The Crown and the Sword tros-2

by Douglas Niles

  “Be ready!” the half-giant ordered Hoarst unnecessarily as the dark wizard bore a very serious mien as he took out the manacles and held them in his hands, watching Laka warily.

  “Now follow these instructions,” the shaman continued. If she was as worried as her companions, she was giving no outward sign. “Place the stone in that bowl. Good. Now the water.” Ankhar spilled the muddy contents of the pouch into the depression on the second pedestal. He glared at it expectantly, but nothing much seemed to be happening.

  Laka herself rolled the glowing remnant of the fire elemental into the third bowl. Ankhar’s hand nervously clutched the haft of his spear as she readied the fourth sack, the puffy balloon of air. Hoarst’s eyes followed the shaman’s every move.

  The ancient shaman held the sack of air over the fourth bowl and abruptly compressed the bag, forcing the little gust into the depression. Immediately Ankhar sensed a new, ominous presence. That was the only change, except perhaps for the ember of the fire elemental, which flared brightly, as if it had been fanned by a bellows. The half-giant spun on his heel, looking to the right and left, hardly realizing that he had raised his spear before his chest and was holding it at the ready in both of his big hands.

  Then he heard a fresh sound, a faint roaring, like a distant gale that gradually swelled in volume and power. The lump of stone quivered, and the little puddle of dirty water shimmered and shook. It seemed as though the ground under his feet were vibrating. The shaking caused several large pieces of the cavern’s ceiling to break free. These shattered on the rocky wastes or splashed into the lava lake, raising great spumes of liquid fire into the air. Debris rained down, barely missing the three intruders.

  But this random bombardment was all but forgotten when the tangible presence of something massive, magical, and monstrous took shape on the little clearing atop the island. Ankhar lifted the spear, but there was nothing to strike, no tangible foe.

  Yet, undeniably, something was there.

  Amid the noise that howled around them like a hurricane, Ankhar felt a faint tickle of something, like a breath of wind, caressing the back of his neck. He spun around, stabbing with his spear, then felt the same eerie touch behind him. The sensation raced down his arms and along his spine, and he imagined invisible ants crawling all over his skin. He glared at his companions, wondering if they felt the same disturbing sensations. Laka’s eyes were aglow, her thin lips drawn back, revealing her irregular yellow fangs in a grotesque caricature of a smile. She threw back her head and crowed exultantly, a ululating cry that was almost overwhelmed by the cacophony swelling in the air.

  Hoarst stood still, the slender metal bracelets in his hand. Ankhar wanted to curse the Thorn Knight for an inept fool-how could he think those little trinkets could contain even a fraction of the palpable, fundamental force that was drawing in on them like a cloak, a noose.

  A physical presence pushed against him, shoving Ankhar almost to the lip of the steep slope. He pushed back, and though he couldn’t see anything, he felt resistance, as solid and palpable as a rock. The half-giant pushed as hard as he could, but it was like trying to push away a mountain; not only did the unseen presence fail to budge, it barely responded to his exertion.

  Ankhar saw that Laka and Hoarst, likewise, had been pushed to the perimeter of the small clearing by the new threat that was taking shape. Although he raised his spear, the half-giant realized it would be futile to strike a blow, and instead he gaped upward, wondering how the three of them could possibly hope to survive this creation of a god.

  A pair of burning eyes glared down at the three intruders, like spots of fire in the heart of a blast furnace. A mouth took shape amidst the vague semblance of a face, and when that mouth opened, the bellow that emerged shook the very air with a pure power that superseded the hurricane roar surrounding them, rattled the ground, and roiled Ankhar’s guts, almost compelling him to drop to his knees and beg for mercy.

  Only his unwillingness to shame himself in front of his companions kept him on his feet. Laka was glaring upward with her usual fierce, exultant grin, while Hoarst looked remarkably calm as he shifted the pair of manacles he held in his hands.

  But as yet, there was nothing to shackle. Between the fiery eyes and cyclonic breath and the rock-solid pillars of legs, there was an intangible middle, only a wispy outline that churned and billowed like a storm cloud. The wisps parted for a moment, and Ankhar briefly spotted a heart of pure water, pulsing and surging like a living organ, shooting gouts of fire and water and air throughout the condensing, gigantic form.

