“Well,” General Dayr said, with the first smile that had graced his visage since the successful crossing of the Vingaard. “That rather changes things, I should say.”
Selinda disdained the great temple in the center of Palanthas, and instead had selected a modest chapel of Kiri-Jolith for her wedding site. The whole city was celebrating the holiday, but there would be less than a hundred people who could actually crowd into the small building. Of these guests, virtually all were friends of the bride from the court or diplomats who represented places from across Ansalon.
The presiding cleric, Melissa du Juliette, a young priestess of Kiri-Jolith, was not the most experienced nor best-known member of the clergy. But she had been a young maid at the regent’s court when Lady du Chagne was alive, and there she had befriended and mentored the young princess. Now Selinda remembered her wisdom, affection, and kindness and asked Melissa to preside over the marriage ceremony. Melissa had warned Selinda that she would offend a number of the temple’s hierarchy by selecting the young priestess to perform the ceremony, but the princess had shrugged away her concern.
“I have offended them already,” Selinda said coolly. “Jaymes is not a nobleman, and this match is unthinkable to the hidebound who consider themselves the adjudicators of what is right and proper. But I love him… and I believe he is the greatest man of the age.”
“Marrying for love is good,” Melissa replied diplomatically. “Though your courtship did happen so quickly. Are you sure you don’t want to wait for a little time to pass?”
“No-we must marry now. We are both in a hurry. And he has a war to win!”
“This immediate wedding-was it his idea?” asked the priestess.
“I can’t even recall,” the princess declared. “No-he proposed to me, of course, but I insisted we marry at once, before he returns to the front. Oh, Melissa, I’m so happy!”
“I’m glad,” the cleric said, tenderly touching the younger woman on the cheek.
So the nuptials were arranged and commenced before sunset on that very day. The lord regent was present, looking splendid in a gold frock coat and powdered wig. He escorted his daughter down the aisle in the center of the great church, bowing-ever so slightly-as Lord Marshal Jaymes Markham stepped forward. The princess gave her father a peck on the cheek then took the arm of the man she was marrying.
If anyone noticed that neither Lord Inquisitor Frost nor the Kingfisher, Sir Moorvan, was in attendance, they did not remark on the fact. There were whispered comments, however, about the absence of Coryn the White-who was known to be in the city. She was a famous ally of the regent’s, a friend of the bride, and a steadfast companion of the groom’s, so where was she? Inevitably her absence provoked speculation. Was she jealous of the princess? Did she, in fact, love Jaymes Markham, as many gossiped? Or did she have secret reasons for objecting to the match?
The celebration was heightened when good news arrived from the battlefield. Carrier pigeons brought the first reports, but overnight several couriers arrived from the plains, riding their staggering horses through the city gates. Their dispatches were posted throughout the city, announcing the relief of Solanthus, the general retreat of Ankhar’s army, and the continued advance of the Army of Solamnia. Even without its famous commander, the steadfast Knights of the Rose, Crown, and Sword were liberating conquered lands and rekindling the legendary glories of their historic orders.
Everyone agreed the bridal couple made a splendid match-boding well for the future of the Solamnic nation. To the common people it mattered little that Jaymes Markham was not of the nobility. His martial air inspired awe and boosted by the good news from the front, fresh admiration. As for Selinda, she embodied the city’s legacy, symbolized by the lofty rank of lord regent held by her father, the highest ranking possible in the Solamnic territories, considering the kingship no longer existed.
When at last Jaymes and Selinda made their appearance outside the chapel, the citizens in the square cheered lustily. Selinda was radiant in a gown of white silk, embellished with gauze, accented with strands of pearls at her throat and wrapped around both wrists. Her golden hair, coiffed magnificently atop her head, sparkled with an array of diamond combs. Her happiness was plain to all, as she did not wear a veil.
The lord marshal, somewhat to the surprise of the few who knew him, was also resplendent. He wore a red coat, white trousers, and tall black horseman’s boots that had been shined to a fault. A black, knee-length cape accented his wedding garb. Jaymes wore a ceremonial sword-which the most astute recognized as the blade with which he had killed Lord Frankish in the duel-in a jeweled scabbard at his belt.
They stood at the plaza, accepting the accolades of the throng, for nearly half an hour, until people pressed so close that the honor guard of Rose Knights from the Palanthian Legion was forced back almost to the door of the little church. Before the couple turned to reenter the chapel, Jaymes leaned over and spoke briefly to the captain of the honor guard.
“Have the legion assemble outside the city tonight, in bivouac,” he said. “We march for the plains at first light.”
“As you command, my Lord Marshal,” replied the captain, awed and overwhelmed by his new leader. He and his men had been forced to cool their heels in the city for the past two years, while their counterparts in the three armies had been waging a glorious campaign for Solamnia. Now they would see action at last!
By the time the doors closed behind Jaymes and Selinda, the captain was already gathering his lieutenants, issuing orders, and ensuring the lord marshal’s command would be immediately obeyed.
