by Doug Niles
The commander rode over at a gallop.
Jaymes, meanwhile, ordered his lancers to redeploy on the near side of the square. “Regroup! Fall back to me! Form a line here!”
“Excellency?” Weaver asked, raising his eyebrows in mute concern.
Jaymes pointed at the woods. “Keep an eye on the flank—there might be something happening over there.”
But the warning came too late. More than a thousand ogres suddenly spilled from the tangled, rocky wood at the slope of the cliff, emerging just where the draconians had landed. They came out like a tidal wave, heading straight for the legion’s unprotected rear. They were fresh veterans, not the drunkards and hangers-on they had thus far battled in the town, and they came roaring and howling.
At the same time, a surging formation of snarling wolves, each mounted by a shrieking, painted goblin, burst from behind the lumberyards along the lakeshore. The warg riders raced across the plaza, straight toward the lancers, as the horsemen struggled to reform.
Both enemy reinforcements howled maniacally, closing in on the exhausted legion from the flank and the rear. Jaymes spared one glance back at the enemy commander, standing proudly on that stone roof. He couldn’t be certain, but it looked as if Ankhar the Truth were grinning in cruel triumph.
“I see a spot of light,” reported Rogard Smashfinger, falling back from the pile of rubble where he had been excavating for the past two hours. His shift was over, but he insisted on going back for a better look, so Dram joined him in crawling forward, over the jagged boulders that had been pulled out of the plug closing off the mine.
“By Reorx, you’re right,” Dram said. He wriggled around and called over his shoulder, “Send me up a pike!”
Someone passed him the steel shaft with a sharpened head; the quarters were too tight to swing a pickaxe. The dwarf jabbed and stabbed away at the slowly widening entrance. After almost half an hour of vigorous activity, he had one more rock to clear and used the pike to lever it out of the way. It tumbled down the mountainside and cleared a gap wide enough for Dram to stick his head out.
Conscious of his safety, the first thing he did was check for ogres in the immediate area. But there seemed to be none around; apparently they had all gone back down to the town. Looking below, where he heard the unmistakable sounds of battle, Dram could see why: a legion of knights were there and had already taken back half the town. But as he stared, a horde of ogres surged out of the woods behind the relief force. At the same time, a furious cavalry battle between human horsemen and goblins mounted on warg wolves began on New Compound’s central square.
Dram went scrambling back to the huddled dwarves waiting deeper in the mine tunnel.
“The ogres are under attack!” he shouted, his words echoing loudly, almost painfully, throughout the tunnel. “Get out there! Follow me! Pull more rocks out of the way when you come!”
He pushed loose rocks before him as he squirmed out the narrow hole, knocked rubble out of the way, and shouldered aside a good-sized boulder that was blocking one side of the narrow tunnel mouth. That rock tumbled free, almost doubling the size of the opening.
Rogard and Swig Frostmead were close behind him, clearing more of the entrance and emerging in a shower of tumbling stones.
Two by two, then three by three, then four or five at a time, the formerly trapped dwarves pushed their way out of the mine, each one widening the gap just a little bit more, making it easier for those behind to scramble outside. In a few moments, a hundred dwarves had emerged, and the mine shaft was cleared to its normal width.
The rest of the residents of New Compound and the mountain dwarves of Kayolin, came spilling out in a rush and, forming in ad hoc ranks, they moved quickly down the slope toward the town. Each dwarf carried a weapon, and each dwarf heart was filled with the race’s traditional hatred of ogres—and the burning desire to avenge the damage done to their once-peaceful town.
“Hurry up!” cried Dram Feldspar. He pointed at the ogres attacking the rear of the legion, identifying them as the most urgent threat. “Take them in the flank! Let’s roll the bastards right up!”
“Who’s the slowpoke?” cried Sally Feldspar, sprinting past her husband, hammer raised over her head, short legs pumping like pistons as she rushed down the hill.
Dram didn’t even try to talk her out of joining the attack.
Instead, he just did his damnedest to catch up.
