The Crown and the Sword tros-2

by Douglas Niles

  “That will not be necessary. Ankhar’s troops will not head toward Dargaard,” Jaymes declared.

  “Oh? What do you predict?”

  “He will concentrate on the east bank of the Vingaard, to hold us at bay, while he gathers his strength against Solanthus,” the marshal stated. “He has already brought his central army to the west of that fortress, while his southern force is screening the territory in the Garnet foothills.”

  The city of Solanthus had been besieged for two years, ever since Ankhar’s horde had first rampaged across the plains-before Jaymes Markham had taken command of the Solamnic Army. Though the city had resisted the barbarian’s few attempts at storming the walls, it also remained out of reach of relief columns and supplies from the rest of Solamnia.

  “You think he will make another attempt to conquer Solanthus, then?” Dayr replied, moderately surprised. “Those walls have held him at bay for more than two years.”

  “Yes, but he has made no serious attack,” Jaymes answered. “And now we have bested him in three major battles in the open field. Each time he has been forced to give up another sector of the plains, and with Solanthus to his rear, still resisting, he will see that, inevitably, we intend to break his siege, if he keeps losing ground.”

  “I understand that the situation is dire in that city,” the general said. “It is all the clerics can do to maintain food at near starvation levels. Though I hear that the duchess has rallied the people courageously, that she eats no more than the commoners.”

  The lord marshal nodded. “She has a core of steel, that’s clear.”

  Dayr agreed somewhat ruefully. “When Duke Rathskell married her, I thought she was a trite little wench, suited only for the bedroom. Now he’s dead, and she is holding the city together. I am, frankly, surprised. I confess I did not give her credit for that kind of spine.”

  “Nobody did,” Jaymes said. “Sometimes adversity seems to bring forth remarkable strength.”

  A trumpet blared some distance away, and both men turned quickly at the unmistakable sound of alarm. The general grimaced, while the marshal’s lips tightened in anger. “Liar!” he said between clenched teeth. “So the one called the Truth is a liar after all.”

  “But his ogres cannot have returned to the ravine-they were too far away!” countered Dayr.

  Jaymes nodded, pointing downward, where the column of goblins was halfway up the cliff, still winding along the narrow trail. Soon they would vanish from sight as they continued behind the curve of the canyon wall. But moments later, the scout came into view, lashing his horse into a froth as he galloped toward the two commanders.

  “My lords!” he shouted, thundering closer and pulling up in a skidding stop. “Treachery! Ankhar’s Thorn Knights-at least one of them-has appeared in the ravine. He has created a cloud of deadly gas that sinks and slithers along the trail, killing every man caught within. The survivors are fleeing back toward the river, but the cloud is moving quickly-it seems certain they are all doomed.”

  “The bastard!” snarled Dayr. “We should have kept the archers in position-we could pick off those goblins and show him the fruits of his treachery!”

  Jaymes ignored his general, instead striding up to the nearby signalman who stood listening to the scout’s report in shock, his banners neatly coiled at his feet. “Raise the red pennant-now!” snapped the marshal.

  Quickly the man did as he was told. Another scout rode up, confirming that the men of the trapped company were perishing in the magically conjured gas cloud. The Thorn Knight, of course, had teleported away immediately; there was no chance of exacting vengeance upon the villain. The lord marshal displayed no reaction upon hearing this news, even as his general practically wept with frustration and rage.

  The crimson banner snapped in the breeze as the flagman hoisted it upon a slender pole. He waved it back and forth in response to the marshal’s curt command. Dayr and the nearby soldiers watched anxiously, knowing better than to ask Jaymes what was going on. Below, the vile gas, a greenish yellow in color, seeped from the bottom of the ravine. No man could escape that corridor of death.

  The cliffs above the fleeing goblins suddenly shattered in a gout of smoke, fire, and blasted rock. The huge shelf of stone split free from the canyon wall and tumbled down toward the helpless warriors, burying some in the cloud of debris and carrying the rest to doom on the rocks a hundred feet below. Several breaths passed before the sound of the explosions-a stunning eruption of noise that bellowed and rumbled through the canyon like a violent thunderstorm-reached the watchers on top of the cliff.

