by Doug Niles
“I go now, to tell of the truce. I withdraw my company,” Ankhar said. “Next time, may we shed each other’s blood.”
“So we may,” the human replied. “I will not wish you luck in that endeavor.”
The half-giant chuckled, the sound an odd mixture of cruelty and humor. “I wish you luck—to stay healthy until that day,” he said. “So I may kill you myself.”
“Aye—and the same to you,” replied the marshal, the commander of all the Solamnic Armies.
Still facing each other, the two leaders backed warily away from the edge of the narrow crevice. Jaymes reached behind, took the bridle of his roan, and swung easily into the saddle. As he cantered away, he glanced back and saw that the half-giant was still watching him with those too-small, too-intelligent eyes.
The signalman caught the attention of the captain of the Second Company of the Vingaard Arms, the unit trapped on the shelf beside the river. He waved his flags at the rim of the precipice. The orders were simple: “Prepare to withdraw,” followed by, “Await the command to execute the order.” A simple wave of the company’s Crown pennant returned the acknowledgement that the message had been received and understood.
General Dayr and Marshal Jaymes stood beside the flagman, watching the shadow that had already crept far up the canyon’s wall. In another quarter of an hour or so, it would reach the strata of white rock that signaled the commencement of the agreed-upon truce. A scout rode up, and both commanders turned to regard him.
“The ogres are indeed withdrawing from the rim of the ravine,” the man reported without formality. “Already they have marched more than a mile, and when I departed from the scene just moments ago, they were making steady progress away.”
“Are they out of range by now?”
“Aye, my lord—the ogres are no longer able to strike at the men of the Vingaard Arms.”
“It appears as though the brute is keeping his word,” Dayr murmured, raising his eyebrows in a gesture of mild surprise. “I hadn’t been entirely sure until now.”
Jaymes shook his head very slightly. “I was sure he would pull the ogres back. But I am not yet convinced that he is keeping his word.”
“And our archers are now down from the heights. They wouldn’t have time to return to their firing positions if Ankhar’s company makes haste.”
“I’m sure they’ll get out of there as fast as they can,” said the army commander.
A few moments later, the sun’s shadow reached the requisite position. The two men watched as the companies beside the river slowly backed away from each other, the humans moving toward the lower terminus of the narrow ravine, the goblins to the foot of the trail that twisted so precariously along the canyon’s wall. When perhaps three hundred yards of distance was between them, the formations abandoned their battle lines and formed into narrow columns, each starting up its respective route of retreat.
“Now we arrive at the moment of truth,” said Jaymes. “Or perhaps I should say, ‘the Truth.’ ”
“I have heard that he calls himself this,” Dayr remarked. “Even under the most severe interrogation, his warriors insist that their general is the Truth.”
For several long moments, the mutual withdrawals proceeded quietly. The last of the human warriors filed into the ravine, disappearing from the sight of the two commanders, though some goblins were still visible making their way up the winding trail. The head of that column approached the first switchback and continued upward, vanishing momentarily as the trail cut under a broad overhang of rugged limestone.
“After the barbarians are across the river, do you want me to pursue them in the direction of Dargaard?” asked Dayr. He shuddered at the thought of that dark and haunted fortress.
“That will not be necessary. Ankhar’s troops will not head toward Dargaard,” Jaymes declared.
“Oh? What do you predict?”
“He will concentrate on the east bank of the Vingaard, to hold us at bay, while he gathers his strength against Solanthus,” the marshal stated. “He has already brought his central army to the west of that fortress, while his southern force is screening the territory in the Garnet foothills.”
The city of Solanthus had been besieged for two years, ever since Ankhar’s horde had first rampaged across the plains—before Jaymes Markham had taken command of the Solamnic Army. Though the city had resisted the barbarian’s few attempts at storming the walls, it also remained out of reach of relief columns and supplies from the rest of Solamnia.
“You think he will make another attempt to conquer Solanthus, then?” Dayr replied, moderately surprised. “Those walls have held him at bay for more than two years.”
“Yes, but he has made no serious attack,” Jaymes answered. “And now we have bested him in three major battles in the open field. Each time he has been forced to give up another sector of the plains, and with Solanthus to his rear, still resisting, he will see that, inevitably, we intend to break his siege, if he keeps losing ground.”
“I understand that the situation is dire in that city,” the general said. “It is all the clerics can do to maintain food at near starvation levels. Though I hear that the duchess has rallied the people courageously, that she eats no more than the commoners.”
The lord marshal nodded. “She has a core of steel, that’s clear.”
Dayr agreed somewhat ruefully. “When Duke Rathskell married her, I thought she was a trite little wench, suited only for the bedroom. Now he’s dead, and she is holding the city together. I am, frankly, surprised. I confess I did not give her credit for that kind of spine.”
“Nobody did,” Jaymes said. “Sometimes adversity seems to bring forth remarkable strength.”
A trumpet blared some distance away, and both men turned quickly at the unmistakable sound of alarm. The general grimaced, while the marshal’s lips tightened in anger. “Liar!” he said between clenched teeth. “So the one called the Truth is a liar after all.”