  Abruptly, two arms took shape, each as large around as Ankhar’s waist. They were capped by fists of black rock, attached to the huge torso by seething tendrils of black cloud. The half-giant almost laughed aloud at the absurdity of trying to subdue those great limbs with the tiny manacles, toylike, that Hoarst was now raising in the air.

  “It is time!” cried Laka, her shrill voice somehow piercing the thunderous commotion-almost as if she had spoken directly into the minds of Ankhar and Hoarst.

  The magic-user shouted out some arcane phrase that was immediately swallowed by the din. He held aloft the two measly rings of metal. But the manacles glowed brightly and caught the attention of the fire-eyed giant. Its mouth gaped, a cavernous maw that sucked in air like a vortex, sweeping Ankhar off his feet and sending Hoarst, clutching his manacles, lurching forward toward that ravenous orifice.

  The mighty creature’s two fists swung together, down toward the Thorn Knight, a blow that would inevitably crush the magic-user to jelly. Ankhar felt awe at the human’s courage, to face such a fate without quailing. He himself was ready to turn and run, uncaring of the steep hillside or the burning lake at ground level. The half-giant was doomed, for certain, and the only choice he had was to select the manner of his death.

  Instead of fleeing, however, he continued to stare, rapt and horrified, as the creature’s mighty fists swept toward the Thorn Knight. As they did, the glowing bracelets changed, surprisingly; they were still shooting beams of golden light, but they had grown huge all of a sudden and were great hoops outstretched in the magic-user’s hands. Then, in a flash too quick for Ankhar’s eye to follow, the manacles were gone from Hoarst’s grasp, magically transported to clap themselves around the arcane giant’s wrists.

  In that same instant the great gale of noise fell away, utterly vanquished by the power of Hoarst’s spell. The monstrous creature still stood before them, but its mouth was closed, its blazing eyes banked. The thing raised its two great fists, staring in stupefaction at the golden rings that encircled its arms and compelled its obedience.

  A groan sounded in the stillness. The Thorn Knight, pale and trembling, was swaying on unsteady legs, and Ankhar quickly stepped to his side, grabbing him before he collapsed.

  Laka, overjoyed by their success, launched into a frenzied, primitive dance, gyrating around the shackled monster and calling out praises in the name of the Prince of Lies.

  Ankhar lowered the unconscious Hoarst to the ground and looked up at their new slave, the king of the elementals, a mighty recruit for his surely now-invincible horde.

  Laka grinned triumphantly at her son, making a dismissive gesture toward the Thorn Knight, stretched on the ground. The magic-user would recover soon enough.

  She produced a small box, studded with bright rubies, and opened the lid. She hurried to each of the four pedestals to collect a bit of residue from each, scraping it into her box. She placed that box between the mighty feet of the elemental king, and it slowly began to shrink, as if the entirety of that massive form was being sucked into the little container. In just a few breaths, indeed, the monstrous being had disappeared, and all that was visible, when Ankhar peered down into the box, were the two metal rings, circlets again small enough that they would have looked comfortably sized around his stepmother’s thin, bony wrists. She lifted the sparkling red box and handed it to the half-giant.

  He gazed upon it in wonder. Ankhar mutter
ed in pleasure, “The walls of Solanthus will not stand for long.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE DUEL

  The lord marshal left Selinda in her chambers. The princess was still distraught but at the same time overwhelmed by her new pledge of troth. She had wavered between weeping and pleading, and he had been forced to physically pry her arms from around him.

  Gently but firmly Jaymes told her it was time for him to go and defend himself. He asked her not to come and witness the duel, but had little doubt she would do as she pleased.

  The contest was to take place in an area called the Dog Run, which was actually a small courtyard to the rear of du Chagne’s massive palace. Jaymes was making his way there, alone through the empty hall, when he spied a white shape among the shadows. Coryn stepped into view from between two pillars where she had been waiting for him.

  “Hello,” he said lightly. “I imagine you’ve heard the news. Came for the spectacle, did you?”