The lights winked out in the great manor on Nobles Hill, except for the pale glow that emanated from the central alcove in the wizard’s laboratory. The image in the bowl had just been displaying the plaza, with its cheering throng and the newlywed couple, and now it returned to the interior view of the chapel of Kiri-Jolith, following through the door as Jaymes and Selinda passed inside, away from the adoring crowd.
The white wizard was very still as she watched the image, her hands tightening into white-knuckled fists that gripped each side of the porcelain bowl. Coryn watched as the couple passed into a darkened hallway, toward a side door that would emerge onto a quiet street where a carriage awaited, the conveyance that would take them up the hill to the regent’s palace for their wedding night.
Before they reached the door, the white wizard saw, Selinda paused and pulled on Jaymes’s arm to stop him. She looked up at him, her eyes, her whole face, radiating a transcendent happiness. With a sly smile-a smile Coryn had seen many times, very near to her own mouth-the lord marshal leaned down and kissed his bride. He gathered her into his strong arms in an embrace. The princess pulled him even closer, her arms reaching around his neck, pulling him down as they pressed their lips together.
Coryn splashed the wine with her fist, scattering the liquid around the room. Then she put her face into her hands and cried.
The next morning Jaymes rode out before dawn. The legion camp was already astir, as Captains Weaver and Roman had anticipated their new commander’s arrival.
“Tell me your numbers,” the lord marshal said as he dismounted, accepting a cup of steaming tea hurriedly brought by a captain’s aide.
“We have a little more than a thousand Knights of the Rose,” reported Weaver, “two thousand pikes, an equal number of longbows, and better than three thousand militia swordsmen, in companies of three hundred men apiece.”
“Good,” said the lord marshal. “Weaver, I hereby promote you to general. Captain Roman, you will be second in command. The legion will now be known as the Army of Palanthas, and we will be marching over the High Clerist’s Pass to the Vingaard and beyond.”
“Yes, my lord! Thank you!” declared the two officers.
“Now, let’s get these troops on the way. We have a war to win.”
CHAPTER TWENTY — THREE
CONCENTRATIONS
‘Do you think it has a chance of working this time
?” Sulfie asked, eyeing the bombard weapon skeptically. The weapon was a massive tube, half again as long as the previous versions and somewhat thicker. It was angled slightly upward, the muzzle facing in the general direction of a small lake in the valley below. “Even with all the extra steel holding the boards together, I’m not sure it will be enough.”
“All we can do is ram a ball down the barrel and see what happens,” the mountain dwarf replied philosophically. “But if this one doesn’t work, I’m not sure we’re ever going to be able to get something we can use.”
The bombard was set up on a low ridge beside the New Compound. The target range was downstream of the town and industrial complex, a shallow body of water marked by lily pads and few floating geese who were-they hoped-about to be startled out of their reverie. The already thriving town snaked along the valley floor below them, a swath of wooden buildings, smoking foundries, and storage yards that was already larger than the original Compound in the Vingaard range.
In a matter of only three weeks, the whole place had sprung into existence, transforming a pastoral wilderness into a smoking, churning manufacturing center. Houses for the workers were still going up, a dozen of them every day, but the production facilities were going strong. Charcoal was being rendered in long fire sheds, and great mixing chambers measured and prepared the charcoal, sulfur, and saltpeter in proper proportions to create the black powder.
One reason for the increased size of the installation was the enthusiastic participation of the dwarves of Kaolyn. No doubt inspired by the new market for their steel, that alloy of legendary strength and flexibility, the dwarf king himself had taken an interest in Dram’s endeavors. He had sent several master smiths and stone carvers, as well as miners and forgers, to work in the New Compound-for very good wages, of course.
Soon after the manufacturing was under way, Dram had received word from the Solamnic Armies. The lord marshal was marching overland from Palanthas, leading a large reinforcement of fresh troops, the Palanthian Legion, to join the forces in the field. The mountain dwarf knew that battle was imminent, and any help from the New Compound was urgent.
Rogard Smashfinger, the emissary of the king of Kaolyn, had climbed the ridge to join Dram and Sulfie and a host of hill dwarf laborers, for the experimental firing. Now they stood about, impatient and agitated, waiting for this crucial test. “If this doesn’t work,” Dram had confided, “we’ll be looking at next year before we can make another try.”
The tube itself was considerably modified from the barrel that had exploded in the Vingaards, regretfully claiming the life of Sulfie’s brother, Salty Pete. There were twice as many steel bands around this device, and the ironwood logs were fitted together with tongue-in-groove carvings that ensured even more of the pressure from the blast would be contained. Furthermore, Dram had assigned the Kaolyn stone carvers to carve boulders in perfect spheres, in the exact dimensions of the weapon’s bore. He had already assembled dozens of potential missiles and now only awaited the successful test of the actual weapon.
The fuses, too, had been radically improved. After much experimentation, using the usual trial-and-error method, they had learned that by soaking the twine in a salty brine before infusing it with powder, they could regulate more carefully the flammability of the long strings. No longer did they find, by accident, that an occasional fuse would burn furiously fast or refuse to ignite at all. Now the crucial igniting component of the bombard had been standardized so that every one of the fuses burned predictably.