“But his ogres cannot have returned to the ravine—they were too far away!” countered Dayr.
Jaymes nodded, pointing downward, where the column of goblins was halfway up the cliff, still winding along the narrow trail. Soon they would vanish from sight as they continued behind the curve of the canyon wall. But moments later, the scout came into view, lashing his horse into a froth as he galloped toward the two commanders.
“My lords!” he shouted, thundering closer and pulling up in a skidding stop. “Treachery! Ankhar’s Thorn Knights—at least one of them—has appeared in the ravine. He has created a cloud of deadly gas that sinks and slithers along the trail, killing every man caught within. The survivors are fleeing back toward the river, but the cloud is moving quickly—it seems certain they are all doomed.”
“The bastard!” snarled Dayr. “We should have kept the archers in position—we could pick off those goblins and show him the fruits of his treachery!”
Jaymes ignored his general, instead striding up to the nearby signalman who stood listening to the scout’s report in shock, his banners neatly coiled at his feet. “Raise the red pennant—now!” snapped the marshal.
Quickly the man did as he was told. Another scout rode up, confirming that the men of the trapped company were perishing in the magically conjured gas cloud. The Thorn Knight, of course, had teleported away immediately; there was no chance of exacting vengeance upon the villain. The lord marshal displayed no reaction upon hearing this news, even as his general practically wept with frustration and rage.
The crimson banner snapped in the breeze as the flagman hoisted it upon a slender pole. He waved it back and forth in response to the marshal’s curt command. Dayr and the nearby soldiers watched anxiously, knowing better than to ask Jaymes what was going on. Below, the vile gas, a greenish yellow in color, seeped from the bottom of the ravine. No man could escape that corridor of death.
The cliffs above the fleeing goblins suddenly shattered in a gout of smoke, fire, and blasted rock. The huge shelf of stone split
free from the canyon wall and tumbled down toward the helpless warriors, burying some in the cloud of debris and carrying the rest to doom on the rocks a hundred feet below. Several breaths passed before the sound of the explosions—a stunning eruption of noise that bellowed and rumbled through the canyon like a violent thunderstorm—reached the watchers on top of the cliff.
“You placed charges there?” Dayr asked in astonishment. “You didn’t trust the truce?”
The marshal shrugged. “Captain Powell made the arrangements. The red flag was the signal to light the fuses,” he said.
Debris continued to tumble downward, an avalanche of stone and gravel and dust that swept the cliff and the winding trail clean of goblins. So great was the destruction that, in many places, the entire pathway was carved away from the cliff. A cloud of dust lingered for a long time, obscuring their view, but as it gradually settled toward the water, it became clear that not a single one of the enemy warriors had survived the blast.
General Dayr wondered aloud. “The black powder is precious … and the preparations are always extensive. Had you planted the explosives in case Ankhar betrayed you? Or … you were planning to ignite those fuses all along?”
Jaymes looked at him, his expression cold and emotionless. “This is war,” he said curtly. “And the objective is to kill the enemy. I know this, and Ankhar knows this.”
And the war would go on.
CHAPTER THREE
THE ARMY OF SOLAMNIA
Jaymes ordered his army to concentrate all three wings on the west bank of the Vingaard, south of the great fork in the middle of the plains. The generals put his orders into action while he himself traveled with only the two dozen Freemen of his personal guard. Captain Powell knew his commander well enough that, for the most part, the escorting knights rode several hundred yards behind Jaymes. The party followed the meandering course of that mighty river, so the lord marshal could enjoy a few days of relative leisure before immersing himself again in the complexities of command.
At last he turned the little roan mare due south, riding with purpose now. The column tightened up. The marshal passed the first pickets of the army camp some ten miles out. These veteran scouts, in leather armor with their fleet, long-legged steeds, were not surprised to see their leader riding across the flat steppe at the head of a small company. Even before they waved him through their outposts, the scouts detached galloping riders to carry word of the lord marshal’s approach to the main camp.
Soon Jaymes could make out the vast spread of his army’s tent city gathered around the officers’ encampment, where plain brown domes rose above the lesser dwellings. Horse corrals were small, scattered among the units so the mounts were close to their riders. A large pasture, well guarded, had been established to the rear, where hundreds of cattle—used both as cargo haulers and food—grazed.
When the dukes had ruled these troops, each noble’s tent had been a huge, colorful pavilion, with attendant dwellings for retainers, courtiers, and other key members of the ducal entourage. Whole wagon trains had been devoted to luxuries such as crystal dinner services, silk tablecloths, and padded thrones. A central part of the camp would typically have been set aside for formations, parades, jousting, and other elaborate games.
But those days were gone. Now the officers, from the generals down to the platoon captains, dwelled in nondescript shelters of the same nondescript denim—larger than the tents of the enlisted troops only insofar as space was needed for map tables, rosters, and signaling equipment. Undistinguished, perhaps, but they also made it difficult for an enemy to determine where they would find the important leaders of the Solamnic Army. As an added benefit, the common men in the line understood that their officers shared their living conditions, and this boosted morale.
