The Crown and the Sword

by Doug Niles

  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.

  “How is pain?” he asked.

  Hoarst moved a hand to his chest, where the lord marshal’s bolt had pierced him—had actually punctured his heart. He would have died if it weren’t for Laka’s healing magic.

  “Severe,” he said. “I can hardly draw a breath.”

  “I am sorry,” the half-giant acknowledged. He extended a cup that he had carefully carried in his big hands to the Thorn Knight. “Laka says you must drink.”

  The human didn’t ask any questions. He merely reached out a hand, took the vessel, and tipped it to his lips. The vile stink of the liquid filled the tent—like a skunk had been startled nearby—but Hoarst didn’t hesitate to drink the strong tea down in several bitter, galling sips. He coughed violently, and Ankhar helpfully removed the cup so the Thorn Knight wouldn’t drop it.

  “Did that help?” the half-giant asked when the man’s coughing had eased and he was again able to draw a breath.

  “Surprisingly enough, it did,” Hoarst admitted, pushing himself to a sitting position. He inhaled and exhaled, clearly relishing the deep lungful of air. “I can breathe again!”

  “Good. I need you to get up and go to work now.”

  Hoarst propped himself up with both hands. “It must be important,” he grunted. “But I’m not sure I can walk.”

  “You don’t need to walk—you need to carve,” the half-giant said. When the man raised his eyebrows in mute question, Ankhar continued. “The army of the knights is reinforced. They are moving from Solanthus now, coming toward us. We must fight them here, in the shadow of the mountains. The king is up there, in mountains someplace. I wish to get him back. But to unleash king against humans, I must have another wand.”

  Hoarst nodded, understanding. “All right, I can make another one if you bring me the material.”

  “What do you need?”

  “The branch of a mature willow tree. The tree must be large—larger, for example, than I could wrap my arms around and touch my hands together on the opposite side. The limb must be one that hangs down far enough so that the tip is brushing the water. You must bring me the whole branch, even though I’ll only use the very tip. And after you cut off the limb, the tree itself must be cut down and burned in a very hot fire.”

  Ankhar nodded, committing these curious instructions to memory. “You rest,” he said, “and I will return.”

  It was harder to find a willow tree than he had expected, but after dispatching dozens of human horsemen—the scouts of
Blackgaard’s light cavalry—he learned of the whereabouts of such a tree in a valley not terribly far away. Not trusting anyone else to the task, he and Laka traveled there with several ogres who were skilled in the use of axes. With Laka’s guidance, the half-giant selected a proper branch and hacked it off with a few blows of his knife. Then he instructed the ogres to chop down the tree and burn it on a large bonfire, fueled by dozens of brittle, dead pine trunks that stood nearby.

  He returned with the limb to the camp on the following day to find the wizard had, once again, lapsed into uncomfortable, restless sleep. Ankhar waited impatiently while Laka brewed another cup of the vile, but restorative, tea. He watched her mix ingredients that looked like bark and berries with some unidentifiable components that might have been dried animal parts, pulling all the varied elements from different pouches and pockets on her person.

  While he was pacing about the fire, Ankhar was approached by Rib Chewer. “The army of the knights is coming this way still,” Rib Chewer reported.

  “How far away now?”

  “Less than ten miles, by my best mark,” the goblin—whose idea of distances was imprecise at best—replied.

  “They are getting close, then. We must make ready to face them very soon,” the half-giant concluded.

  Finally the tea was ready, and the army commander took it in to the magic-user. Once again Hoarst sat up on his cot, breathing easily for a few hours because of the potion. He instructed Ankhar to trim the leaves from the willow branch then told the army commander to leave him alone while he went to work with his tiny, razor-sharp knife.

  The half-giant paced back to the fire, where his stepmother sat on her haunches, staring into the flames.

  “Can you make another brew of that terrible tea?” he asked. “In case the Gray Robe cannot finish before the effects wear off?”

  “I can make another batch, and still another and another,” Laka replied with a shrug. “But it is a dangerous blessing—for though it makes him well for a few hours, if he drinks enough of it, the stuff will build up in his system.”

  “And then what?” Ankhar asked.

  “Then it will kill him,” she replied, reaching for her mortar and pestle and starting to grind up another batch of herbs.

  “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten me,” Jaymes Markham said as he greeted Dram Feldspar.

  “You ain’t that lucky,” said the dwarf, who was feeling his usual disgust with traveling by horseback. He was dusty and saddle sore. Still, he clasped his old companion’s hand in a firm grip as he slid down from the saddle and stretched the kinks out of his muscles. “Got anything cold to drink around here?” he wondered.

  “I’ve been chilling a cask in the stream over there ever since I heard you were on the way,” Jaymes replied. He dispatched a pair of men to fetch the barrel while he turned his attention to the wagons that were still rumbling into the camp—the wagons that Dram Feldspar had brought down from the New Compound.

  “Six of them, eh?” the lord marshal remarked, impressed.

  There were an even half dozen bombards, one each on the leading wagons of the train, their muzzles extending out the back of the bed. Each bombard wagon was hauled by eight oxen. The following wagons were smaller and varied in type and cargo. Many of them were filled with kegs containing the black powder. Others were piled with rocks, each stone carved to an identical smooth, perfectly round sphere. Jaymes took in the whole train with his hands on his hips, nodding in satisfaction.

  “We got a range of more than a mile in our tests,” Dram finished explaining an hour later as he pulled on a cold beer. He was unmistakably proud.

