Lord of the Rose tros-1

by Douglas Niles

  They slammed on top of a boulder and caught, just for a moment, before straddling a knob over a sheer drop of a hundred feet or more. Jaymes stared downward for a brief moment, seeing a terrifying array of jagged rocks below. Only the outcrop of this flat-topped shelf had saved them from certain death. Now, both men, after smashing hard onto the ledge, struggled to reclaim their breath. Wedging a hip onto the narrow space for better balance, the prisoner finally released his hold on his enemy’s belt.

  Dupuy squirmed away from him and half-rose, clutching for the knife in his belt. With his hands still bound, Jaymes kicked out, trying to dislodge his opponent, as he wriggled around for greater security. Loose rocks scattered and tumbled away.

  The other man was strong, and agile as a monkey. Dupuy avoided two powerful kicks and gained a crouching position, the knife in his hand. He glanced up, sneering in satisfaction.

  “Those fools can’t see us. They are masked by the overhang. I can cut your heart out, and they’ll never know what happened.”

  Jaymes scrambled back.

  Dupuy grinned and leaned closer, the knife outstretched.

  It was a move Jaymes had anticipated. The chained man kicked hard at some loose rock on the inside of the ledge. A large stone exploded out of the mass, striking Dupuy on one kneecap. The man’s face went white, and he gasped in pain as he crumpled.

  Jaymes brought one bootheel down hard on the knight’s outstretched right hand. He heard the cracking of small bones, as he kicked out hard with the other foot. Sir Dupuy screamed as he went off the ledge. The scream trailed off pathetically, ending in a sickening crunch.

  Gasping for air, with sweat streaming into his eyes, the warrior slumped back on the narrow ledge. His hands were still secured by a steel chain. There was no way he could climb up or down, but the bastard hadn’t killed him. He could savor that triumph.

  Finally, his weariness overtook him. It was peaceful here, beyond the reach of his captors. He let his head loll back against the sun-warmed cliff… perhaps it was time for a well-earned nap.

  His eyes had barely closed when he heard a scuffing noise, sitting up in alarm as dust flew from a pair of unseen boots.

  “Who’s there?” he demanded, squinting to see who it was that had dropped on the ledge. The air was clear, his eyesight was perfect, yet he saw no one. Cursing, he strained against his cuffs.

  “Hold on, old friend,” said Dram, slowly coming into view. The dwarf was grinning, and-even more amazingly-holding the sword of Lorimar.

  “By… by all the gods…” Jaymes said, feeling numb with shock as much as pain.

  “If I recall correctly, this thing will cut through steel, right?” asked the dwarf cheerfully.

  The warrior nodded mutely, wondering if he was losing his mind. What was Dram doing, appearing like magic? Was he perhaps already dead? Well, fine, he felt tired enough to be dead.

  Yet by the time his manacles were cut loose-the painful burns on his wrist made by the flaming sword would make scars he would treasure-he knew that he was alive. Before he could ask Dram how in the world he had been saved, the dwarf brought out a small bottle and took the first sip.

  “It’s my last potion. This one’s for flying,” he said matter-of-factly. “I saved enough for you to have a drink, too.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY — THREE

  Royal Rage

  You mean he’s gone? How did it happen?” the princess demanded furiously of Captain Powell. In vain, she had been trying to figure out what happened. The first men she had encountered told her such conflicting tales-the prisoner had escaped, had killed a man, had plunged into the gorge. The most ridiculous claim had come from a shaken young knight who had insisted the prisoner had sprouted wings and flown away!

  Powell stood at the edge of the drop. His face was flushed, his eyes wild, his voice cracked like a whip, but the knight captain shook his head in exasperation at the princess’s approach.

  “Tell me! Did he escape? Did he die? What?”

  “All we know for sure is that he killed Sir Dupuy, the knight who came from Palanthas, even as the poor man was trying to help him across the narrow ledge,” Captain Powell declared through clenched teeth. “They both toppled over. We lost sight of them past the overhang. Some men report they saw him flying through the gorge, carrying the Sword of Lorimar! Ridiculous, I don’t have to tell you. I have sent men to see if they can get a look down into the gorge, to see if he ended up on the rocks or in the river.”

