The first rank of knights drew close to the great plaza, where thousands of Ankhar’s troops had collected. These goblins and hobs, ogres and humans-including many who had recently witnessed and survived the rampage of the giant elemental-were in disorder. Units were scattered; captains tried to reassemble their troops.
And none had been posted as sentries to watch the approaches.
The smoke swirled across the avenue, parting enough for some weary goblins to catch a glimpse of the approaching army. They shrieked a warning and turned to run. Others of Ankhar’s troops looked up, hastily raising arms, trying to discern the cause of the alarm. But none of the enemy units was formed or prepared to receive the charge of armored knights bearing lances.
Brianna felt a surge of transcendent emotion as the riders burst into the plaza. She had never killed in battle before, but now she felt an almost frantic urge to skewer the flesh of an enemy with her steel. A dozen goblins were scrabbling on their hands and knees right before her. They scrambled to get out of the way, but every one was pierced by a knight’s lance or crushed under the hooves of a charger before they could flee.
The attacking knights spread out, the first rank riding ahead. Brianna’s blade finally drank deep of blood as she slashed a burly shoulder-but the momentum of her racing horse drove the blade so deep the weapon was almost pulled from her hand.
The city’s infantry spilled into the plaza. They attacked with swords and axes, pikes and spears, and they exploded from all the smaller streets and alleys connecting the plaza to the rest of the city. Trumpets blared, blown by heralds on their light, fleet horses.
The lofty giant, its head still surrounded with oily smoke from its flaming eyes, was busy stalking across the plain outside the city. With vengeful purpose, it tore through the trenches and approach routes the ogres had so carefully excavated in the ruined gatehouse, smashing down great walls of stone, filling the entrenchments with muddy water. Breaking onto the plain, the elemental king reached Ankhar’s observation tower and crushed it flat with a single stomp of its massive leg. Its purposeful advance never hesitated, and soon it neared the headquarters camp of the half-giant’s army.
Brianna saw Jaymes, equally purposeful amidst the chaos. He had his sword in his hands now. He and the kender fought side by side, hacking and slaying at the head of a company of Solanthian footmen. The lord marshal’s eyes met the duchess’s, and he raised the weapon in a salute then dropped it to cut down a roaring ogre that the humans had surrounded and trapped.
Fighting raged around other pockets of resistance across the plaza, but there was only sporadic opposition as the Solanthians swiftly cut down every invader who didn’t have the sense to turn and retreat. Regardless, many managed to escape, crawling through the chaotic wreckage left in the elemental’s wake, scrambling for survival in panic.
Outside the ruined city wall, a few goblins raised their bows and fired volleys of arrows at the citizen army. Their missiles soared overhead and showered down on the plaza, but the volleys were not dense enough to slow the counterattack.
Ankhar’s troops were driven from the city, with all semblance of resistance shattered.
That Battle for Solanthus was won.
“Put the damned box together-now!” roared Ankhar. “Remember, old mother, Est Sudanus oth Nikkas! My power is my Truth!”
And the Truth, he could see with his own eyes, was that he was going to die very soon if they could not find a way to control the raging, uncontrolled elemental king.
It had burst out of the city, wiping out the tower and breastworks that had been constructed at such effort. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of Ankhar’s warriors had perished in the storm of its passage. The half-giant looked down at the little chip of wood in his hand, Hoarst’s wand, which he had lashed together with a leather thong. Surely the wand was useless.
Ankhar wished most fervently that he could become a dormouse or a bat or some other creature that could hide or beat a hasty retreat. But it was not to be, for even now the elemental king advanced toward the half-giant with great, determined strides.
“It is nearly ready,” said his stepmother with maddening calmness.
She knelt on the ground, carefully affixing the rubies to the outside of the tiny container. They were not attached with any adhesive; she had popped each stone into her mouth and murmured a prayer to the Prince of Lies as she held it against the flat surface. Each time she removed her hand, the stone stayed in place-until the last, when, simultaneously, four or five of the ruby chits had fallen at once.
