if he had taken the counsel of Hiddukel and Laka.
“You win so much!” his foster mother reminded him in a whisper, her eyes glowing with pride. “You shatter cities of knighthood! You break their armies. You have surrounded city of Cleft Spires—now you lay siege to it! You not need to drown army in river.”
Ankhar nodded. His agitation melted away.
“You right,” he said. He raised his voice, shouting to his captains—Bloodgutter, Rib Chewer, Dirtborn, Blackgaard, and the rest—who stood nervously nearby, waiting for his orders.
“Stop attack. Camp here. We rest. Enjoy spoils.”
And those spoils, he admitted with some pride, were great. Not just the treasures and provisions they had gained in sacking Garnet, Thelgaard, Luinstat. No … his gains were greater than all that.
“Est Sudanus oth Nikkas.” He murmured the phrase quietly, looking to the north and relishing the great Truth:
All that vast plain belonged to him.
The city gates stood open, and the few knights still on duty actually flinched away from Jaymes as he rode into Caergoth at full gallop. Everywhere he saw signs of the defeat—wounded men on porches, in alleys, even stableyards. Sergeants-major shouted and cajoled. Shamefaced men—many lacking the weapons they had dropped on the long retreat—took positions on the walls, in the gatehouse. Others marched with lackluster gait but with some semblance of discipline toward the castle or other defense points.
The exhausted men were fearful of pursuit, but Jaymes knew they were safe, for now. Following the destruction of the bridge, the army of Ankhar would be stopped at the Garnet River for a long time. Dram, Sulfie, and Salty Pete were not far behind him, making their way to the city as fast as their legs could carry them. Coryn had flown to destinations of her own, riding the wings of magic.
Within the city, Jaymes paid little attention to the disorganized army as he guided the horse along the city’s wide central avenue. A great plaza that had been the site of a teeming marketplace was now so empty he could cross it at full speed. The hooves of his horse clattered across the flagstones as, finally, he rode past the Temple of Shinare, with the great golden scales on the doors, and drew up before the gate of Castle Caergoth itself.
>
The great drawbridge was down, but several guards hurried into position to block his path. Two of them carried long halberds while the third drew his sword and stood firmly in the middle of the wooden span. Jaymes pulled his own weapon and waved it high.
“Get out of my way!” he snarled, sweeping the great weapon in a circle. “I have business with your duke!”
This proved persuasive, and the men cleared out of his path. One shouted a warning across the courtyard as Jaymes continued toward the keep, his horse stumbling and only gradually slowing.
“Guards! It’s the Assassin! Take him!”
The cry came from Captain Reynaud, who stood with drawn sword before the door of the keep. His black, curling mustache quivered as he glared at the rider. Several knights emerged from a door at the side of the courtyard, but like the guards at the drawbridge they displayed a marked lack of enthusiasm.
“You men—stand fast!” barked the officer. “See that he doesn’t get out of here!”
More men came running, blocking off the drawbridge. Others dropped a portcullis, closing access to the courtyards deeper in the castle complex. After a quick glance to make sure no archers were drawing a bead on his back, Jaymes dismounted smoothly.
“You returned quickly from the battle,” he drawled to Reynaud, still holding the sword in one hand. “You and your boss should have stayed around for the real fighting.”
The captain came forward, holding a great sword in both his hands. “Drop your weapon or die!” he challenged.
Jaymes merely laughed.
“Murderous bastard! How dare you!” spat the captain, dropping into a fighting crouch.
The man called the Assassin took the hilt of his own weapon in both hands. He twisted, and Giantsmiter flared brightly in the castle courtyard. Reynaud put up his left hand to shield his eyes, but he didn’t retreat one step. He waited, his sword extended.
Jaymes advanced and took a swing. The flaming blade hissed and crackled through the air, and there was no mistaking the fear that flashed in Reynaud’s eyes. Jaymes stepped closer, slashed again and again, each blow forcing his opponent back.
“Attack him, you fools!” cried the officer, gesturing to the half dozen men standing before the portcullis. They started forward cautiously, as Jaymes attacked Reynaud.
The captain turned and sprinted for the door of the keep as the other knights closed in—then backed away as Jaymes wheeled to face them, swinging the flaming sword in their direction. Unimpeded, the swordsman stalked up to heavy doors of the keep, doors Reynaud had just slammed shut.
A tremendous blow from the sword of Lorimar smote the barrier in two. Stepping through their smoldering wreckage, he found himself in the entryway of the vaulted great hall.
“You may not come here!”
These words were spoken by a cleric, a surprisingly youthful-looking man in a gold robe who stepped from a side room and held up one hand, gesturing for the warrior to stop. The cleric was handsome—but his expression was curled into a sneer of hatred.
“Get out of my way, priest,” declared Jaymes. “The scales of Shinare will not protect you from this accounting!”
“Perhaps not,” said the priest, the sneer curving into a cruel smile, “but my strength comes from a secret source. Stop where you are!”
The patriarch shouted words of command. Magic coursed through the hall, but Jaymes kept walking. The ring pulsed on his finger, grew warm as it absorbed the cleric’s spell.
“Slay him, my prince!” cried the priest. He brought one fist down into the palm of his hand, his eyes flashing. Jaymes heard a noise and looked up, saw the ghostly image of a hammer swirling in the air above his head. That conjured weapon smashed downward then vanished as soon as it touched its intended target. Again, the ring pulsed with warmth.
“Impossible!” croaked the priest, staring in disbelief.
Jaymes took another step closer to the wide-eyed priest. “Maybe your god has taken a vacation,” he said calmly.
“You dare to blaspheme—you’ll pay for that heresy!”
The priest retreated into the side room. Jaymes followed, saw the man push on a panel of the wall, opening a dark passage. He ducked inside, and the secret door swished shut behind him.
Jaymes sprinted after him, splintering the wooden door with a single blow, revealing a small landing and steps leading steeply downward into darkness. His sword burned, illuminating the way. He followed quickly, descending a spiraling stair for a long way down. At the bottom he raced through a dark tunnel, hearing footsteps scuffing rapidly along in front of him.
The swordsman’s fiery blade revealed a narrow passage with brick walls and frequent overhead arches of stone. These arches separated the segments of the tunnel into individual vaults. Several side passages beckoned, but Jaymes continued straight ahead, still following the footsteps.
Coming to a partially opened door, he saw it was fitted for a lock bar on both sides. Pushing through, Jaymes charged into a place where, very suddenly, he found himself groping through utter darkness. He wondered if Giantsmiter had faltered, but when he raised it up he felt the warmth of the flames against his face.
This was magical darkness, he realized, and his ring was apparently useless to dispel this effect.
A heavy blow from the sharpened corner of a solid object smashed the back of his head.
The darkness swallowed him completely.
“Where did the bastard go?” demanded Captain Powell.
Captains Marckus and Dayr, together with a young knight named Sir Rene, rushed into the courtyard. They had all heard the urgent shouts claiming that the Assassin was on the premises.
Marckus had returned to the officers’ barracks after brooding on his lord’s behavior and on many other things, during the long retreat. He had been pondering his next course of action with Dayr, who was bitter about his own duke’s failings, when the commotion in the courtyard had drawn their attention and brought them out.
“What has happened?” demanded the grizzled veteran.
“Reynaud claimed the Assassin came through here,” Powell replied. “It looks like he shattered the door and entered the keep.”
“We’ve got to find him—but don’t kill him!” Marckus declared urgently.
Powell flashed him a look of surprise—even understanding—then nodded. “Yes, you’re right.”
The four knights raced into the keep to find terrified servants milling about.
“Where did he go?” asked Marckus.
“Captain Reynaud ran upstairs to find the duke,” reported a doorman, pointing to a side room. “The Assassin ran in there.”
“Why?” asked Powell, confused.
“He was chasing the priest back to the temple!” stammered a young maid.
“There’s no temple inside the castle walls!” declared Marckus
“Patriarch Issel uses that way—it connects to Shinare’s temple outside the walls! There’s a door in there that looks like a part of the wall, but you can see it now. The Assassin smashed it open.”
The four knights raced over to the dark passage, hesitating at the top of the dark stairs. “Captains!” said Dayr. “We need to split up. Sir Rene and I will go after him in this tunnel, but the two of you should get up to the living quarters to see to the duke.”
Marckus was ready to argue, but he could see the wisdom of the Crown Knight’s words. “All right—get after him, and we’ll get upstairs.” He turned to Powell, saw the Palanthian was already moving toward the large staircase leading up from the great hall.
“Good luck!” called Marckus as Dayr and Rene ducked into the secret passage. He turned and ran after Powell.
Privately he wondered: Was he going to protect Duke Crawford?
Or to demand an explanation?
Coryn drifted along the corridor of Caergoth Castle, unseen and silent. She had taken the form of a cloud of gas, the potion tingling magically in her senses, allowing her to fly, slip under doors, and evade detection.
She glided swiftly as she sought her destination: the inner sanctuary of the duke himself.
She was going to have a talk with Crawford of Caergoth.
The wizard would have transported herself directly, but she did not know the precise location of his apartment, never having visited there, and that fact made any attempted teleporting very dangerous. Instead, she had appeared in the public hall of the castle, materializing to startle several servants who were sweeping the floor. They had fled, and Coryn had proceeded to float up several flights of stairs, passing galleries and parlors in her search.
Now, in this wide hallway, she probed underneath a few doors, finding mostly unused guest rooms until she noticed the chamber at the end of the hall, where a Knight of the Rose stood guard. Guessing that his presence marked her destination, she drifted past the knight, unseen, and flowed beneath the door.
Duke Crawford was alone in his bedchambers, pacing back and forth. He was wearing a dressing down of silvery silk. Coryn dispelled the magic to appear in front of the man, her white robe bright, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders, down her back.
“Hello, my lord duke,” she said coldly.
“Get out of here!” Crawford squawked, paling.
“No. I came here for some answers,” she replied, advancing into the luxuriously appointed chamber, which boasted multiple wardrobes, several dressing tables, and a set of tall glass doors leading onto a balcony. A massive four-poster bed with a gauzy canopy tied up above a quilted surface was at the far end.
“How dare you?” demanded the duke. “I am lord here—and I command you to leave at once!”
Coryn had been prepared to be calm and reasonable, but she felt her temper rise. Stepping towards him, she fixed her dark eyes upon his face.
“Does being lord mean that you can commit murder at will?” she snapped.
“You mean—the duchess?” he cried. “Don’t be ridiculous! That was the Assassin!”