by Doug Niles
It had been there, in her laboratory, that Coryn made the potion of enchantment Jaymes had used to bewitch Selinda—to woo her love, win her hand, and gain control of her fortune. That seemed like another lifetime, such a distant part of the past that the emperor could almost convince himself that it had never happened. But it had happened. Now, it seemed, his wife had magic on her side.
There, too, the White Witch and a younger Jaymes Markham had shared moments as lovers and friends. They had dreamed of a united Solamnia. That goal was key to their partnership.
Would that dream, too, end in ruin?
The emperor dismounted and stalked to the front door, which opened before he could knock. He halted momentarily at the sight of a young man dressed in the livery of an apprentice Knight of the Crown. A small fuzz of brown fur bristled atop his lip, an overly ambitious attempt at the singular mustache of a proud Solamnic Knight.
“Donny?” Jaymes said, taken aback. It had been more than a year since his last visit there. He was suddenly bemused as he confronted the fellow who was the son of the house’s most venerable servant. “I didn’t know you had taken the Oath.”
“Yes, my lord,” said the young man, beaming. “It’s Sir Donald, now.”
“Excellent. Your father must be very proud.”
“Oh, he is, sir. Most definitely. I’m sure he would love to see you if you have a moment. I can get him right away.”
“Actually, I’m here to see Lady Coryn on a matter of urgency. Where is she?” His voice had suddenly hardened, and the change in his mood did not escape the young knight. Jaymes was surprised to notice a flicker of defiance in Donny’s—Sir Donald’s—face. The young man’s first loyalty was to the mistress of the house, a fact that shouldn’t have been surprising.
“Come in,” the knight said after a moment. “I’ll get her.”
Jaymes waited in the anteroom, looking at those steps he had climbed so many times. The laboratory was up there … and her bedroom too. He had gone to each, in turn, and found strength and renewal with the woman so many knights called the White Witch.
The stairway seemed unusually bright in the afternoon sunlight spilling through the high windows. When Coryn came around the curve on the stairs, he realized that she, not the sun, was the source of the brightness. It was a magical effect, he knew, and resolved not to give her the satisfaction of shielding his eyes.
She halted several steps from the bottom, waiting for him to speak first, and he felt the rise of his anger. He was facing betrayal from women on all sides. Instinctively, he went on the attack.
“You gave a magical ring to my wife, didn’t you?” he began, speaking harshly.
“You locked her up in her room when you left the city.” Her tone was calm. “As if she were a criminal. That was something she clearly did not deserve.”
“It was for her own good!”
“Who are you to judge what is good for the Lady Selinda?” Coryn challenged.
“I thought you were my ally!” Jaymes declared. “We are working together toward a strong Solamnia! Surely you understand the importance of keeping Selinda—and the child she carries—safe!”
“I’m not sure that we agree on what is good for your … wife.” The reply was frank, her tone still cool and unapologetic.
“But everything is going according to plan,” he protested. “We’ve come so far! Six duchies and regencies, united as a nation, facing a future in strength, as an empire! Just as we always hoped.”
“What does that have to do with Selinda, with what you did at Vingaard Keep?” she said. “This is how you make a strong future?”
“It was necessary—”
“It was brutal and short-sighted,” Coryn spat, her calmness shattered like a broken mirror. Her voice caught; tears swam in her eyes. “Much of what you are doing these days is brutal and short-sighted. You don’t have any idea how the people of this nation feel. You want their respect, but all you gain is their fear!”
“You’re the one who doesn’t understand!” he replied. “I have carved a place for myself … and for this land. Turn your back on me, on this land, if you will. I can hold that place by myself.”
“I wish you success in your attempt,” the White Witch replied coldly.
“Do not dare to betray me again!” he warned.
“Go now,” was her only reply.
The last word vanished behind the door the emperor slammed on his way out.
