Lord of the Rose tros-1

by Douglas Niles

“You miss the dwarf spirits, that’s f’sure,” the man said. “But you’d go crazy in a fortnight if you tried to live underground again.”

  Dram sniffed with the air of one who’d been greatly insulted then sighed, squinting at the sun as it slid downward through the late afternoon sky. “Never did think a mountain dwarf could grow so fond of that ol’ ball of fire,” he admitted, “but yer right-I get a kinda creepy feeling if I’m stuck in the dark too long, these days. That’s what hanging around with humans too long’ll do to a fellow!”

  They rode along in companionable silence, enjoying the friendly bustle of the city after their long ride. It was the end of the business day, and merchants were folding up tents and awnings across several great marketplaces as people drifted away from the centers of commerce. A few vendors hawked the last of their fish, while others carted away wagonloads of woolen garments, kegs of beer, and casks of wheat to be saved for the next day of selling.

  The taverns and inns sprang to life as the sky grew dark. The riders passed one called Granny’s Garter, where a number of scantily clad women danced on the upper balcony. Music, in the forms of drums, lutes, pipes, and mandolins, echoed in every street.

  “This city was kind of a scum-hole when the Dark Knights ran the place,” Dram said approvingly. “I thought it was the Solamnics who’d got the place back on its feet again-you say it ain’t so?”

  “Hardly,” replied his companion. “You heard what the crier said. This is a Free City. Pledged by compact to none of the orders of knights. Rose, Crown, Sword-they all buy and sell here, but they don’t get to tax the commerce.”

  “There are some knights now,” the dwarf observed. He gestured toward the front of a gilded building on a side street, nestled between an inn and a dance hall. “Recognize them horses?”

  The man peered in the direction of the dwarf’s pointing finger, seeing two large war-horses and a scruffy mule lashed to a hitching rail.

  “Yep,” said the warrior, reining in and dismounting. He lashed the gelding’s reins to a handy railing while he studied the huge horses.

  The two steeds were easily distinguishable as knightly mounts, but it was the scrollwork on the saddles that marked them as the same two horses that had been tethered outside of Cornellus’s tavern high up in the mountains. The two companions settled themselves on a bench outside an inn on a porch that allowed them to keep an eye on the pair of warhorses.

  “Say, what kind of place is that?” Dram had been scrutinizing the gilded structure, which reflected the setting sun off a myriad of gold leaves and scrollwork along the building’s upper facade.

  “It’s a temple. To Shinare. They call her Winged Victory nowadays, but I think of her as a set of moneyhandler’s scales. She’s the goddess of merchants and other thieves,” the warrior said.

  “Hmph!” snorted the dwarf. “In Thorbardin they call her the Silver Mistress. I keep my faith in Reorx, thank you very much.”

  The human shrugged. “Each to his own. I put my faith in my brains and some keen steel.”

  He leaned back on the bench and pulled his cap down low over his eyes, keeping his eye on the war-horses and the temple of Shinare. They were outside an inn called the Roseflower, and a cheerful barmaid spotted them and brought them several mugs of ale-the place had the Coastlund Red that they both favored. Meanwhile the sky grew dark and the streets, lit by oil lamps, seemed to grow even brighter than they had been during the day.

  “It’s two drinks for the price of one, today,” the barmaid mentioned casually on their second round.

  “What’s the occasion?” asked Dram.

  “Well, it’s in honor of Dara Lorimar’s birthday. She would have been twenty-two, today. My master was a loyal follower of her father’s, so he pays tribute to her memory-it’s a year and a half since she died.”

  “This city owes a lot to Lorimar?” asked the warrior with an air of disinterest.

  “To both of them,” the barmaid said proudly. “He freed us from the Dark Knights, and she was the Princess of the Plains, you know.”

  “Huh?” the dwarf asked. “Royalty?”

  “You know, from the prophecy,” the woman said. “A Princess of the Plains shall wed a Lord of No Sign-and Solamania will have a king, again.” She shook her head sadly. “Of course, it’s all just stories now, but it’s nice to remember.”