  “I came to warn you,” she snapped. “Du Chagne is up to something. This whole match smells of his doing, and he’s not enough of a gambler to take chances with such a game. They must have something rigged, some kind of treachery.”

  “I don’t doubt that for a moment,” he agreed. After a pause, he added, “Thanks for the warning, though. I’ll be careful. I had hoped… that is, would you second for me?”

  She nodded curtly. “Yes, Kingfisher Moorvan and I have agreed to keep an eye on things. The Clerist inquisitor will be the judge of the event. He’s du Chagne’s man, but I think he still has a conscience-unlike some of the rest of that circle.”

  “If you say so,” Jaymes replied. He did not appear overly concerned about the matter.

  “Listen. You have to understand, I won’t be able to do anything to help you,” Coryn warned.

  “I realize that. Don’t worry; I can take care of myself.”

  “Can you? It was only two nights ago that the Kingfisher distracted you with a spell, so much so that you completely forgot your purpose in coming here. If it wasn’t for that misadventure, we wouldn’t be in this mess today.”

  He glared at her. “Well, I will count on you to guard against any further magical treachery. As for Frankish’s steel, I shall meet that threat on my own terms.”

  She drew a harsh breath. “What were you thinking, letting him goad you into a match like this? He’s the most accomplished swordsman in Palanthas; he kills for sport. While you-you have far more important things to do, like winning the war against Ankhar! Instead, you’re risking your life in a duel over a woman!”

  “Believe it or not, winning this duel might aid the war campaign more than anything else I could be doing right now. This duel is not over just any woman, remember. And I told you: I didn’t instigate the challenge, Frankish did. But now that I have agreed to a duel, I think I can turn the situation to my advantage.”

  “How?” she demanded.

  “You’ll have to wait, but you’ll see, just like everyone else. Meanwhile, you might be interested to know that your potion seems to be very effective.”

  “Dammit, why do you have to be so difficult?” she cried, tension cracking her voice. Angrily she clamped her mouth shut, her lips set in a thin line. “Just try not to get your head lopped off!” she snapped before turning and stalking away into the darkness.

  “I will try,” he said, too quietly for her to hear, before he followed her to the gate leading to the Dog Run.

  Coryn and the Kingfisher were standing side by side at the opposite end of the Dog Run. The two mages wore solemn expressions. The lord regent, together with his aide-de-camp, the Baron Dekage, stood to their left. The Clerist Knight Inquisitor Frost stood in the traditional judge’s position, halfway around the right side of the oval floor.

  The courtyard was relatively small, with high walls on all sides enclosing the interior. Jaymes came through the barred door at one end to see that someone had installed burning torches in sconces around the wall. The run was lit up almost as bright as day. In a way that was a disadvantage to the lord marshal, who had keen night vision.

  Just then Selinda arrived, accompanied only by her servant, Marie. Both young women were breathless and pale, with Marie trailing the agitated princess.

  “My dear! This is no place for you!” the lord regent insisted as soon as his daughter came through the gate.

  “Actually, Father, this is the only place for me!” she replied coldly.

  “But, my princess-” Lord Frankish began to object.

  She whirled upon him, eyes flashing, spitting her words. “How dare you presume to speak to me… or for me! If you think you will win my heart by slaying anyone who stands in your path, you know me very poorly, my lord. It will be my pleasure to watch your blood spill onto the ground!”

  Frankish drew himself up stiffly. “If you have so little care for your honor, at least take heart from the fact there are others who will watch out for you. Whatever bewitchment this wretch has-”

  “You’re a bully and killer!” she interrupted. “And I care not a whit for your protection.”

  With a visible effort she composed herself, stood tall-and she was an unusually tall woman-and glared first at Lord Frankish then at her father. Her next words were spoken carefully and with quiet dignity.

  “You both should know that I have pledged my hand to Lord Marshal Jaymes Markham this night. There is nothing either of you can do to change that fact. So put aside your foolish notions of honor, all of you. Leave here and go to bed. This is a fight over nothing.”

