by Doug Niles
Now those instincts carried the creature toward those who had enslaved it, had stolen it from the realm—however hellish—that had been its lair, its kingdom, its home.
It roared and spumed like a terrible force of nature, leaving only death and destruction in its wake. Where there had been buildings, now there was only rubble. Stone walls toppled, everything made of wood burned. But the elemental king took no note of the damage, the havoc. Its fiery eyes scanned ahead, seeking its intended target.
Seeking the one who had enslaved it.
“It’s moving away, Your Grace! I can’t believe it, but the kender has succeeded in taunting the beast and drawing it away from the center of the city!” declared Lord Martin.
Brianna could make no reply, perhaps because the swell of her emotions so tightened her throat that she didn’t trust herself to utter any words of hope. But the evidence was clear in the violent spectacle before her eyes: the fire elemental, for some reason, had turned upon its former allies, the savage warriors of Ankhar the Truth.
After decimating a whole regiment of ogre soldiers, the fiery monster had proceeded to rip the ranks of goblin archers who had been assembling on the West Gate plaza. Then the creature had turned to slice through the whole line of enemy bowmen, casting hundreds of them through the air with the gale-force winds of its cyclonic legs. Storms of lashing water gushed from the liquid arms, sweeping away entire companies, drowning those goblins too small or stunned to pull themselves free from the torrent.
The duchess looked around her. The garrison had assembled more than two hundred Knights of the Sword, all armored, mounted, and bearing heavy lances. She had ordered them to gather in the courtyard before the palace. Summoned to the ducal banner—the sigil of the Sword—they had ridden here at once and awaited her orders.
The road was wide enough for some forty riders to charge abreast, so the mounted knights had formed six lines. Nearby stood hundreds of other troops, including swordsmen and axers, companies of militia bearing spears and shields, and several companies of longbowmen. The last-named had been armed with all of the feathered missiles remaining in the city arsenal. All the defenders were eager to avenge the terrible damage that had been inflicted on their city, and their comrades, in the previous days.
After months of siege and days of disaster, they were ready to strike back. To a man, these warriors understood that the coming battle must result in victory, or the city that they loved, that had sheltered their families and property, would be forever lost.
“But, Your Grace,” Harbor continued, lowering his voice and leaning closer to the slender young woman who had not yet spoken. “Surely you don’t need to lead the charge. Let my veteran knights take that responsibility, while you inspire us from the rear.”
“My lord,” she said, her stern tone softened by the warmth in her eyes. “I have watched too much of this battle—and this war—from the window of my lofty tower. Now I must lead, and I will wield my own steel in my city’s defense.”
Harbor tried to plead his case further until he realized with chagrin that the duchess was staring off without listening. He settled for quietly admonishing the nearby knights to look out for Brianna, on pain of their honor and their lives.
She sat high in the saddle of her black mare. Her copper-colored hair was unbound, trailing across her shoulders; Brianna had disdained a helmet because she decided it was important that she be seen and recognized. A small shield was strapped to her left arm, and a slender-bladed sword—more of a rapier—nestled in a scabbard at her belt.
Now the duchess drew that blade with a flourish and held it over her head. Her mare shivered restlessly, and she heard the snorting and stomping of the other horses as they, too, stirred under their riders now on alert, feeling the imminence of battle.
“Warriors of Solanthus!” she cried, her voice clear and strong. “Today is the day we reclaim our city! Follow your captains! The time has come! Acquit your honor!”
She pressed her knees together, and the big horse started forward, the knights abreast to either side of her advancing slowly at first, down the Duke’s Avenue. Brianna rode in the middle of the front rank, between a pair of large Sword Knights, who flanked her protectively. She didn’t glance at them or behind her, but rode easily for a short distance before kicking her mare and increasing to a trot. The ranks of knights kept pace.
They came to the place in the avenue where scores of ogres lay dead, many of them mangled or crushed by the elemental king. Again Brianna spurred her mount and the mare broke into a canter with the rest of the line sweeping forward to match her speed. Surging now, the men and horses thundered toward the enemy. The columns of Solanthian infantry ran hard to keep as close as possible to the mounted knights.
But the galloping horses pulled ahead. The wind blew Brianna’s coppery hair back in a shimmering plume. The noise of the pounding hooves echoed and reverberated from the surrounding buildings. Dust billowed, smoke swirled, and the noise swelled.
Brianna felt a thrill she had never known before, a sense of fate and inevitability, as if all the experiences she had undergone in her life, all of her choices—including her marriage to the duke who had proved a scoundrel—had conspired to lead her to this, the realization of her destiny.
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.”
