Lord of the Rose tros-1

by Douglas Niles

  “After a while it does,” she admitted.

  “Come on.” Jaymes took the squirming gnome by her wrist. Dram grabbed Carbo. The man lifted the hatch, tossed Sulfie through, held it open for the dwarf and the male gnome, then ducked through himself. “Hey, me too!” cried the gully dwarf, just before Dram slammed the hatch, leaving him behind.

  They found themselves in the main room of another gnomish domicile, not quite as crowded and cluttered as Carbo’s house. With a nod to her neighbors-a half-dozen gnomes regarding them with goggle-eyed stares-Sulfie led them down a narrow hallway where Jaymes, even though he was stooping, knocked his head against a low ceiling arch. They emerged at last into the street.

  Many gnomes milled about, but no knights were in sight. Castle Caergoth rose from its commanding height, and the dwarf led them away from the fortress, at a fast trot.

  They hadn’t even reached the first intersection when a squad of knights, all wearing the tunic emblazoned with the Crown, charged into sight. The leader, a big man with the golden epaulets of a sergeant, spotted Jaymes, who was head and shoulders taller than anyone else on the street.

  “There!” cried the knight. “Stop him-Jak, go tell Captain Dayr! We’ve got him cornered now.” Four knights advanced, shoulder to shoulder, blocking any escape. Doors slammed shut all up and down the block. Sulfie and Carbo tried to make a dash for the nearest houses but were held firm by the dwarf and the warrior.

  “You two are coming with us,” Dram growled. The dwarf offered his companion a questioning look. “That is, if we’re going anywhere.”

  “Step back,” snapped the warrior. He reached over his shoulder, drew the great sword in a single, smooth movement. Flames exploded from the blade. Two of the knights hesitated, awestruck at the sight of the mighty sword, but the other two charged forward, their blades upraised.

  The first lost his sword, and fingers, as the fiery weapon slashed across his hands. He screamed and tumbled back as his comrade attacked, slashing back and forth with his long sword.

  The second Knight of the Crown charged right onto the blazing tip of the warrior’s blade and fell dead next to his wounded companion, who was kneeling, moaning and clutching the bleeding stump of his hand. The two remaining knights advanced more cautiously, shoulder to shoulder across the narrow lane.

  “You might cut us down, Assassin!” hissed one of them, “but by the gods, we’ll cost you time!” They rushed him.

  The warrior had sheathed his sword and snatched out his crossbows. Both knights sprawled to the ground, each felled by a steel dart that punctured deep through the muscle of the thigh.

  Jaymes spun and raced after Dram and the two gnomes, who were disappearing around the next corner. Another company of knights came into view. Arrows struck the flagstones behind the warrior as he darted down the connecting lanes.

  “Damn them anyway!” the dwarf cursed, halting when he found himself facing of a whole rank of crossbowmen. They were Knights of the Sword arrayed in three ranks-poised for a volley, with their steel-tipped quarrels that could punch through plate mail armor.

  “Down!” shouted Jaymes, tumbling into the dwarf and gnomes, bearing all of them to the pavement as the arrows whistled past just above their heads. Sulfie shrieked as one of the missiles grazed her. Dram grunted as he rose to his feet, pulling one of the short arrows from his shoulder and tossing it aside.

  The bowmen were already reloading, and shouts and pounding feet could be heard coming from another direction. “Got any clever ideas?” the dwarf asked the human irritably.

  A cloud of white smoke erupted around them. The murk swirled through the air, obscuring them from view. All of a sudden a woman stood before them, in a white, bright robe. Beautiful, dark-haired, she reached out to pull the gnomes, the dwarf, and the warrior near to her.

  “It’s… it’s her!”gasped Dram, shocked. He stared goggle-eyed. “Lady Coryn!”

  “Hurry,” she snapped. “There will be plenty of time for fond reunions if we get out of here alive. Now, move!”

  Even Carbo and Sulfie hastened to oblige, moving in close to either side of her billowing white robe. More arrows clattered through the alley, but the smoke made the shots go wild. The warrior was the last to join them, as he was busy slashing his blazing sword back and forth, knocking several of the threatening shots aside.

  “Well?” demanded Coryn. “We’re not waiting forever.”

  The warrior looked at her, then at the rank of knights, now reloading for their third volley. Jaymes winced, shaking his head.

  “Damn,” he muttered, charging into the swirl of smoke.

  “Put your sword up,” she suggested, with just the hint of a wry smile. He nodded, smoothly sliding the weapon into the hilt concealed beneath his cape, then reached out to grasp the hand extended by the white-robed Coryn.

  They stood in a tight circle-the dwarf, the man and woman, and the two gnomes. The lady in white chanted something guttural, and a swirl of magical power enveloped them. There was a sense of sickening disorientation, then the cloud of smoke and magic that hid them from the knights vanished.

  With it went the knights, the ghetto, and in fact in the whole city of Caergoth. They blinked to find themselves still holding hands, all in a circle, now standing in the sunlit quiet of a vast plain, sheltered by a verdant, overgrown hedge. A wide river valley, marked by the silver course of a great stream, was visible below them. There were no other people anywhere in sight.

  “Coryn,” said the warrior. “We owe you our thanks.”

  She snorted, unamused. “Save that. First we have to talk.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Pledges Of War

  The pursuit of the assassin of Lorimar, Lady Selinda admitted to herself, was a bright spark of excitement amid what was shaping up to be a rather tedious conference. Not that the dukes would allow her to accompany the three hundred knights who rushed to bring the villain to justice-they turned deaf ears to even her most persuasive entreaties. Even so, she felt a thrill as, with Lady Martha at her side, the Princess of Palanthas climbed to the top of the castle’s gate tower, from where they could watch the progress of the knights streaming the streets of the great city.

  The lady had brought a spyglass, and the two women took turns looking through the device. Selinda was amazed at the effect-when she focused the lens, she felt as though she were looking down from a low rooftop right in the neighborhood instead of from this lofty vantage high up on a castle tower.

  The knights could be observed making their way in three columns. The gleaming silver armor of Caergoth’s mounted finest reflected the bright sunlight as the Knights of the Rose headed down a wide avenue. The princess couldn’t help but notice the Sword knights of Solanthus, and the Crown of Thelgaard, looked shabbier in comparison. Their armor, even when metal, barely glinted in the daylight, and their horses were thin, often scarred, by comparison to the huge, well-groomed war-horses of their host’s detachment.

  “That’s Thelgaard’s men in the middle,” Lady Martha explained, though the black banner displaying the white crown gave clear enough proof of their allegiance. To the left, the blue pennant with the image of the silver sword flapped in the wind as the knights of Duke Rathskell swung around to the left flank.

  “What is that wretched place down there?” asked Selinda, perceiving that the three detachments were encircling an area of flat-roofed shacks, lean-tos, and other hovels along a strip of waterfront.

  “We call that the ghetto,” Lady Martha said, a trifle embarrassed. “It is wretched, and no respectable human would go there. For a long time it was inhabited only by Aghar and criminal scum, though since the War of Souls it has become a sort of haven for gnomes. In fact, they’ve built it up a bit since going there-making stone houses, that sort of thing. Poor little folk-they suffered as much as anyone during the years of the Scourges, so my husband has been gracious enough to let them have the place. Indeed, they are better neighbors than the gully dwarves!”

>   “No doubt,” Selinda agreed, acutely aware that her father’s men had virtually eliminated the filthy little Aghar from Palanthas. Those glimpsed by her escort were seized and, she assumed, expelled from the city.

  Her eyes wandered beyond the ghetto to the great docks that serviced the ocean-going galleons. She spotted her father’s ships, nine in all, serenely at anchor in the great port. The tenth-her flagship, Pride of Paladine — was securely lashed to the wharf. The voyage from Palanthas to Caergoth had been reasonably comfortable, she recalled, and the food served to her and the few noble-ranking officers who had shared the captain’s table, excellent. No trace of seasickness had bothered her, and she relished the salty breeze, even the occasional burst of spray splashing across the deck.

  Yet now the prospect of re-boarding the galleon for the long return trip home suddenly terrified her. She couldn’t explain her feeling, but she shuddered at the sight of the big ships, quickly pulled her eyes away, looking off to ascertain the progress of the arrest. In her heart, she knew nothing would compel her to board the vessel home. Such a trip would be disaster-this much she knew as the Truth.

  It was possible to return to Palanthas overland, but how could she make that happen? Captain Powell would never understand her apprehension. She would have to give the matter some thought.

  At the fringes of the ghetto, she saw, the knights were dismounting, leaving their horses in the care of squires as squads of armed and armored men deployed into the neighborhoods. They started into the squalid neighborhood streets and alleys, weapons drawn. There was no great hue and cry, however-even the bright banners were tucked away as the men started their search.

  Selinda could see throngs of little people-gnomes, she guessed-prodded at sword point into the small squares and plazas that dotted the ghetto. Occasionally she heard the bark of an indistinguishable, but forceful, command. More than once she saw a gnome or some other wretched denizen squirming in the grip of a strong knight. For a long time this methodical search proceeded, as a a great many citizens of the ghetto were corralled, interrogated-sometimes roughly-then restrained in the increasingly crowded open spaces.

  “They must have learned something-look!” cried Lady Martha breathlessly, as the individual parties of knights all hastened toward a small corner of the ghetto. The hapless gnomes left behind swiftly vanished into the tangled lanes, going inside and shutting their doors. Since her hostess was clutching the spyglass in her hand but not using it at the moment, Selinda grabbed the device and put it to her eye.

  The knights were forming lines of battle. In addition to the gleaming swords Selinda scanned ranks of archers, less heavily armored then the swordsmen but readying their deadly crossbows. One by one the streets surrounding a small area were cordoned off, and archers deployed behind the ranks of swordsmen, all of them moving with methodical discipline. A wider ring, comprised of Caergoth’s Rose knights to judge from the immaculate armor, stood back from the attacking formations, presumably to intercept the Assassin if he should try to slip through the encirclement.

  Abruptly, noises of smashing wood, cries of alarm, and other sounds of violence carried upward. Selinda spied knights and gnomes running to and fro. A rank of archers raised their weapons, and sunlight reflected from the silvery darts as they arrowed down a narrow street. Overhanging roofs blocked the targets from the ladies’ line of sight, but Selinda saw a small party of fugitives break for a small alley-apparently the lethal arrows had missed their targets. Focusing in more tightly, she glimpsed a dwarf. The fellow was dirty, covered in soot and brown muck, but she got a very good look at his face when he turned around to shout some imprecation at his pursuers.

  Beyond him a tall swordsman came into view, and Selinda felt a tingle of recognition as she glimpsed blue flames, quickly extinguished, flickering along the edge of that mighty blade.

  “Giantsmiter!” she gasped. The man turned to confront his pursuers, his face taut. Yet from the glimpse she got of him, he showed no fear. In spite of the warm sunlight on the parapet, the princess shivered with unexpected terror and excitement.

  “What’s that-by the gods, not a fire, I hope!” Lady Martha exclaimed, also sounding half alarmed, half titillated.

  Selinda swung the glass and spotted a churning cloud of foggy vapor, swirling thickly in the middle of the street.

  “White smoke,” the princess noted. “Not likely from a fire.”

  But what was it? The cloud of mist spun and whirled, masking the fugitives. Knights closed in on the small alley from both directions, their hoarse battle cries echoing in the still, midday air. The Assassin and his accomplices were trapped, Selinda realized-there was nowhere for them to go.

  Yet why were the knights milling around, now, in apparent confusion? The cloud slowly dissipated, and angry outbursts, accusatory shouts, rose from the tangled streets. Once again knights were dashing around everywhere, smashing down doors, pulling gnomes out into the street. The searching was frenzied, undisciplined. Many knights remounted, and three distinct columns-minus half their number, who remained behind to continue the search-started back up to the castle.

  “Did they manage to kill him somehow?” Lady Martha asked breathlessly. “I couldn’t see! I don’t spot any captives!”

  “I fear he may have escaped,” Selinda replied.

  “But how? No, that’s impossible-they had him surrounded!”

  “Shall we go down to the great hall and hear what happened?” suggested the princess.

  The two ladies descended quickly from the lofty parapet and were waiting at the huge conference table as the doors to the hall burst open. Duke Rathskell and Jarrod were the first into the chamber, each followed by a dozen or more of his retinue.

  “-your scouts must have been asleep at their posts!” snapped the thin, wiry Rathskell. “To let them slip by like that!”

  “Pathetic lies!” roared Jarrod, flexing his huge arms. “It was your men who scattered at the first taste of steel!”

  “Nay-they stood firm and drove the scoundrel into your line. Did your men grow faint at the sight of the blazing sword?” Rathskell demanded. His tone was quiet but menacing.

  “Mine followed orders-I have one dead and three wounded to prove it!” answered Jarrod. “What blood did you spill?”

  “What happened?” Lady Selinda asked, the calmness of her voice cutting through the bickering.

  “We had him dead to rights, my Princess,” explained Rathskell with a bow to Selinda. “Until my ‘peer’ ”-he sneered at Jarrod of Thelgaard-“failed to perform his duty in the face of the enemy.”

  “Lies, I tell you!” bellowed the Duke of the Crown. “He was long gone by the time we closed in.”

  “My Lord, Lady Princess.” The speaker was Sir Marckus, interjecting quietly. The venerable knight’s calm tone seemed to soothe the level of tension in the room-at least, for the moment.

  “Yes? What is it? Do you know something?” asked Caergoth eagerly.

  “Not personally, Excellency, no, but I have heard whisperings among the men. One of them claims to have spotted the White Witch.”

  “The White Witch! Could she be in league with the killer?” Duke Crawford wondered. “Her sorcery could help explain that miraculous escape.”

  “If by the ‘White Witch’ you mean the Lady Coryn of Palanthas,” Selinda said sharply. “I have heard her called thus, but I will not stand for such inferences in my presence. She has done good work in the cause of Solamnia over the last few years. She could not possibly be involved-why would she help an assassin who slew one of our most noble and esteemed lords?”

  “There is no accounting for the ways of wizards,” the Duke of Solanthus declared forcefully.

  For the first time Selinda noticed one knight, ashen-faced and perspiring heavily, had been laid upon one of the banquet tables near the door. He held his right hand, wrapped in a bloody bandage, tightly to his chest. Two other knights were borne into the room by comrades, each of them obviously wounded in the le
g.

  “Duke Crawford!” the princess said at once. “Those men are injured. Surely this debate can wait. Have you not a cleric who can aid them?”

  “What? Oh, of course,” said the duke, looking with exaggerated concern at the wounded knights. “Patriarch Issel-see first to that fellow, there. The one with all the blood.”

  “My lord,” said the cleric, materializing from the group of people who had suddenly crowded into the great hall. He was wearing his formal golden robe and bowed apologetically. “Of course. That is, I would if I could, but I fear the rigors of preparing for this conference have kept me from my daily meditations. I confess I lack the power to perform the necessary spells at this time. However, there are sub-priests at my temple who may be capable of stanching the bleeding. They will not be able to save the damaged hand, but they can certainly save the lives of these noble knights. I will send word to my priests immediately.”

  “Yes, please do so without further delay,” the princess commanded. She could not stop herself from adding, “In my father’s city, a high priest would attend to his meditations before worrying about the ceremonial requirements of a royal conference.”

  The patriarch shot her a dark look that was noticed by everyone standing near. The dukes looked offended at her insult to the cleric’s authority. In point of fact, Selinda was not entirely sure what priorities should guide the time of a Palanthian priest. She kept her steely expression, even as she made a mental note to herself: Keep an eye on that high priest.

  The two men with leg wounds were carried out, but the third man objected, shaking his head in despair.

  “Leave me here,” the injured knight protested. “My hand is gone-I am no use to the Order of the Crown. Let me die!”

  “Nonsense,” said the cleric, with a note of spite in his voice. “The Lady of Palanthas has decreed that your life be saved, and so it shall if at all possible. You men, offer him your shoulders. Bring him to my temple-it is just beyond the castle gate.”