Laka scrambled through the dust, trying to pick up the precious gems, while Ankhar growled and paced in agitation. “Hurry!” he barked, but this only caused his stepmother to halt and glare wordlessly up at him. This being the opposite of the effect he was trying to provoke, the half-giant angrily held his tongue, turning his back on the old hob-witch so he was not tempted to strike her the blow she so richly deserved.
The Thorn Knight, Hoarst, lay on the ground where Ankhar had set him down. The wizard’s eyes were open, but he was pale. He had not spoken since his wounding in the sudden sneak attack. His gray robe still bore the stain of the blood, now dried, shed when the lord marshal’s bolt had pierced his chest. He had borne the wound, and the retreat from the city, without complaint, but now the Gray Robe seemed near death.
Ankhar looked at the mage with faint scorn. He was furious about the surprise attack and blamed the wizard for failing to defend himself and his commander. But something in Hoarst’s cold, cruel eyes prevented the half-giant from rebuking him.
The elemental king was moving ever closer. The magical creature had emerged from the rubble of the ruined West Gate, kicking through the mass of goblins there. Troops scattered in every direction, shrieking in terror. Each step taken by the king crushed more of them, while its gusting winds hurled soldier after soldier through the air. Ankhar had ordered a rank of pikemen to form up before his headquarters, hoping to buy time, but the commander could only watch in contempt as the troops dropped their unwieldy weapons and fled long before the conjured creature was upon them.
The giant elemental drew closer and closer, and for the first time in his life, Ankhar felt pure, abject terror. Every fiber of his being urged him to turn and run. With a sneer that bared both of his tusks, he took up his heavy, emerald-tipped spear, and cocked back his arm for one final throw. He would not die without at least a symbolic resistance.
Hoarst spat one word, a noise like a guttural curse, and abruptly disappeared.
Then the elemental king was there, towering overhead. Ankhar cast his spear, and the creature swatted it aside like a pesky gnat. One mighty fist smashed outward, the monster aiming directly at the half-giant. It had clearly singled out Ankhar for death.
“I cannot fix the box!” cackled Laka in frustration. She looked up, her thin lips parted in a sneering grin. “You must help! You must wield the wand!”
Ankhar looked again at the toothpick of wood, pinched between the forefinger and thumb of his right hand. Shaking to his toes, he lifted the little thing and pointed it at the approaching monster.
And, before the killing blow could land, the king of the elementals turned and strode away.
The elemental king felt the repulsion effect of the magic wand as a despised presence that, however intangible, could not be defeated. It flailed and roared but almost immediately redirected its frustration toward other targets it could hate. There were many creatures moving across the plains, thousands of mortals that were not protected by the unseen talisman. A mighty foot kicked through a column of Dark Knights, scattering riders and steeds high into the air. Screaming and thrashing, the doomed creatures tumbled back to earth, their broken bodies strewn, shattered upon the ground.
A group of hobgoblin archers took flight at the monster’s approach, and the king sent a tornado tearing through their ranks. Roaring with fresh freedom, the monster kicked through the rear ranks of the army. It felt unconstrained, released.
/> And the whole vast Plain of Solamnia was open before it.
The kender looked up at Jaymes, and even in the shadows of late afternoon, the lord marshal noted the rarity of tears in his eyes. Smoke swirled around them, but the worst of the battle was over, the noise muted. Soldiers moved about, counting the dead.
“She said I was a good pathfinder,” Moptop said plaintively.
He held the duchess Brianna’s head in his lap. An arrow jutted grotesquely from her neck. There was blood everywhere. “I should have looked out for her better!”
Jaymes knelt and reached to her neck, feeling for a pulse, even though the effects of that arrow were obvious and telling.
The Duchess of Solanthus was dead.
