Soon after, Jaymes left the great city with the bulk of the Palanthian Legion: a force of five thousand men, some four hundred of them mounted knights. In the wake of the column rumbled heavy wagons hauling three bombards, the last surviving cannons from the six that had been employed in the Battle of the Foothills more than two years earlier. At that time Jaymes Markham had commanded the four armies that broke the half-giant Ankhar’s invading army and dispersed the fleeing remnants into the wilds of Lemish. The outcome of that war had solidified Markham’s control over all the realms of Solamnia. He had ushered in a new era of peace and prosperity for Solamnia.
The army passed through the city’s Crown Gate, with the rugged Vingaard Mountains and the narrow cleft of the High Clerist’s Pass beckoning on the horizon. It had been more than two years since the soldiers had waged battle, and that was enough time for the wounds to heal and the grim memories to fade. They were men of Palanthas, loyal to their captains, generals, and emperor. They would serve with dedication and courage.
To be sure, the time since the end of the war had not been spent in mere recuperation. Once the Lord Marshal had assumed control of all Solamnic Knighthood forces in the lands of the Old Empire and claimed the mantle of emperor, he had announced his goal was nothing less than the restoration of the ancient regime. While he had maintained the overall structure of his military-the forces were still organized into three armies, augmented by a legion of troops in Palanthas devoted to the emperor’s personal service-he had tinkered with longstanding traditions in armor, weaponry, unit organization, and tactics.
The campaign they embarked on would put his improvements to the test. Most significantly, the regiment which had been the standard infantry formation for more than a millennium was broken into four, or sometimes five, companies of about two hundred men each. The companies allowed the army commander to maneuver his troops with greater precision than ever before. The ratio of light cavalry in each formation had been increased, often at the expense of the heavily armored knights that had traditionally been the backbone of the Solamnic Knighthood. Flexible, light, and fast, they would outmaneuver, rather than overpower, any foe.
The emperor had also encouraged the employment of the Clerist Knights, priests who were trained in magic at the ancient Solamnic centers on Sancrist and would cast their spells in the service of the cause. Under the overall command of Lord Templar, clerists were assigned to each regimental headquarters, and at least one apprentice accompanied every company on the field. By dint of their magic, the holy knights facilitated communications between the army commander and his individual units.
Another fundamental change in the way the knighthood waged war was evidenced in the personal command style of the army leader. No longer was he seen, resplendent in a bright uniform, gilded epaulets gleaming as he rode a strutting, prancing charger. The modern emperor wore a woolen riding cape that was drab compared to the scarlet tunics worn by his footmen. He rode behind the advance companies of light cavalry and was surrounded by a staff of couriers, together with his chief clerist-Lord Templar-and a half dozen of the Freemen.
Such was the force of the Emperor’s determination, and his authority, that the changes had been implemented with very little resistance from the officers and the ranks. For more than a year, his army had trained and studied and experimented. Finally, for the first time, the new style and tactics would be tested on the battlefield.
That was, if the rebellious inhabitants of Vingaard Keep did not immediately recognize the error of their ways.
The people of the city stared as the army marched off to war. Their mood was somber, with a few offering cheers for the troops and many shouting best wishes to individual soldiers-husbands, brothers, and sons-in the ranks. The emperor himself the citizens regarded warily, not so certain of the impending conflict as they had been of his necessary campaigns against the barbaric Ankhar. The troops looked straight ahead and marched in perfect cadence.
The emperor rode a nondescript roan mare with the casual ease of a natural horseman. His personal guard of Freemen, a hundred strong, rode white horses and looked alertly around as they rode close by their leader. Even as the party passed beneath the arch of the city gate, Jaymes could be seen talking and listening to his aides, confirming the order of march in the column, receiving detailed lists from the quartermaster regarding the provisions in the baggage train, and having a word with Lord Templar about the most recent auguries regarding the Vingaard rebels.
As the column, and the command party, headed around the first curve of the encroaching mountains, there were those among the emperor’s men who noted that their commander had not once raised his head to glance back at the city they were leaving behind.