  “What about the other man, Sir Dupuy? Are you sure he’s dead?”

  “Both of them ought to be dead, by Joli-there’s no way anyone could survive that fall!” said the captain in disgust and frustration. “But the Sword of Lorimar is missing from my saddlebag! So far we haven’t been able to get a clear look at that part of the river directly below us-the overhang juts out too far!”

  “Well, get someone down there to check!” ordered Selinda.

  “Perhaps we should lose our lives too? Haven’t you noticed the raging river with all the jagged rocks at the bottom?” The captain’s tone was furious, his eyes bulging in his head. The young princess suddenly understood the depth of his emotions: not just anger at the escape of a prisoner but humiliation for his own failure, and grief for the loss of a good man. “I’ve sent some men down the road-that they might get a look from the next bend.”

  The princess bit her lip, turning away. She drew a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “Yes-I see the danger, and I should have realized you would have acted at once if things were otherwise. The man who died-who was he? It seems strange that he was involved.”

  “Yes, that’s a little strange,” Powell admitted. “He belongs to my order, yet I’ve never made his acquaintance before. I asked some of the other men-you know, family details, that sort of thing-and none of them claim to know him either.”

  “Is that so unusual? The Rose is a large order, is it not?”

  “Yes, of course. There are chapters all across Solamnia, even on Ergoth and points west. But the man had a Palanthian accent, which is home to most of the men in this company, and we have all served together or trained in Sanction at some time or other in the past decade. It seems odd he could be a stranger to us all.”

  “Sir!” called a knight, riding up the trail as quickly as safety would allow. “We got a good look at the river. There is a body down there, wearing the tunic of the Rose. Sadly, it would seem to be Sir Dupuy.”

  “Just one body?” demanded Powell.

  “Aye, sir. Just the one we spotted. But… sir!”

  “What is it, man? Speak!”

  “I did see the prisoner flying, sir. Pardon me for saying so, but I swear this on the Oath and the Measure. He was carrying that great long sword and soaring down the gorge like an eagle, heading back toward the east. I may be going mad, Sir, but that’s what my eyes told me I saw.”

  “Very well, then.” Powell declared crisply. “Who else supposedly saw the prisoner flying?”

  Several more knights spoke up sheepishly, all of them claiming to have witnessed the impossible. Several added that they saw two flying figures, one of whom resembled a dwarf.

  “Flying dwarves, now?” the captain groaned. “By Joli, what next?” He turned away, rode a little way up the widening road as Selinda spurred her horse to his side.

  “Do you believe such lies? How can it be possible that the Assassin flew away from here?”

  “You heard them. Either they’re all lying, or bewitched by some kind of illusion magic. They saw a dwarf, too-maybe that dwarf we allowed to escape. Well, obviously there’s some kind of sorcery at work-but from what source and how he worked these wonders I have no idea.” Suddenly Powell smashed his fist into the rocky hillside above the road. Trembling with rage, he had to turn away from Selinda and compose himself. If I had let the prisoner be executed as was proper, he thought, this wouldn’t have happened.

  The princess, understanding his shame, hung her head.

  “I’
m sorry,” she said again. “This is my fault.”

  He turned back, his expression stiff and controlled as usual. “No,” he said. “The responsibility lies with me, and I will tell your father that.”

  “What about pursuing him, er, or them?” she asked hesitantly. “Not that we can fly after him, of course.”

  “I have already dispatched fifty men to the east,” Powell said, pointing down the road they had traversed this morning, the treacherous way back to the plains. “They are riding as fast as they dare, and will disperse to scout the area when they reach the flatlands. They are pledged to search for the villain, as long as it takes, but I doubt they have much chance of success-even fleet horses can’t fly! But we must make a commendable effort.”

  “Perhaps we should all go after him?” Selinda suggested.

  She shut her mouth and stepped back as she saw the flush of rage once again start to color the captain’s features.