CHAPTER TWELVE
DAYS OF DECISION
General Dayr and his son accompanied their army on the southward march back to Thelgaard. It was a grim, businesslike procession, with none of the celebratory chatter and cheering that inevitably accompanied the return from a victorious campaign. Men and officers alike seemed subdued and introspective.
They had about the same distance to march as Jaymes and his Freemen, but they moved without the emperor’s urgency. As a consequence—even though they marched across the plains instead of over a mountain pass—it took a few days longer for the Crown Army to reach Thelgaard than it did for the emperor to reach Palanthas.
Finally the long column of troops drew up to the ancestral home and castle. Despite being sacked by Ankhar less than five years earlier, Thelgaard had been restored as an impressive edifice. The outer wall and gates had been fully rebuilt, and several new towers added to the mighty keep.
“I’m going to spend one night at home and then go on to New Compound on a mission for the emperor,” General Dayr said to his son as they approached the castle gate. “Would you care to come along with me?”
“Certainly, Father,” replied Captain Franz.
“Good,” said the older man, invigorated as they rode into the cool shade of the great courtyard.
On arriving home the general signed the orders dismissing his levied troops, allowing them to return to their farms and shops for the summer. He took some time to set up a training schedule and duty rotations for his permanent garrisons. He and his wife hosted a homecoming banquet that evening for his knights and their ladies.
The next morning he and his son ate a quick breakfast while their horses were saddled and their traveling kits were freshened by servants. Lady Dayr made no complaint—she had seen darker days—and merely kissed her husband and son good-bye.
They departed for the valley of New Compound, in the northern Garnet Mountains, only an hour after dawn. The two men had decided to travel alone, partly to make the trip almost a vacation, but partly knowing they had private matters to discuss.
The older man had been watching his son, noting the darkness that seemed to envelop him whenever the emperor’s name was mentioned. After their first day traveling, with the responsibilities of army management and home behind them, General Dayr decided to broach the subject of what had transpired at Vingaard Keep.
“I picture the siege of Vingaard, even in my dreams,” he said frankly. “As clear as if I’m standing there, the smoke of the gun still swirling around me.”
The two men rode their horses at an easy walk, the flat expanse of the Vingaard Plains making for easy traveling. The ragged crest of the Garnet Range was visible on the horizon but still several days ahead.
“How can we ever forget?” Franz replied, the bitterness tightening his voice. “A year ago those knights were our friends, our allies. Blayne Kerrigan was a mate of mine when we were apprentices in the order of Crowns! How could it have come to this?” He turned in his saddle to regard the general with an almost pleading expression. “Father, we helped the emperor earn his place. At the time, it seemed like we were clearly doing what was best for the knighthood … and for our realm. Now I fear just the opposite.”
“Don’t rush to such a harsh conclusion. Keep in mind all that Solamnia has suffered over my—even your—lifetime: the Dragon Overlords, the Dark Knights, the sacrifice of our great god Paladine. One by one we fought through these challenges—and we survived!
“Then came the invasion of Ankhar’s horde. Remember wha
t it was like to see our home sacked, my son? To watch the death of the duke I had served all of my adult life?”
“The duke was venal and corrupt, Father—you know that! And he was weak. He wouldn’t even fight, in the end.”
“All true, but he was my lord, and I grieved when he died. And think of what you are saying because Jaymes Markham may be many things, but he is not venal, he is not corrupt, and he is not weak! And he is the lord of our united lands now! We have lived through dark and trying times, and perhaps such times call for a powerful, even ruthless, leader.”
“But I thought the point of our striving was to lead us to a brighter future,” Franz protested. “And yet it seems as though we have ushered in a new era of darkness. After all, the great towers of Vingaard survived all of the scourges you listed—only to be brought down by the one who set himself up as our protector.”
“I don’t have an easy answer,” the general admitted. “But I plead with you: don’t give up on Jaymes Markham yet. I remember how he led us, when the dukes of the noble knighthood were allowing the country to crumble around them. Without him, we—and our women and children—would be Ankhar’s slaves, or dead.”
“I acknowledge the important role he has played,” Franz replied, “but I will not promise to follow him into the future.”
From that position the young captain could not be swayed, and his father was wrapped in gloom and worry as they finally made their way onto rising ground, following the paved, well-graded road—of dwarven craftsmanship—that led them up a verdant valley to the thriving mountain town of New Compound. The two men had not been there since the early days of the settlement, and they couldn’t help but be impressed by the many white stone buildings, the neat timber structures. A farmers’ market bustled in the main square, which they could easily observe from afar since no wall surrounded the town.
“I’ve never seen so many well-fed dwarves,” Franz remarked in some astonishment.
“Ahem, a tribute to their prosperity,” his father replied.
They were warmly greeted by Dram and his wife, and the veteran general was moved to chuck little Mikey under the chin, a gesture that provoked an explosion of giggles. Ever hospitable, Sally Feldspar set about preparing a dinner while her husband and the two soldiers retired to the sitting room. There, the general presented a letter of instructions from the emperor, and the two men sat quietly while the dwarf slowly read the missive. When he finished—it took Dram several moments, though there was but a short page of writing—he sat quietly, his expression blank.
“Do you understand his … requests?” Dayr prodded gently after some time of silence.
“Of course I understand,” Dram said impatiently. His irritation, Dayr sensed, was not with the messenger, but with the message. Abruptly, the dwarf looked directly at him. “So he has three bombards, but he wants a dozen more? And all this powder and shot?”
“Actually, two of the bombards were destroyed in the march on Vingaard Keep.” Dayr went on to describe, briefly, that encounter, realizing that Dram had heard nothing of the developments on the great river. Throughout his report of the events, Franz sat mute, staring out the front window at the pastoral town, the green, encircling mountains.
“I remember Vingaard Keep,” Dram said idly after the general had finished the explanation. “Quite a landmark it was. You don’t see too many places like that, not built by humans anyway. It’s a shame to think that it’s gone.”
“Well, not entirely gone,” Dayr said awkwardly.
“Scarred beyond recognition!” Franz spat, drawing a sharp look from his father.
“Well, I understand what he wants me to do. It wouldn’t be easy, mind you—my operations have slowed down quite a bit, and it would take some gearing up to build more of those bombards. I’m going to have to think it over. In the meantime, why don’t we go into the dining room? If my nose is as good as I think it is, Sally has got something special coming out of the oven.”
“Very well,” said the general.
His son, staring at the dwarf intently, rose to his feet immediately, and the older man followed more slowly. Together, they trailed Dram into his dining room, knowing that the matter of the emperor’s orders would not be settled the first night.
Blayne Kerrigan had no idea how he survived through that night, exhausted, numb, soaked to the skin, shivering uncontrollably, clinging to the root on the edge of the ravine wall as the raging flood cascaded and thundered below him.
When next he awoke, gray dawn permeated the ravine. The rain had ceased, and the flood had abated. There was enough ground for Blayne to slide down and brace himself on a couple of rocks, keeping out of the cold stream. He spared a few moments of regret for the loss of his horse, a loyal animal that the young noble had personally broken and trained some six years earlier.
But he had no more time for reflection. The road before him was steep and difficult, even more so since he would be traveling on foot and without supplies. But there could be no turning back: Vingaard was in the hands of the emperor, and Blayne was certain his patrols would be combing the countryside, looking for the enemy soldier who had become a fugitive outlaw.
Resolutely, he started upward, slogging along in his wet clothes. The exertion began to warm him, and by the time the first rays of the sun poked into the deep valley, he was dry, sweating, gasping, and dead tired. He followed the narrow path with stumbling footsteps, always ascending. He took note of familiar landmarks—a waterfall that had bemused him for a whole day, once, when his life was peaceful; a grove where he had stalked a mighty stag just a few years earlier; a steep side valley where he and his faithful hounds had once chased, trapped, and killed a cattle-eating bear. But he didn’t linger at any of those places.
Most of his thoughts were of his father, and they were fond remembrances of the man who had taught him to hunt, camp, ride, and fight. Once, when he paused beside the becalmed stream to catch his breath, he looked into an eddy and imagined Lord Kerrigan’s presence—not so much in the water, but inhabiting the whole place, in the stream and the mountains and the very wind.
“I will make you proud, my father,” he whispered aloud.
Invigorated by the thought, he pushed himself to his feet and continued on, higher into the Vingaard Mountains.
There was a reason only the one road traversed the mountains—through the High Clerist’s Pass—crossing by land from east to west side of the long, narrow range. Most of the valleys leading into the Vingaard Mountains eventually came up against sheer cliffs, dead-end canyons that presented the traveler with impassable rock faces, looming glaciers, and forbidding peaks. In a few—a very few—places, the grade was shallow enough for a narrow path to snake its way into the heights. But those trails were mainly fit for goats and mountain cats.
Blayne knew from his past experience that he had found such a path. By late afternoon, the grade had increased substantially, and he frequently had to use his hands to grab bushes, roots, or rocky knobs to propel himself up and forward. If his horse had survived, he would have had to abandon the animal because the ground was simply too steep, the trail too narrow. Before sunset he was treated to a respite when he stumbled upon a narrow valley. There a pair of waterfalls trilled down from the heights, and a crystalline pond showed proof of trout in its rippling surface.
Wearily he slumped onto a patch of grass beside the pond. His stomach growled, and for the first time he felt his hunger as an acute craving. Fortunately, his father had prepared him for that type of situation. Rolling up his sleeve, Blayne lay face down on the ground next to the place where the stream flowed out of the pond. Many fish were visible, swimming in both directions. He let his arm dangle in the water, motionless, until a fat rainbow trout swam by. With a quick gesture, he thrust his hand under the fish, hoisted it up, and flipped it, wriggling, onto the bank. With a single sharp move he cracked the fat fish on a rock and killed it.
He had no fire, nor any means to make one, but two slashes of his
sharp knife cut tender fillets from the fish, and he simply ate them raw, carefully pulling out the tiny bits of bone. Before sunset, he had pulled four more fish from the water, eating two and wrapping the others in moist leaves. Stars sparkled in the sky as he finally stumbled away from the stream, seeking a place to sleep.
He found, instead, a man dressed in a gray robe, regarding him coldly with black, expressionless eyes. The stranger stood under a tree, and the young nobleman got the feeling that he might have been watching him for some time.
Blayne gasped aloud when he spied the man, immediately reaching for his knife. But that weapon fell from his suddenly cold fingers when the gray man waved a hand and muttered a soft word. The world began to spin, dizziness and disorientation drowning out the young noble’s awareness.
“Sleep now,” said the man in gray. “Rest tonight. Tomorrow, you will come with me.”
The Nightmaster again visited Ankhar when he and Laka had gathered his new horde into a great encampment, filling a broad stretch of fields and meadows near the northern edge of Lemish’s vast woodland. The band had grown to number many thousands of warriors.
Perhaps it was not quite so numerous as the half-giant’s first army, the one that had terrorized Solamnia for more than two years, but in several important respects the force was even more impressive: for one thing, about half the warriors in the new horde were ogre bulls, averaging nearly eight feet tall, each as heavy as two strong men. For another, he had the company of nearly fifty flying sivak draconians commanded by the spell-casting aurak called Guilder.
The rest of the troops were lackeys: many hobgoblins and goblins, together with a few ancient, battered draconians, that inevitably trailed in the wake of their mighty masters.
But they were the descendents of fierce warriors who had fought under the Dark Queen’s banners in the War of the Lance, who had waged war against, and in the service of, the Dragon Overlords. A fraction had served under Ankhar in his previous campaign, and they were as thirsty for revenge as they were for plunder.