CHAPTER TWO
PARLEY AND PRISON
Lady Selinda Markham looked out the clear, glass window of her lofty chamber, conscious that the glass alone had cost the equivalent of a half year’s pay for one of her nation’s ordinary citizens. Though she had grown up with such luxury, only recently had she taken to considering its relative value. She knew that glass was a precious commodity, rare, valuable, and beautiful.
Yet it was only with great effort that she resisted the impulse to drive her fist through the expensive glass, to shatter the pane into a spray of shards tumbling to the courtyard so far below.
How dare he!
Selinda, like all other Palanthians, knew Jaymes Markham would brook absolutely no challenges to his claim of absolute power. But this-his imprisonment of her! It far exceeded his authority, Selinda believed. Even her father would never have had the audacity to speak to her as her husband had, only hours before.
While she looked through the window, Selinda’s hand drifted to her belly, touching the imperceptible thing that had taken root there, though it was not yet beginning to affect her slender shape. Her tower room offered views in three directions, but she did not so much as glance at the roadway heading into the mountains, the route taken by her husband’s army. Instead, as she stroked her belly, the princess of Palanthas gazed northward, past the city’s teeming docks, to the masts of the crowded harbor, and the sparkling blue waters extending to the limits of her vision on the northern horizon.
She knew her husband and his soldiers too well even to try to persuade the guards at her door to consider relaxing their duties and letting her out for a short while. They would hem and haw and shuffle their feet, but in the end they would obey the emperor. She would not be allowed to leave her chambers.
What a pretty prison I’ve made for myself! she thought, remembering back. She had been long been intrigued by the man, even though he was an outlaw when they had first met. Fascinated, she had paid wary attention to Jaymes as he exonerated himself, then rose by acclamation to the command of all the Solamnic Armies. As lord marshal, he had been surprisingly gracious to her. Then, one time during a visit, he had come to her chambers and they had shared a decanter of wine and talked; that was when she had fallen helplessly in love with him. Almost overnight his words had become music to her ears, his casual wishes her deepest desires.
She had wanted-no, needed — him with a passion she had never imagined-and one that she could barely recall. What a naif she had been when he had proposed to her, and her world broke into song. The wedding itself, hastily arranged but conducted with all the pomp that was owed to their status, had been a like a dream. Later, when he took her into the bridal chamber, her love for him had soared.
It was a curious memory. At times the old feeling would return, when Jaymes would smile at her, or touch her cheek; then her heart would suddenly melt, while her mind… well, her mind just seemed to shut itself off. Only recently he had wielded that charm to take her to bed, some two months ago; she smiled at the memory. Then she frowned. The result was the child she had only recently discovered she was carrying.
Most of the time, Jaymes was all business, immersed in his work, in the politics of rule or the dictates of army command, while she was trapped in that roo
m in the tower, fifty feet above an enclosed, barricaded courtyard.
Waiting to bear the emperor’s child.
“No!” she cried aloud, banging her fist against the pane. She was startled by her outburst, and upset as she saw a thin crack spread across the expensive piece of glass.
She drew herself up, tried to calm her emotions, forced herself to think. Banging on the windows-or walls or doors, for that matter-was fruitless. If she was going to do something, get out of there, she would have to try clever means.
She thought for a long time, pacing slowly, looking out the window without really seeing the sunlit view, the blue waters, the glittering, busy city. Finally, she made up her mind, turned her back to the window, and strode to the door.
“Sergeant!” Selinda called.
The door opened at once to reveal the familiar mustachioed knight in his scarlet tunic and gleaming black riding boots.
“Yes, my lady?”
“Take a message to Coryn the White. Ask if she will come to see me at her earliest opportunity.”
“At once, my lady,” replied the sergeant. He saluted formally and closed the door. She heard him issuing orders to a runner.
At the same time, she heard the lock snap shut outside her door.