The black powder itself still possessed the potential for unpredictability. But now all the grains of the ingredients had been ground to standard specifications, and the mixing process had become more efficient and tightly controlled. With careful inspection of the raw materials, still more inconsistencies had been weeded out of the process.
Finally all preparations were complete. The barrel was propped on a heavy wagon, the wheels braced and staked, the end of the weapon elevated to almost a forty-five degree angle.
“Isn’t Sally coming to see the demonstration?” Sulfie asked, looking down the path to the town. They could see the whole mile of the route, and there was no one visible wending their way up to the ridge. “Do you want to wait until she shows up?”
“She’s not coming,” Dram declared. He scowled momentarily then shrugged. “I’m ready to make the test. Let’s get going.”
As before, a cask of powder was rammed down until it was lodged in the very base of the barrel, rigged to ignite via a fuse that extended out the back. When the explosive keg was settled into place, Dram signaled to one of the stone carvers. That dwarf, standing in the bed of a wagon, raised a stone ball that weighed more than a hundred pounds up to the mouth of the barrel, placed it inside, and let it roll down until they heard it thump solidly against the keg of black powder. Quickly the loader climbed down and raced to join the other observers to the rear, and off to the side, of the experimental bombard.
“Fire the fuse!” Dram called.
One hill dwarf remained alongside the weapon, and he quickly touched off the flame then sprinted away. He and the other observers put their hands over their ears, watching as the string was rapidly consumed by the smoking, sputtering flame. The fire burned up to the place where the fuse disappeared into the bore of the weapon then disappeared.
Dram held his breath subconsciously. So much work had gone into this moment-so much planning, sacrifice, and energy-and he really didn’t know if it was going to work. Again he felt that shiver of trepidation: if this one failed…
He shook his head, refusing to consider that prospect.
The answer came in a tremendous eruption of smoke and fire, a blast that emerged from the mouth of the bombard and billowed a hundred feet through the air, churning and sparking like a nightmare of heat and fire. The smoke cloud was so thick they couldn’t see through it; the billowing murk expanded and boiled all around them.
At first Dram wondered what had happened to the ball-in previous experiments he had always been able to see it fly from the muzzle-but then he looked across the valley and picked it out. Already a mile away, it had soared hundreds of feet into the air. With a sense of awe, the mountain dwarf watched it arc downward and fall away, finally splashing into the placid lake, creating a gout of white water. The startled geese flapped their wings and honking, took to the air.
Dram whooped, a cheer that was echoed by all the workers on the hilltop.
“Never had a test with even a quarter of that distance before!” he proclaimed proudly. “That thing must have flown a mile and a half!”
“Do you think it will work again?” asked Rogard.
Dram shrugged. “Only one way to tell,” he replied.
This had been the crux of previous problems. None of their trial barrels had survived more than four or five firings before the bombard itself had been blasted apart, either completely shattered or, at the very least, too cracked and crumbling for further use. But they’d find out soon enough. Already the gunners advanced with the mops and were swabbing out the barrel, making sure that no sparks lingered before they rolled down the keg for the next test. Swiftly another ball was loaded, a second fuse rigged.
“Shot number two-fire away!” Dram called.
Again the bombard blasted, tossing the second ball right after the first, the same arc and distance, into the far pond.
Now the team of loaders found their rhythm. The loading and firing procedure was repeated, and the barrel spewed its fire for a third time. The workers had come out of the buildings down in the New Compound, and the loggers gathered at the edge of the woods. All eyes were on the ridgetop as the bombard shot this ball toward the lake, where it landed very close to the place where the first two shots had struck.
Again and again the procedure was repeated, until ten shots in succession followed the same pattern. Each ball of stone reached the lake. However, on the last few shots, each fell a few paces shorter than on the prior explosions. With these later
blasts, smoke began to emerge from the joints where the ironwood logs were connected, and the steel straps holding the barrel together were growing noticeably more loosened.
“We’re starting to forfeit a little pressure,” Dram said critically, eying the wooden planks and steel rings holding the contraption together. “But that’s nothing we can’t solve by tightening these clamps a little. I do believe we’re almost there.”
He lifted his gaze to the north, where the city of Solanthus was just barely visible on the horizon. It was too far away to see the army camp, but he knew where the Solamnics were gathered and approximately where Ankhar had retreated.
“Jaymes, my old friend,” he said softly. “I think I have a present for you.”
Ankhar approached the gray tent, the only such shelter in the whole vast encampment of his army. As the commander, he was entitled to go anywhere he wanted in that camp, but for some reason he hesitated outside this tent. He cleared his throat gruffly and was rewarded by a faint voice beckoning him from within.
“Come!” croaked the Thorn Knight.
The half-giant ducked and pulled back the flap, squinting against the darkness within. The tent was larger than most, but Ankhar still had to duck down pretty low in order to get inside. He moved inside and hunkered down on his haunches, studying the pale face of the Gray Robe.
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