  Du Chagne’s face paled, while Frankish displayed an opposite effect: a flush of bright crimson slowly crept upward from his neck, through his cheeks, and over his forehead. His eyes were furiously fixed upon Jaymes.

  “I don’t know what treachery, what villainy, you have managed to work,” Frankish addressed Jaymes. “But for those very words uttered by this gracious lady, for that alone, you must die and face an eternity of torment in the Abyss.”

  Jaymes stoically ignored the taunt, glancing at Coryn, who was glaring at him with a fury that matched Frankish’s. He looked away, rather than meet her jealous gaze.

  The Princess Selinda du Chagne stalked away from her father and went to stand at the opposite side of the courtyard. Selinda stared at the lord marshal with almost hypnotic intensity, her hands pressed to her mouth as the torches sputtered and smoked over her head. Her eyes were shining and her skin was taut; she looked as proud as she was terrified.

  Lord Frankish came over to stand beside Jaymes, though neither man further acknowledged the other. The lord inquisitor came forward and placed a small table before the pair of combatants, upon which he set a long case. Frost opened the case to reveal two long, slender rapiers of impeccable craftsmanship, made of fine dwarven steel, with lethal, needle-sharp tips.

  “Lord Frankish has issued the challenge. It falls to the lord marshal to select his weapon first,” the Clerist declared.

  Jaymes merely chose the closer of the two swords, swishing it through the air a few times, admiring its balance. He took the tip in his left hand and bent the blade, impressed by the supple strength of the steel.

  “This will do,” he said as Frankish grabbed the other blade and pronounced himself similarly satisfied. Immediately the table and the empty box were whisked away. The judge returned and swiftly patted down the two warriors, checking to see that neither concealed any extra weapons. The lord inquisitor declared the contestants suitably armed.

  Next the two wizards circled the Dog Run slowly, methodically. Each cast a magic detection spell upon the two duelists, ensuring that neither wore a ring or other magical device. They examined the walls, the gates, and even the torch sconces for anything untoward. Sir Moorvan and finally Lady Coryn pronounced the arena free of magic.

  “Take your positions,” Lord Inquisitor Frost ordered, guiding Jaymes to the left and Frankish to the right. “Ten steps away.”

  The Clerist knight stood at attention, clearing hi
s throat. Lord Frankish looked at Jaymes with undiluted hatred, while Lord Regent du Chagne’s face was a mask.

  Lord Marshal Jaymes Markham bristled at all the rigmarole. It was time to get on with it, by all the gods!

  Selinda blew him a kiss, even as her eyes were bright with tears.

  And Coryn the White still glared at him through slit eyes.

  “The Solamnic duel is a challenge of great import and tradition,” the inquisitor intoned, speaking to both combatants directly. “From the times of antiquity, the knighthood has placed full faith in the tenets of the Oath and Measure, and nowhere else are those tenets so clearly on display.”

  That was patently illogical, thought Jaymes, but he betrayed no emotion as the Clerist lord continued to speak.

  “This is a test of arms… and of skill… and of courage. Know that there is no shame in defeat, should a knight give his best effort in the attempt. At any time either combatant may surrender to spare bloodshed-simply by throwing down his weapon and calling for mercy. The foe is honor bound to obey such a plea and will be regarded as the winner of the duel, though the loser remains alive.”

  “A waste of words, priest,” Frankish sneered. “This cur will never submit, and I will have no need for mercy.”

  “Nevertheless,” Frost admonished sternly. “The disengagement is ingrained in the tradition of the duel. It will be observed.”

  The two duelists eyed each other carefully. Jaymes fingered his blade. Though the rapier was not his weapon of choice, he was skilled in its use and confident in his speed and quickness.

  He was not afraid.

  “Now-let the combat commence,” the inquisitor pronounced after a long pause.

  Lord Frankish approached swiftly, his weapon poised, feet gliding across the dusty floor of the Dog Run. Jaymes shifted slightly, anticipating his opponent’s first strike, and made ready to sidestep. But Frankish launched a whirling attack, and the lord’s sword moved faster than Jaymes’s eyes could follow. He raised his own weapon in the planned parry, but felt a slash on his arm before his blade could make its block.