“Good.” Ankhar turned from the empty plains to the west, casting his eyes upon the great square block that rose from the foothills to the east. The city, a massif of stone, high walls, parapets, towers, and gates, filled the horizon. At this distance, Solanthus seemed like a range of mountains-only with spiked towers and flat stretches of wall.
Ankhar was a trifle unsettled when Hoarst, the Thorn Knight, materialized several dozen paces away from him and came walking up to join the human and half-giant on the hillside. The man’s teleportation magic was admirable, but Ankhar had taught him long ago not to blink himself into existence too close to his easily startled commander.
The trio stood in silence for a time, each gazing at Solanthus, each considering in his own way the problems of taking that great bastion. The entire place was surrounded by a lofty stone wall, more than thirty feet thick at the base. Numerous battle towers jutted above the main parapets; the humans could shower attackers with arrows, great rocks, and burning oil from these lofty vantages. Three massive gatehouses, each the size of a castle, provided access to the city at the west, north, and eastern walls.
To the south, Solanthus merged into the craggy foothills of the Garnet Mountains and was protected by an outcrop of rock that was separated from the rest of the range by a deep, almost impassable canyon. One road descended the north wall and climbed the southern face of this canyon, but it was easily covered by archers from the city’s parapets-any attacking force trying to advance in that direction would likely be decimated before it could reach within a half mile of the small south gate.
Inside the city walls could be glimpsed a double pillar of rock, the Cleft Spires. It stood as though it were a monolith of bedrock left over from some long-petrified and colossal forest and as though, at some point, a god had taken a great, immortal axe and cloven the thing in two. Now the two slabs of rock stood side by side with a narrow gap between them. Aligned to the east and west, the sun was channeled refulgently through the gap during the spring and fall equinoxes. It was rumored that any tasks performed under the light of this narrow sunbeam, between the massive shadows of the opposing spires, was destined to draw the attention of the gods. Of course, this attention could be manifested as good or ill, such caprice being ever the purview of the deities.
Now the spring equinox was past, of course, and the long, hot summer loomed. If the city could not be taken during the upcoming season, Ankhar feared that the Solamnics would finally catch up to him, their great forces breaking the death grip of his army and relieving the starving city from its long siege.
“Do you see weakness there?” the half-giant asked. He had formed his own opinion-favoring the West Gate-but he was interested in what these humans thought.
“The gate to the west of the walls is where we should muster our main attack,” Blackgaard declared. “See how it juts forth from the nearest angles of the main walls. It is not protected as thoroughly as the gates to the north and east. A large attack, with diversions to draw the attention away from the main effort, stands a fair chance of success.”
“I agree,” Hoarst said, “though it will be costly, in any event. Those gates are ancient, hewn from Vallenwood trunks that date back to the Age of Dreams. Even my most potent spells will be feeble against them; your army will have to storm the place with brute force, and there will be much shedding of blood.”
“I have seen the way you and your Thorns flit about with this teleport magic. Can you not magick yourself into the city and work some mischief there? Perhaps even assassinate this duchess who has rallied her people so well?”
Hoarst shrugged noncommittally. “You have asked me that before. If I could do so, I would not hesitate. But there remains an aura around the place-I believe it is keyed somehow to the godly power in those two great spires. For some reason, teleport magic-my teleport magic, in any event-cannot penetrate that barrier. My men and I have tried this many times, and always the spell is cast to no effect; that is, the caster remains outside the walls. We cannot use magic spells to penetrate the defenses.”
“Then it becomes a matter of smashing down a gate, probably the gate in the west,” Ankhar said, trying to sound hopeful. But in truth he did not feel very optimistic. Somehow the plan lacked imagination, flair.
“Do not despair, my son.” Laka spoke to Ankhar quietly, having shuffled up to the hilltop while the attention of the others was directed toward the city walls.
“Do you bring a message of hope?” he asked eagerly.
“I have lain with the Prince of Lies in my sleep, and he has given me a dream,” she said. “You cannot breach those walls by yourself, but with the aid of an unusual ally, the attack has a better chance of succeeding.”
