Lord of the Rose tros-1

by Douglas Niles

  “You mean, he has killed other people?”

  Martha shook her head. “No, but they find reason to leave. Many of ’em left, the ones who didn’t approve of his rule. Lord Lorimar was their leader-good man, Lord Lorimar,” she noted sadly.

  “Yes. I always admired the way he rode horseback through the streets, not like the other lords in their fancy carriages and buggies. He was very handsome, dignified. He looked you right in the eyes when he talked to you. His daughter Dara and I were friends-though she was a little older than me. Such a terrible tragedy, their deaths. And the assassin still at large!”

  “That assassin-oh, he’s slippery as a ghost,” Martha said. “Everybody looks and looks for him. He hasn’t been heard of for a time now. It’s as though he’s disappeared from the world!”

  Selinda suppressed a shudder. Dara Lorimar had been a good-hearted, vivacious young woman. When the news of her and her father’s death had reached Palanthas, the lord regent had been enraged that one of his most loyal lords had been cruelly slain. Selinda had grieved over the death of a friend.

  “My father has offered a thousand steel crowns as reward!” the princess murmured.

  “Whoever brings him to justice will earn their reward,” Martha said, clearly a little bleary from the wine. “He’s a bad one.”

  “My dear,” the duke said sternly. He had risen, unnoticed, from his seat and was now leaning over his wife’s shoulder. “I need you to come with me.”

  “Oh,” Martha replied. She blinked her watery eyes. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said to the princess, before rising unsteadily.

  “Surely you’re not leaving the banquet?” Selinda objected in dismay, but Martha was ushered away, the duke holding her hand until he could pass her to the sturdy arms of several of the Ducal Guard. He returned to the table, shaking his head.

  “She’s a wonderful woman,” he said, whispering to the princess as he took his seat, “but she always has trouble with strong wines.”

  “She is a delightful hostess!” insisted the guest of honor, but the duke didn’t seem to be listening anymore.

  Instead, he rose to his feet.

  “And now…” the Duke of Caergoth declared, speaking over the babble of the diners, “it is my great privilege to offer a toast to our most charming, and beautiful, visitor.”

  The room fell reasonably silent, though Selinda couldn’t help noticing that there was more talking, whispering, laughing than there would have been at a Palanthian gathering.

  “We are graced by a lady whose elegance, charm, and wit can mean only great auguries for the upcoming conference of Solamnic lords. Indeed, it is my fervent prayer that her wise counsel in these talks will open the way toward a new era of peace and cooperation among the lords of the three orders.

  “We stand at a crossroads now… an opportunity when the future beckons as never before. The Evil Ones glimmer from the shadows. The dark shadows. We of Solamnia, we bring light into those shadows. We cast that light of truth, of justice, of the Oath and the Measure into the darkest of lightless shadows. The Evil Ones can only cower as we hold true to our just and righteous course.

  “This lady who is our guest, well, she is the very embodiment of that torch, that righteous light. In the name of her father, our own Lord Regent Du Chagne-who has almost single-handedly brought that light into Palanthas and helped to spread it across all the plains-we salute her and ourselves!”

  The duke raised his wine glass with his right hand. “Through the dark years since the War of Souls we have struggled and strived to bring civilization back to these long-suffering lands. We of the Rose, here in Caergoth-together with the worthy nobles of the Sword in Thelgaard and of the Crown in Solanthus-ever do we look toward the great city in the north for leadership, for guidance, for good counsel. Palanthas! Aye, Palanthas, the noble keystone in the centuries-old arch that is Solamnia. No place has stood against evil, has stood as a beacon of righteousness, more than have the great nations of Solamnia.

  “To the great city of Palanthas, to the noble Lord Regent of that great city, and to his most gracious daughter who is here with us tonight: let us cry thrice hail, and drink a toast to the glory, the wisdom, and the long-standing might of Palanthas!”

  “Hail! Hail, hail!”

  The cry rocked the great hall, so forceful that Selinda was taken aback. It was dizzying to think that all of these people put such faith in herself and her house. Nevertheless, she stood swiftly and gracefully, very glad that she had been careful with the wine.