  “No, princess,” he declared in a deep, powerful voice. “The rest of the company is the minimum necessary to properly protect you. We must stay together now, and we must make haste to get you safely back into your father’s palace, where you belong.”

  The mountain fortress rose against the backdrop of the looming Garnet Range. Draconions lined the walls and the gate, glaring in a mixture of suspicion and fear at the horde that had appeared with the dawn on their very doorstep. The stronghold bristled with spears and swords clutched in clawed talons, with rustling leather wings quivering in agitation. The scaly, fanged defenders hissed and growled along every battlement.

  The many thousands of goblins and hobgoblins, arrayed in battle order, with regiments of growling worgs and poised riders on both flanks, made an impressive threat. The ranks of human soldiers were also neat, tight, seemingly prepared to advance at the word of their commander. The Dark Knights formed a broad front, their great steeds snorting and ready, lances upraised. The massive horses stood beside their monstrous comrades, steady as steel.

  Fresh from the sacking of wealthy, abandoned Luinstat, the warriors of Ankhar’s horde were spoiling for a fresh fight. They roared ugly challenges, banged their spears against their shields, stomped their feet, and raised a din that easily overwhelmed the sibilant taunting of the draconian defenders of the stronghold.

  Ankhar swaggered forward out of the front ranks of his army, one brawny fist braced upon his hip while the other clenched his spear, waving the glowing tip back and forth over his head. He raised the weapon as high as he could, and his glare swept the battlements, seeking the draconian clad in the most gold.

  The half-giant finally fixed his eyes upon that one-an aurak naturally-and his voice bellowed across the valley.

  “Let me in! I talk with master, Cornellus the Strong!”

  “Go away!” barked the aurak. “He doesn’t want to see you.”

  Ankhar flexed his massive fists. He eyed the gate, pretty certain he could bash it down personally, with just a few strong punches. The thousands of gobs and hobs arrayed behind him would swarm over this place within minutes. His troops outnumbered the defenders three or four to one.

  However, he had learned a few things about leadership during the course of this summer’s campaign-and he had not come here to shed the blood of a lot of draconians or to lose more of his own troops. He turned his tusked face upwards, allowed a bland, unthreatening expression to fall across his features. He lowered the spear, and the green light faded- almost completely-from view in the bright afternoon sun.

  “You ask mighty Cornellus again,” the half-giant said calmly. “Tell him Ankhar, Speaker of the Truth, seeks audience with great Cornellus. Want to discuss something of profit and power for both.”

  The aurak bristled, his great wings flaring from his shoulders. His taloned forepaws, clutching the sharpened timbers at the top of the wall, dug into the wood. He was anxious to fight, but with a conscious effort he considered Ankhar’s words.

  “We can always fight later, if that what your master want,” prodded the half-giant Ankhar cheerfully. “We kill you by night or all day-whichever you want. Right now, we talk. Go tell lord.”

  “Very well,” the big draconian said, finally. His wings buzzed audibly, but he nodded his head in a token, albeit a minimal gesture, of respect. “I will go and inform Cornellus.”

  An hour later, the hulking half-giant and the obese ogre were seated together in the great hall. The place was charred and smelled of soot, and several holes were burned through its thatched roof, but it was still a large chamber swirling with the motion of many attendants.

  “Belated warm greetings, Goblin-Master,” began Cornellus, as slaves poured them huge mugs of mulled wine. The half-ogre swelled across his huge chair, his short, golden tusks gleaming in the torchlight. Sweat glistened on his round head, and slaves blotted at his smelly wetness with cloth towels. He was a huge creature, but even seated on his grand throne he found himself looking up at this half-giant called the Speaker of the Truth.

  “I fear I do not have lodgings for all the guests you bring to my lodge,” said the bandit-lord, waving a pudgy hand toward the unseen horde that, as yet, waited outside the walls of his stronghold.

  Ankhar chuckled, deeply amused. “Goblins say you got room for ears of their cousins to stay here. They say you pay for those ears.”

  The grotesque ogre flushed and choked, spilling some of his wine across his massive belly. He shook his head, heavy lids slamming down over his eyes in a practiced expression of boredom that attempted-without much success-to mask his fear.