“And what ally is this?” Ankhar inquired skeptically.
Laka grinned, and chanted in a sing-song voice.
“Flaming fist-ablaze of gaze,
Lord of fire, these walls will raze!”
Hoarst and Blackgaard exchanged a look.
“What does that mean?” pressed the half-giant, unfamiliar with the murky phrases.
“We must seek him on a quest-you and me, and the wizard should come too. It will not be easy, but if we succeed, you will gain the means to win this fight.”
“But how do you know that this mysterious ally will join forces with my horde?”
Laka produced a pair of metal rings from her pouch. They were steel bracelets, small enough to encircle her wrists, too small even to be worn by a normal-sized man such as Hoarst. To Ankhar, they would have made loose rings on his largest fingers.
“These will bind him to your service. They have been blessed by the Prince of Lies, and the magic-user will make them especially potent with a spell of mastery. When we put them on this being that we seek, the being will become your slave.”
“I know such a spell of mastery,” Hoarst said, his voice low. “But these bracers are so small-how can one who wears them be an ally of such incredible power?”
“Leave that to me… and to the Prince,” Laka said. “Cast your spell, and then we go seeking.”
“I’ll need to make some preparations. But I can begin tonight, and I might be finished in eight or ten hours.”
“Very well,” agreed the half-giant. “So let us start this quest in the morning.”
Ankhar’s optimism waned considerably as his mother led the trio on an arduous climb up a rocky ravine, ascending into the wilds of the Garnet range. Finally she halted, gesturing in triumph toward a shadowy cleft in the precipitous wall rising before them.
The mouth of the cave looked too small to accommodate Ankhar’s bulk, and he growled his disappointment. “This is the way we must go?” he asked.
“This is the cave that was shown to me in my dream,” Laka confirmed.
“Who or what is this ally?” he demanded to know, not for the first time.
Laka shook her head. “You will see when you see. Now come; we must make haste.”
“But how will I fit inside?” demanded Ankhar, leaning forward to peer into the cleft. The interior was lost in shadow.
“You will fit. But the wizard should go first,” Laka replied.
Hoarst stood beside the half-giant, his expression unreadable. He had consented to join the commander and the witch doctor on this quest-of course, he really had had no choice-though he had his doubts. Now he merely shrugged and started into the dark, stone-walled passage. He drew his rapier and murmured a word of magic, causing a glare of bright light to burst from the blade. Holding this metallic glow over his head, he led the way forward.
“You go next,” Laka said. “I’ll follow.”
Mutely, Ankhar lowered his head-not quite enough because almost immediately he bumped his noggin against a sharp stalactite-and followed. He had to edge sideways to move his bulky form through the tight passageway, and with a subsequent turn to the side, the pale daylight of the cave’s mouth was utterly screened from his view. But then the cavern widened, and the ceiling arched to a more c
omfortable height overhead. Hoarst and the light were moving a few paces in front of him, and the half-giant hurried unconsciously, reluctant to find himself isolated in the encompassing darkness. Laka, her dark eyes gleaming like sparks, traipsed after him with her short, nimble steps. She held her death’s-head talisman aloft, and the emerald stones glinted wickedly.
The green glow added to the light from Hoarst’s blade, and gradually Ankhar’s eyes adjusted to the darkness.
The cavern floor descended through a series of winding turns, not unlike the creek bed in a narrow canyon. Indeed, there were stones and boulders jumbled together as if they had been washed here by torrents of water. The half-giant shivered as he pictured a subterranean flood, a deluge sweeping through here that could drown him in the eternal depths of the world.
But the stones on the floor seemed dry, and any flood of old seemed long gone. The trio made their way deeper and deeper below the surface of Krynn. For a long time they walked. Ankhar had a hard time estimating the hours they had been underground. Nevertheless, he felt certain that they had walked many miles and gradually became convinced that those hours had stretched through the night and into the following day.