CHAPTER TWENTY
MISSIONS URGENT
The body of the duchess was laid in state in the great hall of the ducal palace. Though Ankhar’s troops had been completely driven from the city, the shocked and shaken people of Solanthus couldn’t celebrate a victory. The troops of the garrison returned to their walls, and labored to build a defensive position across the bloody battleground of the West Gate. The rest of the populace gathered, quietly grieving, around the looming bulk of the Cleft Spires and across the plaza, the ducal palace.
Within that lofty structure, Lords Harbor and Martin took the lead in walking slowly, reverently, past the casket, while the other captains, nobles, and guildmasters of the city assembled in the anteroom. One by one, the others filed past to pay their last respects.
Duchess Brianna looked beautiful and at peace. Coils of copper hair surrounded her face and concealed the gruesome wound caused by the arrow that had taken her life. Her slender hands were folded on her stomach, her eyes closed as though she slumbered.
The penultimate person to go through that line was the professional guide and pathfinder extraordinaire who had cradled Duchess Brianna’s head as she breathed her last. The kender paused at the casket, standing on tiptoes so he could lean closer to the body. Moptop sniffled loudly, the tears flowing from his eyes unchecked.
“You didn’t deserve to get killed like that,” he said, gently touching her cold cheek. “You ought to have seen the battle won, and the fire giant chasing after Ankhar and everything. You would have been real happy about it. I… I’m sorry you didn’t,” he said.
The last person in the funeral line was Lord Marshal Jaymes Markham, commander of the Army of Solamnia. He, too, paused for a moment to look down at the still, beautiful features of the dead duchess. If her death caused him any heartache, any fury, or sense of injustice, he carefully concealed such emotions. He touched the fingers of her right hand then strode away as the priests of Kiri-Jolith came forward to close the casket and prepare for the funeral. She would be borne through the city to give the people a chance to say farewell and would be interred in the nobles’ vault beneath the northernmost of the Cleft Spires.
Jaymes made his way through the throng of officers to the two lords, who were standing on the front steps of the temple. The plaza was filled with people and was silent except for the sound of muffled sobbing.
“I need to leave the city,” Jaymes said to the two lords. “I intend to return, as soon as possible, with the army.”
“What if the elemental returns?” asked Harbor guardedly. “How will we stand against it without you?”
“We couldn’t stand against it this time,” Jaymes replied. “Perhaps you should pray to whichever gods you hold holy that it finds another target for its wrath. If it returns here again, there may be nothing we can do to stop it.”
“Surely Ankhar will send the elemental again,” said Lord Martin. He stared at the enemy army still massed beyond the city wall, tears in his eyes.
“We can only hope not,” Jaymes said. “It seems to me our attack against the Thorn Knight has weakened his hold upon the monster, somehow. For that, we have your son-and his noble sacrifice-to thank.”
“How long will you be gone?” asked Harbor.
The lord marshal shrugged. “Ankhar’s army has suffered terrible losses-it will be days, at the least, before it can recover enough to make any kind of attack. By then my army should be across the Vingaard in force. If Ankhar stays put, we’ll be ready to hit him from the rear and-with fortune-break his army for once and for all.”
“Very well-but make haste!” said the nobleman, descendent of a long line of noblemen.
Jaymes merely stared at him coldly for a long time until Lord Harbor finally harrumphed, mumbled something, turned, and walked away.
“We’re grateful that you came,” Sir Martin said. “The cost has been high, but without you the battle surely would have been lost, with the effects catastrophic.”
“Your son was a very brave man, a credit to the Kingfishers,” Jaymes said. “I will see that word of his valor is carried to Sancrist, to the Whitestone Council and the Grand Master.”
“Thank you, my Lord Marshal.” For just a moment, Martin’s voice broke. Then he stood firm, at attention, with his hand on the hilt of his sword.
“Est Sularus oth Mithas,” he said.
Generals Markus, Dayr, and Rankin rode together near the head of their massive combined army. They were making good progress, the enemy troops having fallen back all across the plains as soon as the river crossing was consolidated. Solanthus lay no more than forty miles ahead, and they were driving their troops at double time in their urge to close upon the city, break the siege, and learn what had become of the lord marshal.