  “You placed charges there?” Dayr asked in astonishment. “You didn’t trust the truce?”

  The marshal shrugged. “Captain Powell made the arrangements. The red flag was the signal to light the fuses,” he said.

  Debris continued to tumble downward, an avalanche of stone and gravel and dust that swept the cliff and the winding trail clean of goblins. So great was the destruction that, in many places, the entire pathway was carved away from the cliff. A cloud of dust lingered for a long time, obscuring their view, but as it gradually settled toward the water, it became clear that not a single one of the enemy warriors had survived the blast.

  General Dayr wondered aloud. “The black powder is precious… and the preparations are always extensive. Had you planted the explosives in case Ankhar betrayed you? Or… you were planning to ignite those fuses all along?”

  Jaymes looked at him, his expression cold and emotionless. “This is war,” he said curtly. “And the objective is to kill the enemy. I know this, and Ankhar knows this.”

  And the war would go on.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE A RMY OF SOLAMNIA

  Jaymes ordered his army to concentrate all three wings on the west bank of the Vingaard, south of the great fork in the middle of the plains. The generals put his orders into action while he himself traveled with only the two dozen Freemen of his personal guard. Captain Powell knew his commander well enough that, for the most part, the escorting knights rode several hundred yards behind Jaymes. The party followed the meandering course of that mighty river, so the lord marshal could enjoy a few days of relative leisure before immersing himself again in the complexities of command.

  At last he turned the little roan mare due south, riding with purpose now. The column tightened up. The marshal passed the first pickets of the army camp some ten miles out. These veteran scouts, in leather armor with their fleet, long-legged steeds, were not surprised to see their leader riding across the flat steppe at the head of a small company. Even before they waved him through their outposts, the scouts detached galloping riders to carry word of the lord marshal’s approach to the main camp.

  Soon Jaymes could make out the vast spread of his army’s tent city gathered around the officers’ encampment, where plain brown domes rose above the lesser dwellings. Horse corrals were small, scattered among the units so the mounts were close to their riders. A large pasture, well guarded, had been established to the rear, where hundreds of cattle-used both as cargo haulers and food-grazed.

  When the dukes had ruled these troops, each noble’s tent had been a huge, colorful pavilion, with attendant dwellings for retainers, courtiers, and other key members of the ducal entourage. Whole wagon trains had been devoted to luxuries such as crystal dinner services, silk tablecloths, and padded thrones. A central part of the camp would typically have been set aside for formations, parades, jousting, and other elaborate games.

  But those days were gone. Now the officers, from the generals down to the platoon captains, dwelled in nondescript shelters of the same nondescript denim-larger than the tents of the enlisted troops only insofar as space was needed for map tables, rosters, and signaling equipment. Undistinguished, perhaps, but they also made it difficult for an enemy to determine where they would find the important leaders of the Solamnic Army. As an added benefit, the common men in the line understood that their officers shared their living conditions, and
this boosted morale.

  Lord Marshal Jaymes had appointed his officers based upon their demonstration of military ability, not because of any accident of birth. True, his three army generals-Dayr of the Crowns, Markus of the Rose, and Rankin of the Swords-had been captains under the dukes. Still, each had proved on the field that he was skilled and trustworthy; each merited the responsibility of his command.

  The rank of lord marshal was new to the Solamnic military hierarchy. Jaymes had created it for himself after being awarded the united command two years earlier, when his steadfast leadership-as well as his discovery of explosive black powder-had saved Solamnia from Ankhar’s horde. After the horde had been halted on the brink of attacking Caergoth, the nobles had had little choice but to reward their savior with supreme command. In the years since, Jaymes had slowly driven the invaders back, liberating Thelgaard and Garnet, finally clearing them from the entire reach west of the Vingaard.