Of course, there was no way to tell by the absent sun. The chill of the subterranean shadow land penetrated his clothes and his skin, made his sweat clammy and acrid. The place was utterly soundless except for the faint sounds of their passage: the scuff of the Thorn Knight’s leather moccasins on the rocks, the clinking crunch of Ankhar’s hobnails. Laka’s breaths came from behind, sharp pants that indicated her exertion or perhaps her taut excitement.
The half-giant grunted as he pulled his bulky frame around a large boulder. He cursed under his breath every time his head knocked into an unseen overhead obstacle.
“Hold that damned light higher!” he hissed, irritated at the panic in his voice. Hoarst seemed to be pulling farther away from him. The magic-user obligingly halted and held his blade so the path at Ankhar’s feet was clearly revealed. The cavern floor continued to descend, growing steeper with every footstep until they were almost skidding down a narrow chute.
Abruptly Hoarst halted and raised a cautioning hand. Ankhar came up slowly behind him, straining to see. He saw exactly nothing, only a void of cold air. The magic-user waved his illuminated sword around, revealing that the cavern walls to the right, the left, and above them all abruptly terminated; so did the floor.
They appeared to stand at the edge of a vault of space.
“I saw this place in the dream!” Laka declared excitedly, her breath hot at Ankhar’s side. Her flashing eyes fixed upon the magic-user. “We must leave this cliff and get down to the bottom!”
Hoarst’s eyes narrowed, but he bit his tongue.
“How?” demanded Ankhar.
“You tell us!” Laka cackled, still staring at the Thorn Knight. “ You must get us down from here. To the bottom! And then our quest will go on.”
CHAPTER FIVE
THE WHITE WITCH
‘Hey, I thought we were going right to Coryn’s!” Moptop protested as the two travelers materialized on the highway about a mile south of the great city of Palanthas. The towers, walls, gates, and palaces of the place stood outlined by the morning sun, gleaming against a clear blue sky. “I’m the pathfinder, remember? What did you do to screw up my path?”
“We’ll be there in an hour or two,” Jaymes replied, starting forward with measured strides. “But first I’d like the people in the city to know that I’ve arrived.”
Ignoring the dozen additional questions and objections lodged by the kender, the lord marshal turned into a reputable livery stable. He purchased a fine white gelding with a saddle and tack to match the splendid animal. Thus mounted, he proceeded toward the city gate with the sulking kender perched on the saddle before him.
Palanthas sprawled along the southern shore of the Bay of Branchala, white and glittering and prosperous looking. The whole of the place was visible from the mountain road, and Jaymes found the sight both energizing and oddly sinister. He liked the commerce of the great city, the throngs of people, the wealth of goods and services unmatched anywhere else on Ansalon. But he distrusted the lords and nobles who ruled here, who jealously amassed then guarded their fortunes with such miserly greed.
The richest, and probably most miserly, of these was the lord regent of the city, Bakkard du Chagne. His palace was clearly visible from the road, for it stood not within the city walls, but upon the slopes of one of the mountains that rose over Palanthas. The Golden Spire, the regent’s lofty tower where his great treasure of gold was secured, rose from the midst of his residential compound, the highest point for miles around. It was a fitting location, Jaymes reflected, for Bakkard du Chagne to live, as the lord regent considered himself not of this place, but above it in all ways. He had cheated, stolen, deceived and-though only a few knew this-committed murder to achieve his station.
Jaymes was one who knew the full extent of the regent’s crimes. It was quite possible that he could have brought the arrogant nobleman tumbling down from his high pedestal by publicizing all that he knew. But such a destructive act would not serve any useful purpose, Jaymes had decided some time ago. So instead he had bit his tongue, taking some comfort from the fact that the regent knew he knew… and hated and feared him.
But Jaymes had not teleported to Palanthas to visit Bakkard du Chagne. He had other things in mind.
Moptop Bristlebrow brightened as the prancing gelding moved down the wide highway toward the city’s main gate. “Let’s go to the docks, first, all right?” the kender suggested, pointing excitedly. “They were bringing some huge crabs in from the north shore just before I left. Maybe there’s still a few claws left. They were giving them away!”
“Giving them away?” Jaymes mused. “I thought they were a delicacy-a few claws can pay the wages of a fisher for two tendays.”