Lord Marshal Jaymes had appointed his officers based upon their demonstration of military ability, not because of any accident of birth. True, his three army generals—Dayr of the Crowns, Markus of the Rose, and Rankin of the Swords—had been captains under the dukes. Still, each had proved on the field that he was skilled and trustworthy; each merited the responsibility of his command.
The rank of lord marshal was new to the Solamnic military hierarchy. Jaymes had created it for himself after being awarded the united command two years earlier, when his steadfast leadership—as well as his discovery of explosive black powder—had saved Solamnia from Ankhar’s horde. After the horde had been halted on the brink of attacking Caergoth, the nobles had had little choice but to reward their savior with supreme command. In the years since, Jaymes had slowly driven the invaders back, liberating Thelgaard and Garnet, finally clearing them from the entire reach west of the Vingaard.
Many of the men still referred to Jaymes as the Lord of the Rose, and he accepted this honorific when it was offered. Others called him the Lord of No Sign. For though his banner incorporated elements of all three orders of the knighthood, he was comfortable riding about in his plain woolen poncho, displaying no heraldry whatsoever.
Riding the roan at an amble, Jaymes made his way through the outer camp. These were the pikemen and archers who could form ranks in a matter of moments to defend the perimeter, while the knights with their more elaborate accoutrement armored themselves and their horses before supplying reinforcements. He was recognized by many as he approached and accepted the salutes and cheers of his men with a gracious nod to the right and left, or the raising of his hand toward a man or a company of particular note.
Many of these men had won great victories for their marshal. The Vingaard pikes, woodsmen from the mountains who wielded their long wooden pole arms with unflinching discipline, were often the first responders. Many a charge of warg-riding goblins had been broken by their iron will, and one regiment of pikemen served in each of the three armies. He rode now past the Southshore Longbows, deadly archers from across the coast of the Newsea. The dwarves of the Kaolyn Axers, not to be outdone, raised their foaming tankards aloft and roared a lusty toast to their commander, who politely declined the invitation to stop at the dwarven campfires for a friendly tankard or three.
As news of his arrival spread, men came streaming from the other encampments, adding their cheers. He came to the center of the great encampment, where the bulk of the knights were amassed. Though they were the backbone of the Solamnic Army, in actual numbers the knights formed only a small percentage of the troops. It was the pikemen who formed the battle lines, the archers who provided the covering fire, and the dwarf heavy infantry who would assemble squares to stand against any attack. Then and only then could the fleet and powerful horsemen of the knighthood fight with all their ability.
The marshal took time to greet some of the knights personally. He reached down to clasp the hands of several Caergoth Steelshields as he rode past. These were the Rose Knights who had carried the day when Jaymes had first struck north across the Garnet River, pushing Ankhar’s army back from the position it had held for six months following the half-giant’s initial, nearly triumphant campaign. Then there came the doughty veterans of the Newforge Regiment, Knights of the Sword who hailed from besieged Solanthus; they had pledged to lead the assault that would free their surrounded city. Just beyond them, standing at attention with their snow-pure steeds behind them, were the Crown Knights of the White Riders—the unit that had broken Ankhar’s ogres so recently in the north, paving the way for this great concentration of force.
All in all, more than twelve thousand men were congregated here, and the army commander could not help but be pleased by the sight of his army. His three generals awaited him in the center of the camp. He dismounted, allowing his horse to be led away for a rubdown by several eager young squires, and stretched the kinks of his four-day ride out of his back and shoulders. He joined the generals at their small fire, taking a seat on a small stool.
“Any urgent news?” Jaymes asked.
General Rankin acted as spokesman for the trio. “No word from Palanthas, nor from the Compound, my lord.”
“Perhaps he is worried more about you than about Ankhar,” suggested General Dayr.
Jaymes smiled tightly. “Probably he should be worried about me. But I don’t have time for him now. Solanthus requires our attention, and we’ll have to make plans with the assets we currently have on the field.”
“That should give us plenty to work with,” declared Sir Markus Haum, the general of the Rose. He was a steadfast veteran with a very impressive mustache and had rejoined the army in the winter after narrowly surviving an attempt on his life. Among the three, Jaymes regarded him as his most trusted, capable field commander. “Our forces are spread within ten miles of this very spot, ready and willing to go where you send it, my Lord Marshal.”
Jaymes nodded. “What of the crossings? I presume Ankhar has them well guarded?”
“Aye, sir,” Dayr confirmed rather glumly. “He has pickets posted for a hundred miles north and south of here, with strong detachments at every ford.”
“We tried a probe with boats, as you ordered,” General Rankin said. “We sent three hundred scouts, all of them volunteers, across the wider part of the Vingaard, a score of miles downstream from here. Ankhar’s bastards waited until the boats were almost to shore, and then those damned ogres bombarded them with boulders. Most of the boats were sunk, and barely eighty men made it back to our bank alive.”
“Unsurprising,” Jaymes acknowledged. He had in fact expected a disastrous result with such an experiment, but he had to give the tactic a try. The loss of so many men was a steep cost, but it was a price he must pay in return for intelligence regarding his enemy’s dispositions. “Has there been any word from Solanthus?”