Jaymes watched as General Weaver rallied his rearguard in the face of the ogre menace pouring down from the woods. The legionnaires reacted quickly, and the New City light infantry took the first onslaught of the attack on their shields, battling with short swords and giving ground only reluctantly so that the troops behind them would have a longer time to form a more solid line.
The men who had routed away from Apple Creek fought with tenacity, courage, and a high cost in blood and lives. Slowly they inched backward, falling by the score during the brutal fighting, but buying precious time for the rest of Weaver’s men to wheel around and better meet the surprise attack.
Inevitably, the sheer weight and numbers of the ogres drove the lightly armed men out of the way, leaving more than half of them dead or dying on the ground. The ambush was almost perfectly executed, Jaymes realized with a grimace. He had only himself to blame, having been fooled by that damned half-giant he had too easily dismissed as a barbarian. Weaver had his spearmen and halberdiers formed up; only to Jaymes’s eyes they seemed a thin, tenuous line facing a torrent of howling ogres.
If they had any chance at all, it was a very slim chance. Then Jaymes saw movement on the slopes coming from the direction of the mines. It was a fresh brigade of troops, doughty dwarves racing downhill on stumpy legs, beards flying, axes raised.
“For Kayolin!” came one battle cry; “In the name of Reorx!” was another, and Jaymes knew that the dwarves of New Compound somehow had freed themselves from their prison in time to join the battle.
The dwarves spilled from the rocks and tailings of the slope, surprising the attacking ogres on the flank. Immediately the ogre force wavered, the enemy tumbling all over each other as they tried to turn and face the fresh danger. Quickly the dwarf charge shattered the attack and forced the enemy into desperate defensive maneuvers.
That left the emperor to rally his own troops in the center of town. He ordered his archers to concentrate their fire against the goblin warg riders, firing in volleys to maximize the impact of each wave of arrows. Dozens, scores, finally hundreds of the savage cavalry were raked from their saddles. The wolves, maddened by pain and hunger, were as likely to tear at their own dismounted riders as they were to continue the attack, and that allowed the legion lancers, once more formed into battle line, to charge across the square and scatter their foes before them.
Through the waning afternoon and into the evening the fight raged—in long clashes between the dwarves and ogres and in pockets of furious skirmish in the streets, yards, and avenues of the town. Gradually Ankhar’s force was pushed back until it was compressed into a semicircle in front of the lake, with humans and dwarves pressing them from all sides.
The sun dipped toward the horizon, purpling the placid waters in a way that ought to have been beautiful—except that it was a valley of violence, suffering, and death.
The pace of the fighting slowed as warriors on both sides succumbed to fatigue mightier than any mortal opponent. Men collapsed from exhaustion; ogres stumbled to the lakeshore to immerse their heads in the cool water, uncaring of their unprotected backs. Horses swayed and drooped, unwilling to run any farther; saddle-sore riders dismounted to let their weary steeds drink and graze.
Still there were pockets of fighting. Dram led a band of dwarves into his own house and, room by room, cleared the enemy out. His heart was hardened by the battle, and that was a good thing; later it would break, he knew, to realize all the death and destruction.
Jaymes, too, was one of those keeping up the attack, rallying small groups of men, closing in
on the shrinking enemy perimeter.
And so it was that, finally, Emperor Jaymes Markham found himself facing Ankhar the Truth. The two commanders came around the massive pile of coals on the plaza—all that was left of the burning bombards—and stood, weapons raised, while the troops of their respective armies seemed to step back and draw a collective breath.
The sword Giantsmiter blazed brightly even in the daylight, but the spearhead on the Shaft of Hiddukel shined with equal intensity. Jaymes and Ankhar cautiously approached each other, surrounded by the shattered and burned ruin of a town that had been a pleasant sanctuary just a few days earlier. The fighting between the ogres and goblins, legionnaires and dwarves faded almost to a halt as warriors on both sides watched the two champions.