“Well, they were giving them away to me,” Moptop declared offhandedly. “I guess other people might have to pay.”
“No doubt,” said the marshal. “But I don’t have time for crab claws just now. If you want to go to the waterfront, I’ll happily drop you off right here. It sounded like Lady Coryn’s summons was rather urgent, though, so I think I’d best check in with her.”
“Well, yeah. She did kind of indicate that it was important. So maybe I’ll go with you for now. And later on we can visit the docks, right?”
“Who rides there?” called a liveried sergeant at arms, wearing the tunic of the Palanthian Legion. He stepped into the roadway and raised his hand, while several comrades, armed with halberds or longbows, emerged from the shadows below the tower to stand beside him.
“The Lord Marshal of the Army of Solamnia,” Jaymes replied.
“Make way!” added the kender, unnecessarily it turned out, for the guards, recognizing the human rider, hastily had cleared out of the way.
“Welcome to Palanthas, my lord!” offered the sergeant, saluting smartly.
Jaymes nodded as he guided the horse through the open gate and along the main avenue leading to the heart of the city. People pointed and whispered, and several ladies tittered as he glanced in their direction. Boys went running down the streets, calling out the news of his arrival.
When he turned toward Nobles Hill, the lads shouted the news to the gathering citizens: “He’s going to the wizard’s house!”
Coryn lived in one of the great manors in that auspicious neighborhood, a house that was owned by the Mistress of the Red Robes, Jenna. The Head of the Orders of Magic, nowadays Jenna resided in the Tower of High Sorcery in Wayreth Forest, and had willingly ceded the use of her house to the powerful white-robed enchantress.
The Lady Coryn-the White Witch to some-was a fascinating figure to all of Solamnia. She was beautiful and mysterious, a wielder of immense power, a friend to the weak and downtrodden, and a ceaseless worker toward the future of a realm that was just, strong, and eternal. To Jaymes Markham she was all this… and much, much
more.
Jaymes kicked his new horse in the flanks, and the gelding agreeably broke into a jaunty trot. Jaymes scanned the streets, eager for his first glimpse of Coryn.
“Hey, you’re whistling!” noted the kender in delight. “I didn’t take you for a whistler! It’s like you’re suddenly happy or something. Are you?”
The Lord Marshal of the Solamnic Army frowned, shaking his head in surprise. “It’s been a long time,” he admitted. “I’m looking forward to seeing her again.”
“Well, there it is-that’s Coryn’s house, right there.”
“I know,” Jaymes said. If the sight brought back a whirl of memories-and it did-his face betrayed no hint of his emotions. Yet he kneed his horse’s flanks so hard that the steed tossed his head, bucking a little as they trotted into the wide courtyard.
The house was a splendid villa, dominating a shoulder of Nobles Hill. The yard was sprinkled with fountains, elaborate statuary spouting geysers that were magically sustained all day, every day. The original fountains had been created by Jenna, but Coryn enjoyed them enough to maintain them, and indeed, the splashing rivulets that babbled and gurgled in their basins added a soothing element to the enchanted environment.
“Hey-I see goldfish! Let me off here!” insisted Moptop as they rode past a deep pool lined with lily pads, home to a dozen or more huge, brilliantly hued carp. Jaymes obliged quickly, lowering the kender by one arm while barely slowing his horse.
He reined in as he drew up before great carved doors atop broad marble steps leading to a portico. A lad with a broad grin stepped down to take the reins of his horse.
“Hi, Donny,” Jaymes greeted him. “How did you know I was coming?”
“Well, Lady Coryn told me to keep an eye out; she thought you’d be here today. I’ll take care of your horse for you, my lord.”
“Thanks,” Jaymes replied, handing over the reins. “He deserves a good rubdown-but go easy on the oats until he’s rested a bit.”
“Will do, sir!” Donny led the gelding away, toward the stables on the far side of the courtyard, while Jaymes sauntered up the broad steps. The front doors opened before he reached them, and he nodded at Rupert’s welcoming smile.
The Crown and the Sword tros-2 Page 5