  “My most kind and hospitable host, I thank you,” she declared. “On behalf of my father, in the legacy of the Council of Whitestone, and with all our prayers for the future, I most humbly aspire to prove worthy of the many flatteries you have offered.”

  Selinda lifted her glass and all those present did the same, goblets clinking around the room. They all drank, and the great hall filled with cheers.

  Sitting down again, the princess was amazed and delighted as a procession of servants flowed through the massive doors from the kitchen. She had been been to many banquets in Palanthas where the fare had consisted of dainty roasted fowls, or slices of ham graced with apples and plums, or bits of fish arranged fashionably on golden platters. That was not the Caergoth way: Here they brought out whole pigs roasted, and set upon massive platters carried by two burly men. Milk was poured from massive, ice-encrusted jugs, and those who wanted ale simply wandered over to one of several kegs set up in various parts of the great hall.

  Selinda ate more than she ever had a single sitting before, and washed it down with the southern ale that, she decided, was smoother and less presumptuous than its Palanthian cousin.

  The duke seemed to come alive as the evening progressed, chatting with Selinda about the glories of his realm, most of which seemed to center around the city’s position as a natural seaport.

  “Of course, we have problems, too,” he admitted at one point. “The goblin crisis here isn’t what it is in Thelgaard and Solanthus, closer to the Garnet Mountains, but we do find the wretches skulking about now and then. I have a prime specimen locked up in my dungeon right now!”

  “Really!” said Selinda. “We never see any goblins in Palanthas!”

  “Well, one day I hope to say the same thing about Caergoth,” the duke professed. “My man here, Captain Reynaud, captured this one in the Garnet Mountains and brought him here for interrogation.”

  “Really?”

  The princess leaned forward, out of the corner of her eye regarding the knight with whom the duke had earlier been arguing. The knight was a man with slick black hair and a long mustache that curled into twin prongs, like the horns of a steer. Now the man cocked an ear, hearing them and assuming a humble expression.

  He waved a hand dismissively. “It was nothing, really. We had to kill a few of his comrades. They were pickets, on the ridge around a huge clan of the beggars. We chained him up and brought him back here, quick as you like.” Reynaud spoke as though it were a simple business, but the princess noticed the hard edge in his eye and perceived a stern, even cruel set to his thin lips.

  “I think it’s really quite a thrilling story,” the princess said. “Do you suppose I could see the creature? Perhaps take a tour of your dungeon?”

  “Absolutely not! Out of the question!” She was surprised to have her question answered not by the duke but by a knight who had stood behind the lord during the entire meal. He was the same warrior, Sir Marckus Haum, who had met her at the docks.

  “I beg your pardon,” she said archly. “I was speaking to the duke!”

  “Yes, Sir Marckus-she was talking to me!” added that worthy noble.

  “Begging your Excellency’s pardon, but the very idea of taking the lady into them stinking dungeons is loopy. No disrespect intended, my lady, but it’s dangerous activity. The blighters will as soon bite and scratch you as glance at you. They’d spit upon you if you so much as showed your face down there!”

  “I’
m not worried about a little spit,” Selinda retorted. Perhaps it was the ale, but she felt surprisingly indignant and more than willing to speak her mind. “I do so much want to see a goblin!”

  “The risks are simply too great. Why, if your father was to hear-”

  “My father is not here!” the princess responded. “Even more to the point, my father sent me here with the authority to speak his will. It is in his voice that I demand-” She paused, smiled sweetly at the duke, who was staring at her wide-eyed. “I respectfully request that your Excellency provide me with a tour of your dungeon, during which I may lay eyes upon a captured goblin or two. I shall count upon the diligence of your knights to protect safety of my person.” She turned her beguiling smile upon Sir Marckus and watched the flush creep slowly across his face.

  Ankhar relished his first night as leader of the great horde. He stayed in the Big House as, in fact, it rained hard on the thousands of gathered hobs and gobs. Naturally, there was insufficient space for more than a fraction of them inside the building, but they didn’t seem to mind. Instead, they drank, danced, and cavorted around the great fire all through the dismal night.

