Lord of the Rose tros-1

by Douglas Niles

  Dram had wasted no time collecting the two gnomes, snatching up a few possessions easy to grab-including the bag of sulfir Sulfie had been carrying-and slipping past the sentries.

  The dwarf and the two gnomes had been able to crawl away from the grove unseen, into the muddy stream. They crawled some distance away from the Solamnic camp. Late at night they heard some commotion, and Dram had inched back close enough to overhear the conversation between a couple of guards. They referred to “the prisoner,” and the dwarf knew his old friend was doomed.

  Just an hour past dawn, a few scouts had emerged from the apple grove, cantering northward, splashing through the stream a hundred paces from where the three of them were dug in. Shortly thereafter, the rest of the company rode by, several outriders flanking either side of the main body. Dram and his companions burrowed into the reeds as one of the outriders came dangerously close.

  At last the dwarf dared to raise his head, watching the troops pass. He spotted Jaymes, the warrior’s hands shackled to a saddle, another set of chains linking his ankles under the belly of a steed. He rode in the middle of a dozen knights, every one riding with one hand on the hilt of his weapon, one eye on the prisoner.

  A moment later the dwarf spotted someone else who stood out from the bulk of stern knights. This person was indisputably a female, a woman who rode astride her horse, not sidesaddle, her posture every bit as proud and capable as any knight. Her golden hair streamed in a plume behind her head as she dug her spurs into her horse, joining the pace of the swiftly cantering knights.

  All rode through the stream without breaking stride, the horses surging up the far bank, thundering onto the plains, heading north. In a few minutes they had vanished from sight, but Dram gestured to the gnomes to stay put. Sure enough, the last scouts emerged from the grove some ten minutes after the main body had departed, spreading out, riding watchfully behind.

  Once again the three squeezed down amidst the reeds as the last knights passed. The leather-clad scouts on their light horses headed north in the wake of the column, eyes roving from side to side. It seemed to take forever before they dwindled to specks.

  Only then did Dram struggle to his feet, muttering and cursing as he tried to wipe the stinking mud off his tunic. He settled for rinsing most of it from his beard. Finally, with the two miserable, complaining gnomes in tow, he too started northward, following the easily distinguishable spoor of the knightly column.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Profit And Loss

  Ankhar had initial difficulties integrating the human soldiers into the ranks of his goblin horde. The two races possessed an instinctive antipathy that resisted his most persuasive efforts to tame. They were forced to set up their camps some distance from each other. Yet many a passing glance, sneer or curled lip escalated into blows, bloodshed, even a few fatalities.

  Ankhar had a brainstorm on the day when Blackgaard came to him and complained that two of his men, suspected of some slight, had been ambushed and severely injured by their allies.

  Actually, it was Laka-and Hiddukel, Prince of Lies-who gave her adopted son the idea. She whispered it to him in the dark of the night. At first light the next day, Ankhar asked for a demonstration of battle magic from Hoarst and his compatriots. The half-giant suggested a broad, flat-bottomed valley for the occasion. The many thousands of gobs and hobs assembled in more or less regular ranks on the slopes to watch, while the half giant, together with Laka, Captain Blackgaard, and Rib Chewer, sat upon a low hilltop with a good view of the target zone.

  The half giant roared with delight as the Thorn Knights spewed blazing fireballs, searing lightning bolts, and thunderous hailstorms against hapless thickets of thornbushes, a beaver dam, and a clump of cottonwoods. When these had all been reduced to charred pulp, the three wizards demonstrated other talents. One launched from his fingertips a blazing spear that struck down a hapless prisoner staked nearly a mile away. Another, a female elf, vanished from sight and startled the hill giant by appearing behind him. She handed him a conjured rose with the hint of a smile.

  Hoarst himself performed the most spectacular spell, calling down a swarm of meteors that apparently obliterated the Thorn Knight, as well as pummeling and cratering a large section of the plain. Only when the dust settled did the viewers see that Hoarst was alive, strolling casually out of the ruined swath of ground. He saluted Ankhar with a little click of his heels and bowed as the half-giant and his companions applauded.