The soldier strode through the upper hall of Thelgaard Keep. As he turned the corner leading to the general’s council chamber, he almost broke into an excited run, his left hand bracing the hilt of the long sword he wore at his belt so he didn’t trip over the weapon.
“I need to see my father, at once!”
The young captain’s manner was so urgent that the guard might have let him pass even if he weren’t General Dayr’s son. As it was, the halberdier at the door all but stumbled over himself in his haste to get out of the soldier’s way.
“Of course, Captain Franz, go right in!”
His riding boots scuffed across the smooth boards of the floor as he burst into the council room, where he found his father and several of his officers standing around a map. A glance showed Franz that the parchment displayed the central Vingaard Plains.
“Is it true that we have been order to march? To join the emperor in a campaign against our own people?” Franz demanded.
“Watch your tone, my son,” the general retorted sharply. His glare was fierce, until it wavered unevenly with a glance toward the other men at the table. Franz could see his own misgivings mirrored in the concerned expressions of Captain Blair, master of the Thelgaard Lancers, and the Knight Clerist Lauder. General Dayr was silent for a moment as he slowly drew a breath. Finally, he addressed his son directly.
“Yes. The order comes through the Clerist’s scrying tool. Lord Markham is leaving Palanthas this morning, and we are to march north from Thelgaard. We are to seal off the approaches to Vingaard Keep from the south and east while he comes down from the mountains.”
“But those are some of your own men in Vingaard!” protested Franz. “How can you march against them!”
“They are men who swore an oath to support the lawful government of Solamnia!” the general snapped. “Yet they have sent a message that can only be construed as a personal challenge to the lord marshal!”
“He’s not the lord marshal any longer, Father. He has appointed himself emperor. Isn’t that going too far?”
“He is not the first emperor in Solamnic history. Sometimes a realm needs an absolute ruler, one who can dictate to the masses, to his troops-to everyone. It is an honorable title, one that has been claimed by strong men throughout our history whenever the empire has been in a state of turmoil,” Dayr explained, as if tutoring a schoolchild.
“The only turmoil is his doing!” retorted the son.
“That is enough!” snapped General Dayr, suddenly filling out his uniform with his annoyance. His gray mustaches curled downward in walrus-like disapproval, and his cheeks were flushed beyond their normal ruddiness. Franz was reminded that his father was a man who had fought many battles, had risked his own life and ordered hundreds of men to their deaths, all in the service of the lord marshal who had proclaimed himself emperor. “Jaymes Markham has united this nation, restored a proud legacy, and given us-and the order to which we have sworn all devotion-a real chance to regain its former glories! He deserves my loyalty, and he deserves yours!”
Captain Franz immediately stiffened to attention, replying only with a curt “Yes, sir.”
The elder officer relaxed, slightly, and indicated the map on the table. “But I’m glad you’re here, Captain,” he said in a softer tone. “As cavalry commander, you’ll play a key role on the march. I’ll want the White Riders to accompany the column, of course.” He turned to Blair. “And the lancers will screen the advance, as well as the right flank of the march route. Our left will follow the course of the Vingaard River, for the most part.”
“Yes, General. When do we depart?” Blair was a stolid veteran of the past years’ campaigns. Courageous but unimaginative, he had seen Thelgaard fall to the barbarian horde and had nearly lost his life when the city was ultimately reclaimed. If he shared Franz’s discomfort with the current mission, he did not say anything. But his look was solemn.
“I want two companies of lancers on the road well before dark tonight. The rest of the Crown Army marches north with the dawn. Can you see to that?”
“I have four companies in garrison right now; two of them can depart by noon. And the muster has already sounded, so the rest of the men should reach the stables before evening.”
Dayr turned to his son. “And the White Riders? When will they be ready to move out?”
“Within the day, sir. But Father-that is, General-what is the objective? Are we going to make war?”
General Dayr sighed. “Right now, we’re going to show the knights of Vingaard the emperor means business. They’ll see an army coming out of the mountains and another ready to cross the river.”
“And then?”
“And then, I hope, they’ll have the wisdom to yield to the emperor’s will,” replied Dayr grimly.