  “Yes, worth remembering,” Dram replied, as the warrior ignored the exchange. After the maid left, the dwarf poked his companion in the arm. “Ain’t feeling too social, eh?” he asked.

  The human shook his head. “People don’t know what they’re talking about,” he said bitterly. The two sat in silence for another hour until the barmaid brought them another set of foaming mugs.

  “That was our last coin,” the dwarf remarked, after paying for their third round.

  His companion simply nodded.

  Finally the man stiffened and turned his head to the side. He watched surreptitiously as the two knights they had encountered in the stronghold finally emerged from the temple. They were still dragging the hapless goblin, thoroughly shackled. They hoisted the creature onto the mule, mounted their horses, and started off at a trot toward the city’s western gate.

  “Where do you think they’re headed?” asked Dram.

  “Caergoth,” replied the man with certainty. “That’s where the Order of the Rose is, these days.”

  “You know them two?”

  The swordsman shook his head. “No, but the barmaid at Cornel’s called that one Reynaud. I’ve heard of Captain Reynaud. He’s a knight commander in Duke Crawford’s army.”

  Dram whistled. “A damn good army, that one. I’ve seen it on the march-covers the whole horizon.”

  “It’s a big one all right,” his companion allowed with a shrug.

  They waited a good half hour after the knights had left. Night had fallen by the time they rose, led their horses down the side street, and tethered them outside the temple. Dram followed as the man approached the front door and tried the latch. It was unlocked, so they strolled inside.

  They found themselves standing in a small, stone-walled chamber. There was a large gold merchant’s scale set up on a platform in the center of the room, with several rings of benches surrounding it. A huge pair of feathered wings, possibly a trophy claimed from a slain griffon, were prominently displayed on the far wall of the sanctuary.

  A cleric dressed in white robes trimmed in gold emerged from a back room, bowing humbly before the two travelers.

  “Greetings, Wayfarers,” he said. “Do you come to make an offering to Shinare of the Scales?”

  “Not exactly,” said the human. “I wanted to ask you some questions about the Knights of the Rose. You work for them, don’t you?”

  The cleric, a young man with cherubic cheeks and a rotund waistline, drew himself up stiffly. “I should say not! We may have common cause, as we try to bring order to this accursed place, but I do my god’s work, while they are in the service of their duke! The knighthood has no official power here in Garnet!”

  The swordsman seemed to ignore the priest, walking slowly around the chamber, his hands concealed beneath his cape. On the far side of the large scale one arm emerged as he pointed to a strongbox on the floor. “Is this where you take donations? From the knights?”

  “No! How dare you imply-” The chubby cleric shrieked as the warrior, moving with sudden speed, snatched the sword from his back-scabbard, whipped it over his head, and brought it down. Blue flames were already crackling along the blade as the keen steel edge smashed into the chest, slicing through the planks of the strongbox as though they were stale pieces of bread.

  A cascade of coins and gems spilled out.

  The priest staggered backward, gaping in horror as the man reached down and grabbed one glittering item. It was a golden medallion in the shape of a rose attached to a slender gold chain.

  “I see that that someone pays you well,” he drawled.

  “Outrageous! Go at onc
e! Know that that is a simple donation from a faithful follower!”

  “Well, then, you can keep the simple stuff,” said the swordsman, tossing it toward the cleric, who caught it clumsily in both hands, fingers clutching at the fine chain. “We can find plenty that is more elegant among the rest of this.”

  He held his weapon, no longer flaming, in one hand, as the cleric glared at him. Dram knelt and scooped fistful after fistful of coins and jewels into a leather sack. The dwarf paused for a second now and then to admire a particularly fetching gem but quickly filled the sack.

  “That’s about all it’ll hold,” the dwarf said, hefting the bulging sack. He was visibly disappointed, for there was still a considerable fortune strewn around the stone floor.

  “It’ll have to do,” said his companion.

  “Yeah, I suppose,” said Dram regretfully.

  “How dare you?” demanded the priest angrily. “When the duke hears of this-”

  “The duke has no power here. Garnet is a free city. Remember?” the warrior chided.