  It wasn’t until later the next day that Laka came to see her adopted son, finding him awake and hungry-and scattering the dozen or so young gob wenches who had clamored to provide the new chieftain with whatever nourishment he needed through the night.

  So tired and sore was Ankhar that he didn’t even object to his mother’s harangue.

  “What you do with all these gobs and hobs?” she asked him, shaking the skull-totem so the pebbles inside the bony talisman rattled and hissed. “You got army here. You gotta lead them.”

  “Lead them where?” wondered the half-giant. He recalled Bonechisel’s numerous campaigns, all of them bloody but none of them particularly momentous. “To go kill more hobs and gobs?”

  Laka shook her rattle meaningfully. The black eyes gaped empty, but chiding.

  “No. Go kill dwarves?”

  The half-giant realized that idea made no sense. The dwarves lived in fortified cities under the ground. There was no effective way to attack them. Nor was there any reason, save a lust for the treasures that were reputedly locked away in the vaults of Kaolyn.

  “No, humans. With this many gobs, we kill lots of humans. Maybe even a whole city.”

  With those words, the eyes of the skull-rattle glowed bright green, and the fleshless lips seemed to curve into an approving grin. Laka shook the rattle again, and the half-giant was more than a little impressed as words, delivered in a croaking rasp, emerged from between those bony jaws.

  “Truth is in your soul, “Justice in your blade. “Blood is battle’s toll, “A savage empire made!” Ankhar nodded. A savage empire made…Now that was a Truth worth fighting for.

  “You must do exactly as I say,” huffed Sir Marckus.

  “Now, now, Marckus,” reassured the duke, “this is a recreational outing, not a military campaign.”

  “I still say, bring the creature out here and let her see it. She doesn’t need to go in there.”

  “Nonsense!” replied Selinda. “The risks of an escape are much greater if you bring it outside. No, I am quite prepared to go in there to see this creature. I am not afraid.”

  “Then with all respect, Excellency and your highness, do consider: We are dealing with a treacherous and implacable foe. He will do anything to get hold of an example of human womanhood-begging the lady’s pardon.”

  Sir Marckus was accompanied by a dozen sturdy knights, all more than six feet tall, broad shouldered and solidly built. Each wore a supple leather tunic that gave him good freedom of movement yet still provided protection to the torso and groin. Instead of their usual lances and great battle swords they wore short swords that looked more like overgrown knives than true swords.

  Selinda was glad, thinking about it, that Captain Powell had gone back to the ships to tend to matters. He would have been every bit as stiff and protective as Sir Marckus, and she certainly didn’t need two such officers clucking over her like mother hens.

  “First cells won’t be too bad,” the knight of the Rose explained as they crossed the castle courtyard into a dark, muddy passageway between two high walls. A lone door with a swordsman standing guard stood at the end of the way. The guard saluted and opened the door as Marckus approached. “These’ll be scum from the city, thieves and the like. Worthless wretches, but some of them have a chance to be paroled, so they’ll be on their best behavior as we pass through.”

  They went through a small room with another guard, and this one unlocked the door carefully. Marckus and several of his men took torches from a rack on the wall. With the brand held high, the captain preceded the party through the second door. There was a row of cells to each side. They were tiny cages, with iron bars and a single, small door forming the front wall of each.

  “Aye, Cap’n-how’s the gout?” shouted a one-eyed scarecrow of a man in the first cell. “Yer lookin’ fit, aye you are.”

  “And the lovely missus?” croaked another fellow, lurching upward from a filthy straw pallet. He came to the bars of his cell and extended an imploring hand. “You give her that bauble o’ mine, I trust? I tol’ ya, give it to the missus!”

  “Sorry, Barthon,” answered Marckus, and Selinda was surprised that he did seem genuinely regretful. “That would be against regulations. Recovered booty is to be returned to the rightful owner or turned over to the garrison’s purser for recording.”

  “Ah, too bad.” Barthon slumped in his cell, the picture of dejection. “It woulda looked nice an’ sparkly on her wrist, I tell you,” he said, shaking his head slowly.

  The men in the other cells were not as talkative, watching the procession with a measure of apprehension or, here and there, undisguised hatred in their eyes. True to Marckus’ prediction, none of them made any sound or gesture to harass them. At the end of the long, dark row of cells, the knight captain held his torch high. This batch of cells was guarded by a pair of men-at-arms. They were long armed, low-browed ruffians, so far as Selinda could tell-they looked nothing like any of the Knights of Solamnia she had known all her life. They gave a martial salute as Marckus approached. At his command, one of them opened the door while the other stood back, his sword at the ready.

  “These here are a bit of a rougher crowd, my lady,” the captain explained. “Rapists and murderers, mostly. More likely to feel a rope around their worthless necks than ever to breathe the free air again. I urge you to reconsider your sight-seeing.”

  “Nonsense,” Selinda replied. “I am not afraid. Lead on, good captain.”

  The ranks of knights pressed annoyingly close to either side of Selina, until she elbowed one in the ribs-it hurt her elbow more than it did his leather-shielded belly-and he backed off enough that she could see smaller, dingier cages with walls of dark, wet stone.

  One scowling, black-bearded fellow lurched to his feet and lunged at the door, reaching a paw of a hand through the bars, trying to strike one of the knights. The warrior was ready, rapping the prisoner’s fingers with the hilt of his sword, and with a yelp the wretch pulled his fist back and shrank away. On the other side a weasel-faced fellow mumbled and cried, clutching his arms around his frail chest, rocking back and forth.

  Selinda was relieved when they reached the end of this passage. The last few cells were empty, and she pressed forward with the guards, waiting as Marckus took out a large key and unlocked a portal, which, unlike the others, was made of solid iron. “Now, watch your step, my lady,” said the knight captain. “We’ll be going down some stairs that get kind of slippery, and down at the bottom there’ll be mud and slime and nasty stuff underfoot.”

  “Thank you for the suggestion that I wear my boots,” the princess replied. She felt a shiver of excitement as they started down the dingy stairway. Sir Marckus held his torch before him, revealing slimy, uneven slabs of limestone descending down a narrow, stone-walled shaft. Water thick with ooze trickled from step to
step, gurgling toward the dark, unseen bottom.

  Smoke from the torch rose along the low ceiling, stinging Selinda’s eyes. She coughed and ducked her head. For the first time she wondered about the wisdom of her request, but she would not humiliate herself by changing her mind, even as Sir Marckus stopped near the bottom of the stairs and turned to regard her.

  “You sure you want to go on?” he asked.

  She nodded resolutely. Her foot splashed down in a puddle, and she reached out a hand to brace herself on the slippery surface. The stone of the wall was slick, mossy, and cold. Grimacing, the Princess of Palanthas continued into the dungeon.

  Now there were solid doors to each side, iron doors with massive locks and narrow slots that presumably allowed the passage of food and drink. Something moved at one of those hatches, and she clasped a hand to her mouth at the sight of taloned fingers, long and flexible and tipped with curving, sharp claws, reaching out. A knight hacked down with his short sword, slicing off one of the digits before the hand disappeared. Selinda heard a deep-chested growl that made her think of a very large dog, and something banged hard into the door. The iron slab rattled in its frame, the thumping echo suddenly amplified by a piercing shriek.

  “He’ll remember us, that one,” said the knight with the bloody sword. Despite his brash words, his tone was uneasy, and he cast a wary glance at the door as the procession came to a halt.

  Selinda was about to remind the captain that she wanted to see a goblin when he pulled out a large key and handed it to one of his men. The fellow unlocked the metal door, pulling it back with a creak of rusty hinges to reveal a barrier of close-set iron bars.

  “There’s the goblin. Look all you want,” said Sir Marckus. “Don’t get close.”

  The princess stepped forward, as the captain raised his torch. Her first reaction was: What’s all the fuss about?