The road connecting Palanthas to the rest of Solamnia-and all the continent beyond-had been dramatically improved during the past two years. It was wider, paved with smooth stones in the places where wear and erosion had worn it away, and graded out over some of the steeper climbs. Nothing could change the fact that the road had to climb high through the steep Vingaard Rrange-the High Clerist’s Pass was nearly two miles above sea level-but the emperor’s dwarf engineers had done a magnificent job of making the highway as efficient and passable as could be.
With the aid of the explosive devices they were still mastering, the road crew had chiseled away at overhangs and ledges, broadened the shoulders, even carved deep notches out of some of the rolling ridges. One result of the improvements had been a dramatic increase in overland trade. Although the great city of Palanthas was first and foremost a seaport, the amount of goods leaving and arriving along the mountain road had increased threefold in the past year.
As the legion marched southward from Palanthas, they came upon more than a dozen trade caravans during the four days it took to reach the summit of the pass. Those mercantile processions pulled off to the side to allow the soldiers to pass. Some enterprising traders hastily established roadside markets, and the soldiers quickly purchased food, drink, and trinkets. The emperor was a strict disciplinarian, but he instructed his officers to allow these transactions to continue-so long as the men quickly resumed the march and maintained a double-time pace for an hour to make up for the delay.
Finally, the crest of the pass was before them. Despite the best efforts of the dwarf road builders, the highway passed through a series of sharp switchbacks during the final ascent, so the soldiers in the front looked down onto the heads of the men in the middle and tail end of the column. Even with the steep climb, the pace of the march continued unabated, and the men sang marching songs as they at last reached the high point of the long climb.
The fortress called the High Cleris
t’s Tower commanded the only gap through the rugged sawblade that was the crest of the Vingaard Range. Most of the army column simply marched past the place, the men staring up at the lofty towers silhouetted against the stark blue sky, then continuing on with the relief of travelers who have completed a long ascent. As there was precious little level ground in the vicinity of the mighty keep, most of the troops headed down toward bivouacs five or six miles below the crest, on the flatland known as the Wings of Habbakuk.
But some of the army did stop at the tower, including the command party. Jaymes Markham rode into the small, deep courtyard and examined the high stone buttresses. This place had been savagely mauled in several wars, but-by his order-the damage had been repaired, and in fact the stout defenses of the ancient bastion had been strengthened by the addition of a curtain wall across the southern approach. A quartet of exterior towers had also been erected, with one pair overlooking the approach to the fortress from the canyon to the north and another pair commanding the road as it fell between the narrow gorge approaching the south gate.
The commander of the tower’s garrison, General Markus, waited in the courtyard for the emperor’s party. The Rose Knight, who had been one of the first to serve Jaymes, saluted him crisply. Markus was hailed by Jaymes as he dismounted and whisked the dust of the mountain road off of his cape.
“You’ve arranged for the feeding of the army in bivouac?” Jaymes asked immediately.
“Yes, my lord. My kitchen staff has set up camp between the Wings, and the men will get a hot meal tonight, and tomorrow morning.”
The emperor nodded. “Good. Hold the second courtyard for the bombards; I’ll want to inspect them when they arrive, and they need to be secured behind the walls for the time being.”
“Here they come now, my lord,” reported Sergeant Ian of the Freemen, as the first of the big wagons rumbled beneath the portcullis and entered the courtyard.
A team of eight oxen hauled the mammoth conveyance, which was built more sturdily than a heavy freight wagon. The axles were steel, the rims of the huge wheels banded with the same hard metal, while no less than thirty stout spokes supported each wheel on its hub. The bombard rested in the wagon bed, the barrel-its gaping mouth more than a foot wide-slightly elevated and extending to the rear beyond the body of the wagon. Dark steel bands ringed the heavy beams that formed the long tube, while an iron screw supported the bombard midway down its length. The screw could be adjusted to raise the barrel. Shifting the weapon’s aim to the left or the right could be accomplished only by turning the wagon itself.
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