  “Your insolence will cost you dearly,” warned the priest. With a sudden gesture he spun away, seized a tassle hanging from the ceiling, and pulled hard on the line. A gong sounded.

  “Tch-tch. You shouldn’t have done that,” Dram said, shaking his head. The swordsman was already moving, stepping close to the priest. He reversed the heavy blade and brought the hilt down, hard, on the cleric’s head, sending the priest sprawling to the floor, unconscious.

  “Halt!” A strong voice boomed through the round chamber, even as the pair were racing for the door.

  Both the dwarf and his human companion stopped, as if their feet were frozen to the floor.

  Another priest, this one wearing a gown of pure gold, stalked into the room. He was older than the first, with a fringe of gray hair and a massive belly that swelled his garment. He stared at them with an air of command-clearly, he was the high priest of this temple.

  “So even a temple is not safe from such villains and scoundrels. You will pay for your insolence on the rack! Duke Crawford himself will enjoy the spilling of your blood.”

  “Magic! I’m stuck to the floor!” Dram snarled in rage, snatched his axe from its belt strap, but he couldn’t decide whether to hurl it-the high priest was too far away to be sure that he could strike him. “Damn your greedy god anyway!” he spat.

  The human warrior, on the other hand, drew a deep breath and collected himself before calmly turning around, his feet gliding smoothly over the floor. “Duke Crawford has no power in Garnet,” he said.

  The patriarch glared indignantly. “You blaspheme the Balance of the Scales! He will, soon enough. Though you’ll have breathed your last before then!”

  The intruder calmly sheathed his great sword and drew out one of the small crossbows that he wore at his belt, concealed beneath his cape. With a measured crank of his hand, he cocked the weapon.

  “Cease!” cried the high priest, his fingers splayed in a gesture of command. “Drop your weapon.”

  The warrior raised the crossbow, siting the weapon on the massive round target of the golden billowing robe. “Release my friend,” he said calmly.

  “I command you both to remain!” shouted the cleric. “My power rules here!”

  The clunk of the crossbow’s firing mechanism was the last sound he was fated to hear. The high priest groped at the dart that pierced his chest, looking in disbelief at the crimson rose-dyed in blood-that spread across his sacred garment. He collapsed with a groan.

  The power of his spell was broken in that instant, and Dram stumbled free. “How did you get away from his magic?” he demanded of his companion.

  The warrior pulled off his left glove, revealing a golden ring that glowed on the middle finger of his left hand. “A gift-from a lady who knows a thing or two about magic.”

  The dwarf nodded knowingly as the warrior was already hurrying toward the door.

  “Time to go,” the swordsman said. “This town is getting too religious for me.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Lord Of The Gobs

  In the years of the Dragon Overlords Khellendros and Beryl, the savage tribes dwelling in the Garnet Mountains were hard pressed to find sustenance. The hobgoblins disbanded their great clanholds to scatter into the heights. Eating grubs and roots, they considered themselves lucky to discover such provender. They survived primarily through raiding, inflicting terror on many of the human settlements skirting the fringe of the range, pillaging from the hill dwarves with the aid of their teeming goblin lackeys. These raids inevitably led to reprisals from the Solamnic Knights, whose patrols drove the raiders higher and higher into the mountains.

  One such band of hobs was captained by a former veteran of Lord Ariakan’s, a surly brute by the name of Bonechisel Hobgoblin. Despite the ferocity of his warrior followers, Bonechisel had not found easy pickings during the overlord years.

  Bonechisel’s mate was named Laka. She had once been a comely wench-for a hobgoblin. In fact, it was her beauty that had drawn the chief’s attentions. She had been mated previously to a young warrior, but Bonechisel secured a divorce for her by the simple expedient of bashing his rival’s head until the poor fellows brains had run out and pooled upon the ground. The chief had stepped over the mess, taken Laka by the wrist, and informed her that now she was the chief’s woman.