  After a moment, the hobs and gobs of Ankhar’s army added a massive roar of approval, awed-just like their half-giant leader-by what they had witnessed. As Laka had predicted, the goblin-kind were more amenable to their human compatriots after that.

  “When next we meet knights, there new kind of Truth upon the battlefield!” crowed the commander, clapping the former dark knight Blackgaard on the back. Ankhar was impressed that the man wasn’t staggered by the blow, though the human did murmur something unintelligible underneath his breath.

  “What you say?” the half giant asked with a scowl.

  “Est Sudanus oth Nikkas,” the Dark Knight captain replied.

  “What that mean?”

  “Perhaps you know that the Solamnics pledge Est Sularus oth Mithas — My honor is my life?” the human suggested.

  “I hear this,” Ankhar lied, starting to lose his patience.

  “Est Sudanus oth Nikkas means ‘My power is my Truth.’ ”

  The half-giant thought about that saying for a moment, then laughed, a dull rumble of amusement slowly bubbling from his chest. “Yes,” he agreed. “That the way of my army.”

  He looked to Laka, who bobbed her skull rattle. The eyes glowed bright green in approval.

  “Yes, my power is my Truth,” he repeated.

  “Look at these figures!” snapped Bakkard du Chagne, waving the parchments in the general direction of Baron Dekage. “It’s as if the miners are purposely slowing down production-merely to spite me!”

  “I am sure that is not the case, my lord,” the aide de camp tried to reassure him. “After all, the rains have been intense during this season. You recall, a score of workers lost their lives when the north dam burst and they were unable to escape their flooding tunnels. Surely that is more a cause of the production drop than any recalcitrance on the part of the common laborers.”

  “Bah! You know what those towns are like, there along the north coast! Barely getting on their feet again since the Scourge! So twenty men lost their lives? A hundred should be willing to step forward and take their places! Where else in all Solamnia might they expect to earn that kind of money?”

  “Quite right, Excellency. Their ingratitude almost boggles the mind. Er, what action would you like to direct on this matter?”

  Du Chagne grimaced and turned to the tall window. As usual, the sun was streaming in, the azure waters of the Bay of Branchala glittering like a million sapphires. Ships plied these waters in increasing numbers, a dozen or more tall-masted galleons arriving in the port. Several massive galleys were just now rounding the point, no doubt bearing tin and spices from the east. The Lord Regent nodded-his share of the docking taxes alone would add more than a hundred steel to his ledgers, for each of the newly arriving ships.

  He glanced at the conspicuously empty docks, near the smelting yards. He knew that the coal reserves on the Norlund peninsula were extensive and only now being tapped after long years of wastage under the Dragon Overlords. Every day, those mines should be able to produce enough of their black fuel to send at least one, and soon enough two, heavily laden barges down the coastline. In truth, his smelters, his forges-all his industries! — clamored for the fuel like hungry chicks in an eagle’s nest.

  Yet coal production continued to decline. The last barge had arrived three days ago and had already been emptied and towed back to the mines. There were no coal barges in sight in that direction, and the reserve of coal piled near the waterfront had dwindled from the dozen or more mountainous cones that were the norm t
o a couple of pathetic hillocks that would barely last the week. He thought of his mountain of gold, secure in his towertop high above, and he dreaded the thought that he would have to dip into it to help the city pay for routine operations.

  “I won’t stand for it, do you hear!” snapped the Lord Regent. “It is completely unacceptable!”

  “Indeed, Excellency. I merely await your orders,” DeKage said patiently.

  “Bah-enough of coal headaches for now. Tell me, have any interesting dispatches arrived in the morning pouch?”

  “Yes, there is one here, sent by Captain Powell. I believe it arrived by pigeon, shortly after dawn. It has been transcribed for you and is ready for your perusal.”

  “Very well-that might be distracting. Let me have it.”

  The aide handed it over, and the lord regent perched his spectacles upon his blunt nose. He hated to wear the damned things, they were a sign of weakness, but in truth his eyes were not what they used to be. He certainly could not read the finely printed foolscap of a messenger pigeon’s paper, if it hadn’t already been transcribed into large letters in solid, dark ink. He read the missive quickly.

  “Well, this is big news. They have caught the bastard-the Assassin of Lorimar!” He crumpled the short missive and glared at DeKage. “They are bringing him here!”

  “Indeed!” The baron allowed himself the luxury of a thin smile. “Good news indeed, is it not, my lord?”

  Du Chagne was looking out the window, thinking. It never failed-things always became more complicated. He nodded. “Yes, very good news, of course,” he agreed. “Now, moving on-what else is on the agenda?”

  “Very good, my lord. Now, there is the matter of the wheat harvest. As you can see from the charts, it has been a good year on the northern plains. Unfortunately, the late rains have caused two deleterious effects. First, some of the stockpiles have been flooded in the yards on the eastern end of the High Clerist’s Pass. Secondly, some of the road through the pass remains washed out, and it is apparently beyond the ability of the local residents to repair-at least in a timely fashion. I have here a series of messages, urgent requests for assistance from the city.”

  “Why must I do everything for these people? Are they too lazy to lift a pick and shovel?” Du Chagne slumped into his leather-padded chair, putting a hand over his face. He was starting to get a headache. He pictured the cost in more gold: gravel purchased from local quarries, teamsters to haul the fill, lazy workers who would siphon off his hard-earned fortune.

  Just then, du Chagne’s attention was drawn by a knock at the door. He scowled; his councils with his aide de camp were inviolate unless something significant warranted an interruption.

  “What is it?” he barked.

  A liveried doorman hesitantly opened the portal and stood at attention. “Begging your pardon, Excellency, but you have a visitor. I told her you were in conference, but she was really quite insistent.”

  “She? A woman. Most inconvenient. Who the devil is it, man?”

  “The White Wit-that is, the Lady Coryn.”

  Du Chagne almost groaned audibly. He didn’t have time for this! “Tell her to come back next week!”

  “Er, I can’t, my lord. That is, she’s not here. She spoke to me, and said… let me see, she said, ‘Tell the Lord Regent I await him at his highest counsel.’ Then she blinked out of sight, Excellency.”

  “Damn it.” Du Chagne left the baron and his servant, running out the door and up the spiraling stairs to the top of his loftiest tower. His stocky legs propelled him toward the gold that was his only, and thus his highest, counsel. He arrived at the glass-walled room, panting, fumbling for his key at the landing, and when the door opened he stumbled inside, terrified of what he might find.

  His gold was still there, every bar of it, stacked just as it had been when he left it that morning. A quick glance across the neat stacks confirmed that not a single ingot had been stolen.

  Coryn the White emerged from behind one huge pile of gold bars. Her robe, as pure alabaster as a layer of new fallen snow, glistened in the sun-brightened hall. Silver symbols, etched in thread-thin wire, winked and sparkled as the light shone on the robe.

  “How did you get up here?” the duke croaked before glancing again at the gold. With a strangled gasp he lunged forward, running his hands over the bars, insuring that it was not some cruel illusion. “Are you threatening my treasure?” he demanded.

  “Of course not!” the white wizard replied. “If you’ll remember, the magic protection I cast upon it makes it proof against theft. Even from myself. I am not interested in your gold.”

  “That spell is still in effect?”

  “It is permanent-it will outlast me, and you. Your gold cannot be stolen so long as you keep it in this room,” assured Coryn.

  “What do you want here then?”

  “I come to bargain with you.” She let her fingers trail across several smooth, gleaming bars. He resisted the urge to rush over and wipe off the smudges he was sure her touch had left.

  “Now, Lady Coryn. As always, it is a pleasure to see you, even if I would prefer that your visits take place in another, er, locale. Also, I am in the midst of pressing affairs. May I ask you to be as direct as I know you are capable of being?”

  “Of course, Excellency,” Coryn said, bowing slightly. Her black hair gleamed like satin, falling over her shoulders, framing her face and matching the indigo of her eyes. She was very beautiful, the Lord Regent reflected idly. He respected the fact that she did not use this beauty as a weapon, as so many women did. While he himself, of course, was immune to such charms, he knew they reduced many men to whimpering fools.

  Still, Coryn the White had other weapons at her disposal, and the regent resolved to remain alert. Once a useful ally during his reclamation of Palanthas, she had an increasingly annoying way of sticking her nose into matters where it didn’t belong. More than once she had insisted upon courses of action that had had serious repercussions for the regent’s profit margins. She had proven herself to be a populist at heart, and du Chagne had no fondness for populists. Bad for business, bad for maintaining law and order, bad for progress, they were troublemakers, every one of them.

  “I have been to the estate of Lord Lorimar,” she said without preamble, causing his eyes to widen. “I went to retrieve a document that should have been there-the Compact of the Free. No doubt you recall it, as you, yourself, were one of the signatories. He kept it in a strongbox with the six green diamonds.”

  “Yes, of course I recall it,” said the Lord Regent, trying to keep his tone neutral even as he felt a surge of irritation. The compact was a populist document if ever there was such a thing! “He also had that ancient banner of the three orders. We all know it was his goal to restore a united Solamnia-he would use the diamonds in the crown, and the banner of the Crown, the Rose, and the Sword would be the new royal sigil. So what about all this?”

  “The compact, the six green stones, and the pennant are all missing. That is, I could not locate them in the ruin, where they should have been, and I come to ask if you know what happened to them.”

  Du Chagne’s jaw flapped, and he stammered like a peasant before he gathered his wits and replied. “It was a parchment document, by Shinare! Why, that place burned to the ground! What makes you think it could possibly have survived?”

  “Because I know where the lord secretly kept it, and it was proofed against fire. Furthermore, he told me that only two other people knew where it was kept. One of those people was you.”

  “My dear Lady Coryn, I assure you I have no idea what you are talking about!” protested the regent. “I once saw his strongbox-knew that he wanted to make those six stones into a new crown-but it’s ridiculous to assert that I knew where it was hidden! Now, if you will excuse me, I have matters in the real world to address! Mundane things like road repairs-if you want the people of Palanthas to have anything to eat this winter! And those repairs will cost me more of this gold than I should
like to part with.”

  That last statement was true.

  “No doubt,” Coryn replied. “If you insist you know nothing about the lost compact, then I shall ask the same question of your dukes. Do you think they know where it is? And the green diamonds?”

  “They’re gone, I tell you!” Du Chagne blurted.

  “Gone?” Coryn blinked, and he wondered if she was stupid-or was mocking him. “You mean, just like that?”

  She snapped her fingers, and all the gold, the more than twelve thousand bars in the treasure room, vanished. Du Chagne screamed in horror and spun around, staring in disbelief at the room that was utterly empty. There was no longer any brilliant reflection, no warmth-suddenly it felt very chilly and looked very dark in here.

  “What did you do?” shrieked the lord regent. “Where did it go?”

  “Oh, your gold is still here,” Coryn said. “I told you, it can’t be stolen.”

  “Where is it then?” he demanded, taking an angry step toward her, his fingers clenched.

  “Here,” she said, apparently unafraid.

  Du Chagne groped around, feeeling a solid mass of a block of golden bars. He fumbled, lifted one, felt the solid weight of an ingot. He hefted it but could see right through it-as if it wasn’t there!

  “I can’t see it!” he whined.

  “Neither can anybody else,” the wizard told him. “It’s invisible.”

  “I can’t trade with invisible gold!” cried the lord regent.

  “Perhaps not. Perhaps your partners will take payment on trust?”

  “Nobody takes payment in trust, as you well know!” snapped the duke. He glared at her, breathing hard, trying to gain control of himself. “What do you want?” he asked.

  “I want to find that compact and the missing strongbox. I want to know who killed Lord Lorimar,” the white wizard answered.