For a few moments, the pair simply circled warily, each looking for an opening. Jaymes held the hilt of his weapon in both hands, the blade—with its fringe of flaring blue flame—extended before him, the tip a little bit higher than the grip. Ankhar, in turn, held the thick shaft of his spear in just one hand, with the weapon nearly horizontal, held just above his right shoulder. Twisting to present his left side to his foe, the half-giant wheeled and danced.
His left hand was protected by a heavy gauntlet, and he waved this hand with deceptive carelessness toward the man. Jaymes feinted and his hulking foe thrust down hard with his gleaming spear tip. The emperor bashed the rod of the spear to the side, the keen sword trying to bite deeply into the wood. But the protection of the Prince of Lies obviously extended even to the haft of his mighty weapon, for the fiery sword struck the wood and merely bounced off without chipping or even charring the material.
The ogres formed a semicircle on the side of the plaza with the lake behind them; the dwarves and humans gathered opposite, with their backs toward the ruins of their domiciles and businesses.
When Jaymes circled warily with his back to the enemy, one of the ogres sidled forward, raising a club. Rogard Smashfinger fired a bolt from his crossbow, striking the brute in the chest with enough force to drive him backward and down. When a dwarf raised a hand to aim a throwing axe at the back of the half-giant’s head, an ogre threw a skull-sized boulder that crushed the dwarf’s shoulder before he could launch his throw. In that way, it was decided that the two sides would settle down and watch, letting the matter rest on the outcome of the one-on-one combat.
Dram fidgeted and muttered, his hands clutching his axe with white knuckles, but he knew better than to interfere. Instead, he also watched, trying unsuccessfully to stand in front of Sally, to block her from any surprise volleys from the ogre troops. Naturally, she pushed through into the front rank, brandishing her hammer as firmly as Dram held his axe.
Jaymes made a sudden rush, swinging to the right then ducking left as Ankhar stabbed with the Shaft of Hiddukel and missed, sticking it instead into the ground. The human drove inward, scoring a hit on the half-giant’s knee, but the massive fighter moved with startling agility, swinging his foot in a roundhouse kick and sweeping Jaymes’s feet out from under him. He landed flat on his back and escaped a crushing stomp only by rolling desperately to the side.
In a flash the man was back on his feet, but the half-giant had the advantage. Ankhar was able to stab once, again, a third time, and with each attack Jaymes retreated. Blue fire met green, and sparks cascaded, swirling around the two combatants, searing the air with an acrid stench. With each blow, the blazing weapons grew brighter until even those at the fringe of the fight could feel the heat and had to blink past the brightness. Sweat lined the emperor’s brow, and the half-giant’s sinewy limbs were likewise slick with perspiration. For a long time, there was no sound from the crowd, only the grunting of desperate breathing and the scuffing of boots on the paving stones from the fighters.
Abruptly the human closed in again, raising his sword and whipping it downward with a sweeping blow. Ankhar stumbled over his own feet, spinning his spear sideways and gripping the haft with both hands. Once more Giantsmiter met the Shaft of Hiddukel, but the wooden haft resisted even that heavy blow. Fire surged from both weapons with explosive force, and the two warriors stumbled backward, Jaymes falling on his back and Ankhar going down on one knee.
Rolling to the side, the human rose into a crouch. His shoulders heaved with the effort of each breath, and the tip of his sword rested on the ground—as if he no longer had the strength to lift the heavy blade. Ankhar saw his chance and lurched forward, his movements awkward because of his own weariness. But the spear tip drove directly at the human’s pounding heart.
Except Jaymes was no longer there. From some unsuspected reserve, he found the strength to dodge nimbly out of the way, and the emerald head of Ankhar’s weapon sliced only the air next to his arm. Overbalanced, the half-giant fell sprawling.
Jaymes stood over him, sword upraised, keen blade aimed downward. Ankhar looked up and saw his own death writ in blue fire.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
THE AGENTS OF CHANGE
Sir Blayne felt better than he had since the day, two months earlier, when he had destroyed two-thirds of the emperor’s artillery by surprise attack. That elation had been short lived, of course; he expected a greater triumph the next time around, one that would last a long time.
He and Sir Ballard approached the palace of Lord Regent Bakkard du Chagne. Both men wore knightly regalia, emblazoned with the Crown in Blayne’s case, the Rose for Ballard. Their boots and helmets were shined, their swords sharpened but sheathed. If all went well, their mission would not entail drawing those weapons. The two men drew up before the closed gates, where a pair of men-at-arms had been watching their approach curiously.
“I am Sir Ballard of the Legion of Steel, and this is Sir Blayne of Vingaard. We seek an audience with the lord mayor,” Ballard declared, standing rigidly at attention. Like Blayne, he held his helmet under his left arm; neither knight saluted the common guards.
Blayne was amazed at how martial Ballard had made himself look. After the scruffy clothes and irregular appearance of him and his men in their headquarters, the noble had half wondered if they would be scaling the palace walls by rope or sneaking in through the kitchen door after dark. Instead, they marched straight to the front door and presented themselves formally with a request for an audience. The audacity of it nearly took the young lord’s breath away.
The two guards hastily conferred, one quickly slipping through the door. “Make yourselves comfortable, sir knights,” said the other, gesturing to a nearby bench, which the stalwart knights disdained.
In a few moments, the first guard came back, and he held open the door. “It so happens the regent has a few moments; he will see you now.”
Without further word, Ballard and Blayne marched into the palace, their feet moving in perfect cadence as they followed the guard through a high-ceilinged, marble-floored hall. He led them into a small reception room, where, despite the warm summer weather, the windows were shut and a fire burned on a large hearth.
The lord regent was a small, squat man who reminded Blayne surprisingly of a frog. He appeared to be bald, though a close inspection revealed a few thin strands of white hair. He was beardless, with a receding chin, and his eyes were watery and seemed oddly out of focus. There was nothing physically appealing or powerful about him. Kerrigan suppressed a sense of disappointment, reminding himself of the emperor’s many crimes. Surely any man would make a better ruler than Jaymes Markham!
“My Lord Regent!” said Ballard, saluting with a clap of his hand to his chest. Blayne did the same as his companion introduced them.
“What did you men wish to see me about?” wondered du Chagne, who was obviously not one for small talk.
They had already agreed that Ballard, the older and more experienced fellow, would do the talking. Blayne stood at attention.
“My lord,” Ballard began. “The state of affairs in the city and the nation have become intolerable. The knights of my legion, and many other orders, have determined the emperor is in v
iolation of many laws, as well as traditions, customs, and in fact, the Oath and the Measure itself. He will be removed from command of Solamnia, and we most respectfully ask if you will return, in the interim, to the authority and role you adopted when the Dark Knights were driven out.”
“You mean … you want me to assume the mantle of ruler of this city?” Du Chagne blinked his rheumy eyes, seeming surprised—but only mildly so—by the suggestion.
“That is exactly so, my lord. Rebels have already taken control of the High Clerist’s Tower. They will prevent the emperor from returning to the city until the new order has been established. We have representatives in the temples of Shinare and Kiri-Jolith who are also prepared to accept a change in ruler. But we need a leader, someone the people can rally around. You, Excellency, are the only person in Palanthas who could fill that role.”
“And you, young … Blayne Kerrigan, is it not? What is your place in all this?”
“Perhaps my lord has heard that the emperor murdered my father—under a flag of truce. It was that incident that propelled me onto this course. I vowed that Lord Kerrigan’s death would be avenged, and this is a way to do it righteously.”
“But two of you only? Surely there is a greater power at work here?”
“Indeed, my lord. The Legion of Steel has posted cadres to the two temples I have mentioned, as well as to the city garrison headquarters and to the gates. They will call upon the historic respect for the knighthood as a force for justice.”
Du Chagne rose from his desk and came around to pat each of the men on the shoulder. “Thank you for this meeting. I applaud your courage, both of you. And what you are doing is only right and proper. I accept your commission.”
“Very good, my lord,” Ballard replied. “We have prepared an announcement. With your approval, we will have it read by the city heralds immediately.”