  After several years of rudimentary efforts on Bonechisel’s part, Laka had given birth to a son. Born at the very onset of winter, the infant was sickly and small, though the hob female attended to her tiny charge with all the diligence and care that one could hope for from a member of her brutish, savage race. Whether from malnutrition or simply the early onset of winter’s dampness and chill, the suffering little hob perished in the second week of its short life.

  Bonechisel took no note of the fact, and Laka sadly laid the little corpse to rest in a mossy alcove beside a flowing stream, the only place where deep snow didn’t cover the ground. Not far away in the snowy wilds, the chief shivered, gloomy at the prospect of another long, cold season of hunt and roam.

  He caught a tantalizing scent on a waft of wind, which bore a promise of warmth, comfort, and shelter, for it smelled of a fire of pine wood. Emerging from the forest, Bonechisel found the scent of smoke even stronger. The vapors emerged from the chimney of a small cabin, wafting upward, bearing hot red sparks on the winter wind. In those glowing embers Boneshisel saw doom for whomever skulked within the cabin and fed that alluring fire.

  Bonechisel lifted his axe, which, though crude in the extreme, boasted a heavy chunk of sharp-edged granite for its blade, mounted securely atop a cudgel that was as thick around as a strong man’s arm. He flexed and swung, crashing the stone head into the boards. Two blows were enough to make a crack, and three more swings shattered the door into two halves. One half, attached to leather hinges, still clung in place, while the other piece toppled inward to crash on the dry stone floor.

  Bonechisel growled as he stepped through the entrance. Laka followed close behind him, pressed by other warriors, three or four more hobs and goblins each brandishing a heavy club of their own.

  The first thing the hob-wench noticed was the warmth, a splendid blanket of moist, slightly cloudy air that surrounded her. The taint of smoke in the shelter was a welcome scent, and the low light cast by the embers fading in the fireplace was a pleasant welcome after the unmitigated gray-white of winter’s first storm.

  The second thing to draw Laka’s attention was the small cradle, lined with furs, resting over on one side of the single chamber. She took no note of the huge creature seated at the table, the giant who still cradled his head in his hands, so lost in despair that he hadn’t yet noticed the intruders. Carefully, the hob-wench sidled toward the cradle, drawn by an instinct deeper than her race. She heard the plaintive cry, and her breasts began to leak their milk.

  Bonechisel, for his part, was fully aware of the giant seated at the table in the middle of the room. He had been prepa
red to rush in and attack the denizens of this shelter. Deep in his heart he had hoped they would be humans, preferably defenseless women and children, but he had steeled himself to fight goblins, hobgoblins, a knight or two, had even considered the dread thought that he might have to face an ogre. It was a measure of how cold, how frightened he was, that he was even willing to chance the latter possibility.

  This! This was such an extraordinary giant!

  He gave serious thought to running away. His cunning mind considered the throng of hobs and gobs behind him, and he figured that he could easily pull several of them into the house, knocking them to the floor even as he made his escape. By the time the giant was through smashing those hapless offerings, Bonechisel could be safely back in the woods…

  On second thought, this did not seem like an ideal course of action. He well knew how cold those woods were, how snowy and barren. The tribe might survive another night out there. (Actually, Bonechisel himself would probably survive the night; the welfare of the tribe as whole could not be said to be much of a consideration.) But after another night with no food and no shelter, the upcoming days inevitably looked bleak, while the warmth of this stone-walled house was undeniably attractive.

  In an instant the hobgoblin’s eyes took in the mountain of firewood stacked against the back wall. In a dark alcove near the back he could see haunches of dried meat, many of them. There was a great bed in the corner, a bed fit for an exalted chieftain such as Bonechisel Hob.

  The issue was decided by the apathetic nature of this giant himself. The fellow had only now raised his head to blink stupidly at the strangers who had just spent several minutes smashing in his front door. Clearly, this giant was not blessed with lightning-quick reactions. The expression on his face bespoke an utter lack of intelligence and imagination. Perhaps it would not be madness to battle him for the prize of this shelter. Indeed, Bonechisel thought, a sudden, swarming attack might be the best option.

  “Go!” cried Bonechisel, clapping one of his lackeys on the shoulder. “Kill giant!”