  Many of the men still referred to Jaymes as the Lord of the Rose, and he accepted this honorific when it was offered. Others called him the Lord of No Sign. For though his banner incorporated elements of all three orders of the knighthood, he was comfortable riding about in his plain woolen poncho, displaying no heraldry whatsoever.

  Riding the roan at an amble, Jaymes made his way through the outer camp. These were the pikemen and archers who could form ranks in a matter of moments to defend the perimeter, while the knights with their more elaborate accoutrement armored themselves and their horses before supplying reinforcements. He was recognized by many as he approached and accepted the salutes and cheers of his men with a gracious nod to the right and left, or the raising of his hand toward a man or a company of particular note.

  Many of these men had won great victories for their marshal. The Vingaard pikes, woodsmen from the mountains who wielded their long wooden pole arms with unflinching discipline, were often the first responders. Many a charge of warg-riding goblins had been broken by their iron will, and one regiment of pikemen served in each of the three armies. He rode now past the Southshore Longbows, deadly archers from across the coast of the Newsea. The dwarves of the Kaolyn Axers, not to be outdone, raised their foaming tankards aloft and roared a lusty toast to their commander, who politely declined the invitation to stop at the dwarven campfires for a friendly tankard or three.

  As news of his arrival spread, men came streaming from the other encampments, adding their cheers. He came to the center of the great encampment, where the bulk of the knights were amassed. Though they were the backbone of the Solamnic Army, in actual numbers the knights formed only a small percentage of the troops. It was the pikemen who formed the battle lines, the archers who provided the covering fire, and the dwarf heavy infantry who would assemble squares to stand against any attack. Then and only then could the fleet and powerful horsemen of the knighthood fight with all their ability.

  The marshal took time to greet some of the knights personally. He reached down to clasp the hands of several Caergoth Steelshields as he rode past. These were the Rose Knights who had carried the day when Jaymes had first struck north across the Garnet River, pushing Ankhar’s army back from the position it had held for six months following the half-giant’s initial, nearly triumphant campaign. Then there came the doughty veterans of the Newforge Regiment, Knights of the Sword who hailed from besieged Solanthus; they had pledged to lead the assault that would free their surrounded city. Just beyond them, standing at attention with their snow-pure steeds behind them, were the Crown Knights of the White Riders-the unit that had broken Ankhar’s ogres so recently in the north, paving the way for this great concentration of force.

  All in all, more than twelve thousand men were congregated here, and the army commander could not help but be pleased by the sight of his army. His three generals awaited him in the center of the camp. He dismounted, allowing his horse to be led away for a rubdown by several eager young squires, and stretched the kinks of his four-day ride out of his back and shoulders. He joined the generals at their small fire, taking a seat on a small stool.

  “Any urgent news?” Jaymes asked.

  General Rankin acted as spokesman for the trio. “No word from Palanthas, nor from the Compound, my lord.”

  “Regent du Chagne still prefers that his own legion guard the city, does he?” asked the marshal, shaking his head.

  “Perhaps he is worried more about you than about Ankhar,” suggested General Dayr.

  Jaymes smiled tightly. “Probably he should be worried about me. But I don’t have time for him now. Solanthus requires our attention, and we’ll have to make plans with the assets we currently have on the field.”

  “That should give us plenty to work with,” declared Sir Markus Haum, the general of the Rose. He was a steadfast veteran with a very impressive mustache and had rejoined the army in the winter after narrowly surviving an attempt on his life. Among the three, Jaymes regarded him as his most trusted, capable field commander. “Our forces are spread within ten miles of this very spot, ready and willing to go where you send it, my Lord Marshal.”

  Jaymes nodded. “What of the crossings? I presume Ankhar has them well guarded?”

  “Aye, sir,” Dayr confirmed rather glumly. “He has pickets posted for a hundred miles north and south of here, with strong detachments at every ford.”

  “We tried a probe with boats, as you ordered,” General Rankin said. “We sent three hundred scouts, all of them volunteers, across the wider part of the Vingaard, a score of miles downstream from here. Ankhar’s bastards waited until the boats were almost to shore, and then those damned ogres bombarded them with boulders. Most of the boats were sunk, and barely eighty men made it back to our bank alive.”