  Ankhar could see that his opening shot had struck home.

  “I am afraid my esteemed guest has been misinformed,” Cornellus declared sanctimoniously, his voice rising. “I make bounty hunters pay for their killings! I do not pay them!”

  “Of course,” Ankhar replied, his deep voice genial. He paused, slurping at length of the sweet, spicy wine. “Not important, anyway. Gobs can be pests. Filthy little runts. They like trapped furies when got good leaders.”

  “So I hear,” the bandit lord allowed.

  “Oh?” The half-giant raised a bushy eyebrow. “You hear about us defeat Thelgaard? Drove whole army of knights into river. Killed hundreds, drowned hundreds? Got whole baggage train?”

  “Yes, word of that battle reached us even here, high in the mountains. I did not know if the stories were exaggerated, or not,” Cornellus said carefully.

  “Of course, Thelgaard not such a wealthy duke. Not like in Solanthus! In Solanthus they got vaults filled to ceilings with treasures. But, Thelgaard not poor man. At least, not poor at start of day!”

  Ankhar reached into his spacious belt pouch and pulled out a long strand of dazzling silver links, pouring the gleaming metal from one massive hand into the other. Laying the treasure on the table, his blunt fingers gently stretching the links apart, the half-giant revealed a chain holding a large disk emblazoned with diamonds and rubies.

  The bandit lord’s eyes grew wide.

  “This one of many tokens carried by Solamnic duke into battle,” the half-giant chieftain said with a belly-rumbling chuckle. “Don’t know why. Maybe he try to bribe us.”

  “It is quite splendid,” Cornellus allowed, all but drooling as he leaned forward, probing at the gleaming necklace with one of his sausage-sized fingers. “May I hoist it?” he asked hesitantly.

  Ankhar looked astonished. “You may have it! I bring it as gift for you. You like this stuff?”

  “My honored guest, I am humbled by your generosity!” exclaimed the half-ogre, snatching up the chain, pouring the links between his massive hands. “It is truly a splendid gift.”

  The grotesque Cornellus looked at Ankhar with an expression of almost tragic regret. “Would that I could offer something even a fraction as valuable in return. Alas…”

  Ankhar waved away the offer, a magnanimous gesture of one massive paw. “I knew you like trinket,” he said. “Besides, I got no use for such treasures. I want other stuff. Not gold. Not gem.
Not precious metal…”

  Cornellus, ever the alert merchant, smelled a deal. “Tell me, O mighty war chief, what is it that you most wish for?”

  “Ah,” Ankhar said, with another chuckle. “Maybe dusky giantess with big breasts-that rare treasure! Or maybe palace in the sky, on top of clouds. Of course, can’t have these…”

  “No,” Cornellus agreed, with some relief. “Though I can inquire as to the matter of a giantess…”

  “I tell you what make me happy right now, you know?”

  The half ogre raised an eyebrow, listening.

  “I want regiment of draconions. Back up my goblins. Then I take what I want, burn rest!”

  “A regiment of draconions? With that, yours would be a force of raiders such as the plain has not seen in many years,” Cornellus agreed, thinking it over, imagining the plunder.

  “Raiders?” scoffed the half-giant. “They more than raiders-they an army!”

  “What would you do with such an army, may I ask?”

  “With army like that, Ogre, I tear down walls of Solanthus itself. Open up vaults, where treasures piled to sky.”

  “I wonder… is it possible? Would the draconians fight their best under your command?” The bandit lord’s eyes flashed.

  “Est Sudanus oth Nikkas,” murmured the half-giant, watching his counterpart carefully.

  “Eh? What does that mean?”

  “They follow me, friend, and city, any city, can be taken. My power is my Truth.”

  “Do you mean to say that you had him in chains? That you brought him all the way from the southern plains? And that he escaped on the very doorstep of the High Clerist’s Tower?”

  Bakkard du Chagne’s voice was strangely hushed, almost a hoarse whisper, as he spoke to the captain of his guards. