“I tried to warn you, friend.” The voice was sad and sorrowful. “You have taken the first steps upon the path of your own destruction. Leave now, and you may still avoid your doom.”
“I am not your friend,” Kitiara hissed through teeth gritted against the pain of the burn. A red and blistering welt in the shape of the sword hilt was visible on her palm. “All right, wizard. I’ve dropped the damn sword. Let me see you, at least!”
He stood before her. Not a wizard, as she had expected, but a Knight in silver armor, armor that was outdated and outmoded, heavy armor of a type worn about the time of the Cataclysm. The helm had no hinged visor, as did modern helms, but was made of one piece of metal and did not cover the mouth or the front of the neck.
Over his armor, the Knight wore a surcoat of white cloth on which was embroidered a kingfisher bird carrying a sword in one claw and a rose in the other. His body had a shimmering quality, was almost translucent.
For a moment Kitiara’s courage failed her. Now she knew why Immolatus had not entered the temple. The temple would be guarded, he had said. What he had not said was that it would be guarded by the dead!
“I never believed in ghosts,” Kit muttered to herself, “but then I never believed in dragons either. My bad luck both had to come true.”
She could turn tail and run, probably should run. Unfortunately her feet were too busy shaking to do much in the way of fleeing.
“Pull yourself together, Kit!” she commanded. “It’s a ghost now, but it used to be a man. And the man hasn’t been born you can’t handle. He was a Knight, a Solamnic. They’re usually so bound up in honor that it’s hard for them to take a crap. I don’t suppose death would change that.”
Kitiara tried to see the eyes of the spirit-knight, for an enemy’s eyes will often give away his next point of attack. The Knight’s eyes were not visible, however, concealed in the shadow cast by the overhanging helm. His voice sounded neither young nor old.
Forcing her stiff lips into a charming smile, Kit glanced around, located her sword lying on the floor. She could fight with her other hand, her uninjured hand, if need arose. A quick stoop, reach, grab, and she’d have her weapon again.
“A Knight!” Kitiara breathed a mock sigh of relief. She’d be damned if she was going to let this ghost know he had frightened her. “Am I glad to see you!”
She moved a step nearer the spirit, a move that she didn’t want to make, but which brought her a step nearer her sword. “Listen to me, Sir Knight. Watch yourself! There is evil in this place.”
“Indeed there is,” said the Knight.
He did not move, but stood set and still. His fixed and unwavering attention was disconcerting.
“I guess whatever was in here has gone for the time being,” Kit continued, favoring him with her crooked smile and an arch look. She was growing bolder. If the ghost meant to harm her, it would have done so before now. “You probably frightened it away. It will likely be back, however. We will fight it together, then, you and I. I will need my sword—”
“I will fight the evil with you,” said the Knight. “But you do not need your sword.”
“Damn it!” Kit began angrily and bit her lips to halt her hasty words.
She had to find a way to distract the spirit for only a few seconds, long enough for her to recover her sword.
“What are you doing here, Sir Knight?” Kit asked, quelling her anger, retrieving her smile. “I’m surprised that you’re not out on the walls, defending your city against the invaders.”
“Each of us is called upon to fight the darkness in his own way. The Temple of Paladine is my assigned post,” said the Knight with solemn gravity. “The temple has been my post for two hundred years. I will not abandon it.”
“Two hundred years!” Kit tried to laugh, coughed when the laugh caught in her throat. “Yeah, I guess it must seem that long, all by yourself in this godforsaken place. Or does someone share the watch with you?”
“No one shares my watch,” the Knight replied. “I am alone.”
“Some sort of punishment detail, I suppose,” Kit said, glad to hear that the spirit had no more ghostly companions. “What’s your name, Sir Knight? Perhaps I know your family. My father—” She was about to say her father had been a Solamnic Knight, then thought better of it. There was a possibility this spirit might not only know her father, but know her father’s less than glorious history. “My people are from Solamnia,” she amended.
“I am Nigel of Dinsmoor.”
“Kitiara uth Matar.” Kitiara extended her hand, shifted, twisted, dropped, made a grab for her sword.
A sword that was no longer there.
Kitiara stared at the empty place on the floor. She groped about with her hands until she realized how foolish and how frantic she must look. Slowly, she rose to her feet.
“Where is my weapon?” she demanded. “What have you done with it? I paid good steel for that sword! Give it back to me!”
“Your sword is not harmed. When you leave the temple, you will find it waiting for you.”
“For any thief to steal!” Kit was fast losing her fear in her anger.
“No thief will touch it, I promise you that,” said Sir Nigel. “You will also find there the knife you carried concealed in your boot.”
“You are no Knight! No true Knight, at least,” Kit cried, seething. “A Knight—dead or alive—would not resort to such knavery!”
“I have taken the weapons for your own good,” Sir Nigel replied. “Should you try to continue to use them, far greater harm would come to you than you could do to anything else.”
Baffled, thwarted, Kitiara glared in helpless frustration at this maddening ghost. She’d known few men who could stand against the fire of her displeasure, few men who could endure the scorching heat of her dark eyes. Tanis had been one of those few, and even he had come out singed on more than one occasion. Sir Nigel remained unmoved.
None of this was accomplishing the task at hand. Since anger would not work, she would try guile and charm, two weapons no one would ever take from her. She turned from the spirit, walked about the empty room, ostensibly admiring the architecture while she smoothed the bite marks from her lips, doused the fire in her eyes.
“Come, Sir Nigel,” she said in wheedling tones, “we started off on the wrong foot and now we’re in a hopeless tangle. I interrupted you in some pursuit of your own. You had every reason to be offended. As for my drawing a sword on you, you scared me half to death! I wasn’t expecting anyone in here, you see. And there’s something awful about this place,” Kit added with rather more sincerity than she’d intended. She glanced about with a shudder that was not entirely faked. “It makes my flesh creep. The sooner I’m away from here the better.”
She lowered her voice, moved closer to him. “I’ll bet I know why you’re here. Shall I make a guess? You’re guarding a treasure, of course. It makes perfect sense.”
“That is true,” said Sir Nigel. “I am here to guard a treasure.”
So that was it. Kitiara was amazed that she hadn’t figured out the reason sooner. Immolatus had mentioned that the eggs would be guarded and so they were. But not by priests.
“And they’ve left you here all alone,” said Kitiara with a sympathetic sigh. She frowned slightly. “Brave, but foolhardy, Sir Knight. I have heard tales of the commander of the enemy forces who now surround your city. Kholos is a hard man, a cruel man. Half-goblin, so they say. They also say that he can smell a steel piece at the bottom of a privy hole. He has two thousand men under his command. They will tear this temple down around your ears and there will be nothing even the dead can do to stop them.”
“If these men are as cruel as you say, they will never find the treasure I guard,” said Sir Nigel, and it seemed to Kit that he smiled.
“I’ll bet I can find it,” she said with an arch glance and a quirk of her eyebrow. “I’ll bet that it’s not hidden as well as you think. Let me look. If I manage to locate the treasure, yo
u can move it to a better hiding place.”
“All are free to search,” said Sir Nigel. “It is not my place to stop you or anyone else from looking.”
“So do you want me to look for the treasure or don’t you?” Kitiara demanded impatiently, wishing for once this spirit would give her a straight answer. “And what do I do if I find it?”
“That depends entirely on you, friend,” Sir Nigel replied.
He extended his arm, gestured toward the silver doors. The eerie light shone in the plate mail, glittered on his chain mail.
“I’ll need a torch,” she said.
“All who enter carry their own light within,” Sir Nigel replied. “Unless they are truly benighted.”
“You’re the only one around here who’s ‘benighted,’ ” Kit said jocularly. “It’s a joke. Knight. Benight—never mind.”
Kit was reminded of Sturm Brightblade. This ghost was every bit as gullible and just as humorless. She couldn’t believe he’d fallen for that treasure ploy. “I guess you’ll be here when I get back?”
“I will be here,” said the spirit.
Kitiara gave the silver doors an experimental shove, expecting resistance. To her astonishment, the doors opened easily, smoothly and silently.
Light flowed from the chamber in which she stood, washed around her and over her like in a gentle flood to illuminate a corridor before her, a corridor made of smooth white marble, which extended deeper into the mountain. She inspected the corridor closely, cocked her head for any sounds, sniffed the air. She heard nothing sinister, not even the skittering of mice. The only scent that came to her was—oddly—the scent of roses, old and faded. She saw nothing in the corridor except the white walls and the silver light. Yet fear gripped her, as she stood within the open doors, fear much like the fear she’d experienced on entering the temple, but worse, if that were possible.
She felt herself threatened, her back unprotected. She turned swiftly, hands raised to block an attack.
Sir Nigel was not there. No one was there. The temple was empty.
Kit should have felt relieved, yet still she stood trembling on the threshold, afraid to go beyond.
“Kitiara, you coward! I’m ashamed of you! Everything you want, everything you’ve worked for, lies before you. Succeed in this and General Ariakas will make your fortune. Fail and you will be nothing.”
Kitiara walked into the darkness. The silver doors swung shut behind her, closed with a soft and whispered sigh.
5
THE REST OF THE MAD BARON’S ARMY ARRIVED OUTSIDE THE WALLS of Hope’s End the morning following Commander Kholos’s arrival. Smoke was still rising from the smoldering fields, burning the eyes and stinging the nose and making breathing difficult. The officers put the men to work immediately, throwing up breastworks and digging trenches, pitching tents, unloading the supply wagons.
Commander Morgon, resplendent in his ceremonial armor, mounted his horse, which had been curried and brushed to remove the dust of the road, and left the camp, riding to the camp of their allies in order to arrange a meeting between the baron and the commander of the armies of Good King Wilhelm. The commander returned in less than an hour.
The soldiers paused in the work, hoping that the commander would let fall some word indicative of his opinion of their allies. Commander Morgon said nothing to anyone, however. Those who had served with him longest said that he looked unusually grim. He reported directly to the baron.
Scrounger lurked around the stand of maple trees located near the baron’s tent, gathering wild onions and trying his hardest to hear what was being said. Commander Morgon’s voice was low anyway, he had a habit of speaking into his beard. Scrounger couldn’t understand a word the man said. He might have gained something from the baron’s answers had they been lengthy, but the baron’s replies were nothing more enlightening than “yes,” “no,” and “Thank you, Commander. Have the officers meet me at sundown.”
At this point one of the baron’s bodyguards stumbled over the half-kender, crouched in a weed patch, and shooed him away. Scrounger returned to camp empty-eared, so to speak, and smelling strongly of onion.
That evening, around sundown, everyone stopped work to watch the baron and his entourage ride toward the allied camp. Outraged, the sergeants roared into action, storming through camp to remind each soldier that he had a job to do and that job didn’t include standing around gawking.
Caramon and C Company took up positions about a half-mile from the city wall, joining the line of pickets already established by their allies. This line prevented anyone inside the city from leaving and, more important, prevented anyone from outside the city from entering. Hope’s End was cut off from help, should any help be in the offing.
Accompanied by three of his staff officers and a bodyguard of ten mounted men, the baron rode behind the line of pickets, using them to screen his movements from those manning the city walls.
“Never give information to your enemy for free,” was one of the baron’s many martial adages. “Make him pay for it.”
The commander of the city forces was almost certainly watching every movement of the enemy armies. He did not need to see that the commander of the army’s left flank was not part of the main body of the army, that the baron was “hired help.” Such knowledge might imply a weakness in the cohesiveness of the army, a weakness the enemy might try to use to his advantage.
Leaving his own picket lines, the baron advanced into those posted by his allies. At sight of him, the first sentry came to attention, saluting with upraised fist. From here on, every fifty yards, the sentries came to attention and saluted as the baron’s entourage rode past. The sentries wore full battle armor, helmet, and shield, each bearing the royal crest of Good King Wilhelm. The armor was polished and shone in the hazy twilight. Each sentry carried at his side a small hunting horn, an innovation that intrigued the baron.
“Well-disciplined troops,” he said, nodding appreciatively. “Respectful. Armor so clean I could eat off that man’s breastplate, eh, Morgon?” He glanced at his senior staff officer, the commander who had arranged the meeting. “And I like that idea of the sentries carrying hunting horns. If there’s an alarm, the whole countryside will hear them blasting away. Much better than shouting. We’ll implement that ourselves.”
“Yes, my lord,” Morgon replied.
“They’ve been busy,” the baron continued, pointing to a low breastworks made of dirt that already surrounded the encampment. “Look at that.”
“I see it, my lord,” Morgon returned.
Everywhere they looked, men were busy. No one was idle, the camp bustled with purposeful activity. No idlers hung about, breeding discontent. Soldiers hauled logs from the forest, timber that would be used to build siege towers and ladders. The blacksmith and his assistants were in their tent, forge fires burning brightly, hammering out dents in armor, pounding in rivets, turning out horseshoes for the cavalry. The smell of roast pig and beefsteak wafted through the camp. The baron and his men had been living on dry waybread and salt pork. The tempting odors made the mouth water.
The tents were arranged in an orderly manner, positioned so that each could catch the evening breeze. Arms were stacked neatly outside. The baron was loud in his approval.
“Look there, Morgon!” the baron said, indicating twenty soldiers wearing full battle gear lined up at attention beside a row of tents. “They have a standing ready-force like ours, except that theirs is at the full battle-ready. That’s something else I think we should implement.”
“Begging your lordship’s pardon—that’s not a standing ready-force,” said Commander Morgon.
“It’s not? What is it then?”
“Those men are on punishment detail, sir. They were standing there like that when I rode in this morning to arrange this meeting. There were thirty of them then. Ten must have fallen during the heat of the day.”
“They just stand there?” The baron, astonished, shifted in the saddle to have a bette
r view.
“Yes, my lord. According to the officer who escorted me, they’re not allowed to eat, to rest, or drink water until their sentence time is served. That could be as long as three days. If a man collapses, he’s carried off, revived and sent back out. His sentence starts over from that point.”
“Good gods,” the baron muttered. He continued staring until they passed out of range.
The baron and his officers halted just inside the entrance to the camp. The officers dismounted. The bodyguard remained on their horses.
“Give the men leave to stand down, Commander,” the baron ordered.
“With my lord’s permission, I think the men should stay mounted,” Morgon returned.
“Is there something you want to tell me, Commander?” the baron demanded.
Morgon shook his head, avoided the baron’s eyes. “No, sir. I just thought keeping the bodyguard ready to move out quickly would be prudent. In case Commander Kholos has urgent orders for us, my lord.”
The baron stared hard at his commander but was unable to read anything from Morgon’s expression except dutiful obedience. “Very well. Keep the men mounted. But see that they get some water.”
An officer wearing armor covered by a tunic bearing the royal crest approached the waiting entourage and saluted. “Sir, my name is Master Vardash. I have been assigned to escort you to Commander Kholos.”
The baron followed, accompanied by his officers. The entourage marched past rows of tents. Taking a right turn north of the blacksmith’s works, the baron was looking over a stand of armor, approving the workmanship, when a cough from Morgon caused the baron to lift his head.
“What in the name of Kiri-Jolith is that?”
Hidden from the front of the camp by the large tent belonging to the blacksmith was a hastily constructed wooden gallows. Four bodies hung there. Three of the bodies had obviously been there since the day before—their eyes had been pecked out by carrion birds, one of whom was continuing his meal with the corpse’s nose. One of the men was still alive, though he wouldn’t be for long. As the baron watched, he saw the body jerk a couple of times, then quit moving.
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