  And with good reason, Jaymes acknowledged.

  “Ankhar’s army is over the next ridge, with his left flank anchored on the mountains. Our numbers are about equal to his, so up until now it’s been a standoff,” the lord marshal said to his mountain dwarf companion as he poured them each a fresh tankard.

  “Old friend,” he said, raising his glass in a toast, “I think you’ve just changed the odds in our favor.”

  It was the goblin warg rider Rib Chewer who at last brought Ankhar the news he had been waiting to hear—and dreading he would never receive.

  “The fire-monster has crossed over the mountains,” reported Rib Chewer. “He moves down through these valleys, coming toward your army.”

  “How far away?”

  “Less than one day’s march, for sure.”

  “Excellent,” growled Ankhar. He immediately went to fetch his mother, who emerged from her tent, clutching the small, ruby encrusted box that she had repaired. With Rib Chewer on foot leading the way, the army commander and his stepmother proceeded up the nearest valley leading between the foothills. Ahead of them loomed the tall, snowy crest of the Garnet Mountains.

  By the time the half-giant and his mother, who despite her frail appearance could scramble overland with remarkable speed, had hiked ten miles from the army camp, Ankhar detected the smell of smoke. They came across a low ridge to see an entire forest smoldering, blackened trunks still casting up clouds of smoke. Only the moist ground and verdancy of the forest had prevented a major conflagration from erupting.

  And there, looming against the backdrop of the blackened landscape, rose the elemental king. His cavernous eyes, flaring like the coals of the Abyss, burned brightly as the half-giant boldly stepped within view of the monster. Ankhar raised his emerald-tipped spear, waving the weapon over his head in a taunt.

  The elemental king roared, the sound so ferocious it was like a physical assault. Ankhar roared back challengingly, and the conjured creature charged him.

  The ground shuddered underfoot as the great creature advanced upon the half-giant. Whirlwinds swirled around its massive legs, tearing up trees and sending great spumes of water into the air as it cut across the mountain stream. It roared closer, rearing high, the sound of its cries echoing back from the ridges, filling the valley with noise …

  Until Laka opened her small, ruby-encrusted box.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  THUNDER ON THE MOUNTAIN

  The battlefield lay where the Garnet Mountains flowed down onto the plains, some fifty miles east and south of Solanthus. The few villages in the area had been long abandoned. Finally the maneuvering was done, the units in place for a decisive showdown. Morale was high on both sides, and with the two-year siege behind them, the Solamnics and Ankhar’s army were equal in one respect: they were ready for the matter to be resolved.

  Horses kicked and whinnied with eagerness, the drooling warg wolves snarled, and men, goblins, ogres, and dwarves sharpened their blades and through narrowed eyes, studied the enemy’s positions. All the warriors on both sides sensed there would be no more marching, no more feints and impasses and skirmishes. A great battle was nigh.

  The two armies formed opposite each other alongside the northeast fringe of the Garnet Mountains. Ankhar’s army, facing north and west, held its left flank anchored on the precipitous slopes of a rocky ridge. Jaymes, in turn, maintained his front toward the south and east, and by the use of light cavalry and skirmishers, intended to keep his right flank flexible enough to respond to any threat that might materialize in the high country.

  The Palanthian Legion had swelled the ranks of the Solamnic force to an unprecedented number. The three knightly armies were well rested. Nearly two months had elapsed since the crossing of the Vingaard, and the time had been put to good use. Many of the wounded had recovered and been brought forward to rejoin the army. Stocks of arrows and replacement weapons had been expanded by the diligent work of the armorers until all units were fully equipped. One enterprising quartermaster had sent away as far as Kalaman to purchase a herd of more than six hundred good, strong horses.

  Bloodgutter, meanwhile, had sent urgent messages to the wilds of Lemish, promising booty, land, and slaves to new volunteers. As a result, Ankhar was able to welcome reinforcements totaling hundreds of ogres and thousands of goblins.

  Th
e first day on the field, the armies watched each other warily, jockeying with slight changes in position, skirmishing with scouts and light cavalry although neither commander made a move to open up major hostilities. The lancers on their fleet horses brawled with Rib Chewer’s goblins on their warg wolves for much of the afternoon, the fracas fading away with the daylight. No great change resulted, but riders on both sides returned to their camps boasting of enemies slain and new glories attained.

  On Ankhar’s part, he was content to wait and see what his opponent tried to do while, at the same time, waiting for even more reinforcements to come up from the south. They continued to arrive—a hundred and fifty hobgoblins from near the Lords of Doom, several wandering tribes of gobs marching out of the Garnet range. Most important to the half-giant, he was secure in the knowledge that the king of the elementals was once more his prisoner, his slave to command. That imposing monster, for now, remained trapped in Laka’s ruby box. But when the time was ready—and that time would be very, very soon—the king would be released to once more walk upon the world, to wage war, and to destroy.

  Jaymes, to Ankhar, was making a show of useless busy work: His troops were deployed. They dug ditches and erected barriers of sharpened stakes. But the half-giant didn’t realize the real purpose was to distract him from activity on the western slope of a low ridge overlooking the field, a slope concealed by its crest from enemy observation.

  It took the better part of two days for a team of Kaolyn Axers to chop through the pine forest on that concealed slope and clear a road up to the flat ridge that rose to the extreme right of the Solamnic Army’s position. The work was grueling, but Jaymes had chosen this ridge as the best firing position for the bombards, and his troops knew better than to question their commander’s judgment.