Their eyes were fixed upon the horizon, seeking their first sign of the enemy or the besieged city. What they saw instead was a horror, a monstrous figure of fire and earth, wind and water, which strode across the plains like a rampaging storm. It howled down upon their vanguard, scattering the light cavalry that was screening the advance.
The generals ordered their troops to stand firm, but the hulking elemental king came on like a whirlwind, mowing through the lines. Men screamed and died, hurled through the air like chaff and smashed to the ground like children’s toys. Hundreds died, and many more fled in terror when it became apparent they could do nothing to impede the monster. The great herds of horses and cattle that accompanied the army broke away from their drovers and fled in panic, thousands of animals stampeding across the plains.
Many survived only because the horrific monster swooped down on them, tore through the lines, and moved on. It did not so much as glance over its shoulder as it stormed on, taking no more note of its pathetic victims than a tornado would notice the shattered and broken farms left damaged and ruined in its wake.
“Really?” Moptop’s eyes were wide. “You want me to go?”
“There’s no one else who would even have a chance,” Jaymes affirmed with a straight face. “This task calls for a professional guide and pathfinder extraordinaire.”
“Well, sure, if you want me to, I’ll go.” The kender nodded his head, his topknot bobbing enthusiastically. He and Jaymes were speaking together in the shadow of the Cleft Spires, even as the funeral for the duchess was proceeding through the city’s great central square. The lord marshal had brought Moptop here with a whispered word then leaned down and spoken conspiratorially to the kender.
“You know, I think she would have wanted me to go, too,” Moptop said seriously, looking out across the plaza at Duchess Brianna’s funeral procession, with the hearse pulled by a dozen black horses. The vast sea of people had parted, almost magically, to open a path for the hearse. The crowd watched, mostly in silence, though there were enough murmured prayers that the whole throng seemed to be softly chanting.
“I’m sure she would have.”
“But… I just remembered something! When we came out of the Cleft Spires, the wall turned real solid and rocky behind us, remember? I don’t think I can get back through that way. Too solid and rocky.” The kender gazed apprehensively at the tall pillars and their impermeable surface of flat, hard stone.
“No, I doubt that you can.”
“Then how do you
think I should go about it?” Moptop asked, his voice wavering. “Considering, I have to go… I know she would want me to, and everything. But- how? ”
“As I said, you’re the very best professional guide and pathfinder extraordinaire,” Jaymes said. He touched the little fellow’s shoulder and gave him an encouraging squeeze. “I’m thinking you’ll have to discover a new path.”
A palace servant ushered Jaymes back to the guest chamber, which he had never slept in, and when he entered, alone, he closed the door behind himself and locked it
After a quick look around the room, he pulled the curtains away from the wall, checked inside the two large wardrobes, and went to the panel concealing the secret passage connecting this room to the sleeping chamber of the duchess. The door opened soundlessly. He took an oil lamp from a nearby table, lit it, and entered the narrow, straight corridor. The door slid shut behind him, and he made his way quickly.
When he reached the other end of the corridor, he placed his ear to the panel and listened for a moment, hearing nothing. Carefully he opened the secret door and stepped into the sleeping chamber of Duchess Brianna. He halted just inside, extinguished the lamp, and set it down. The drapes were open on the large windows, revealing a view to the west and a spectacular sunset over the area that had, hours earlier, been a bloody battleground.
The room was very much as he had left it that very morning. The bed had been made, the two wine glasses and empty decanter removed, but there was no obvious sign that the person who had lived here would not be returning at any moment. He hesitated, looking at the bed and the gauzy dressing gown draped casually over a nearby chair.
After a moment Jaymes crossed the room to the elegant, mirrored dressing table. He almost flinched at the sight of himself in that reflecting glass: he was dirty, his beard was plastered to his chin, and one eye was nearly swollen shut from a blow he’d taken during the fighting. His hands were filthy, too, and he hesitated again before touching the pearl handle on one of the lady’s dresser drawers.
The Crown and the Sword tros-2 Page 26