  “Unsurprising,” Jaymes acknowledged. He had in fact expected a disastrous result with such an experiment, but he had to give the tactic a try. The loss of so many men was a steep cost, but it was a price he must pay in return for intelligence regarding his enemy’s dispositions. “Has there been any word from Solanthus?”

  “The last messenger to make it through the siege lines arrived more than a month ago. We’ve tried to send men in, but sporadic reports-by homing pigeon-indicate that none of them have made it through. There’s a cloud of magic around that place, no doubt caused by the Cleft Spires. Though it blocks our scrying attempts, it is also an asset-for it certainly protects the city against the magic of Ankhar’s Thorn Knights as well.

  “So Solanthus is still holding out. Discipline and morale are reportedly good, my lord, but the shortage of food is becoming the worst predicament. Most of the food is going to the fighting men, of course, so the suffering is greatest among the citizenry. It will not be long before the youngest and oldest citizens will be starving to death.”

  “And the duchess herself?”

  “She pleads for help, as soon as possible. But she also promises to hold out until we can break the siege,” reported Rankin. “She’s but a slip of a thing, and… well… when she married Duke Rathskell, we all made assumptions about her that have turned out to be wrong. By the gods-my men and I respect her now. We should be there with her!”

  For several years Rankin had been the captain in charge of the duke’s army. Following Rathskell’s death, he had retained his office but had been outside the city with his mobile forces when Solanthus was surrounded. Now his eyes grew moist and his voice broke from the obvious passion of his desire to return to the city and fight for its freedom.

  Jaymes himself showed little emotion in his face or voice. “The talents of the duchess obviously go far beyond the bedroom, you mean?” he asked.

  Rankin nodded, flushing slightly. “I admit I made a poor judgment of a great lady, my lord.”

  “We all made the same judgment, I’m afraid,” Dayr noted quickly, coming to Rankin’s rescue. “But she’s a better man than her late husband ever was.”

  “Indeed.” The marshal nodded, reflecting privately.

  “Good riddance to Rathskell, in any event,” M
arkus huffed. Each of the generals knew that Duke Rathskell had died on Jaymes Markham’s sword, but none of them saw any reason to mention the fact. Nor would they mention the fortune in gems that had vanished upon the duke’s death, though they must suspect that those stones were now being used to fund the expensive, and secret, operations of the distant, mysterious Compound.

  “Excuse me, my lords?”

  They looked up at the approach of a young knight, a clean-shaven officer who wore a tunic of white, emblazoned with small symbols of the Crown, the Rose, and the Sword.

  “Sir Templar? Please, join us,” Jaymes offered.

  “Thank you, my Lord Marshal. Welcome back-I am pleased to see that Kiri-Jolith has blessed you with a safe journey.”

  “Well, he didn’t place any undue obstacles in my path, and for that I myself am grateful,” Jaymes replied. “What can we do for you?”

  Templar was a knight-priest, a Clerist like Sergeant Heath, one of the new breed of clerical warriors who had begun to join the ranks of the Solamnics during the later campaigns of the War of Souls. With the disappearance of Paladine, the traditional high god of the knightly orders, the Clerists had been working hard to rebuild the faith of the troops. Some of them maintained devout worship of the merchant god Shinare, while many others, such as Templar, were devoted followers of Kiri-Jolith, the Just.

  “Well, my lord… it’s the dwarves. We have several good, solid priests among their ranks, and they are trying their best. It’s just that… well…”

  “Tell us-spit it out, man!” encouraged Dayr.

  “Well, the dwarves are refusing to take the Oath-they serve in the ranks of the Solamnic Army. But they won’t speak the words that pledge their commitment to all of the knightly cause!”

  “Well, they’re not knights, after all,” Jaymes said. “They’re not required to take the Oath. And it seems that too vigorous efforts to bend them to that ideal might only drive them away. I have known more than a few dwarves in my time, and every one of them is stubborn to the core. But also quite honorable, in their way.”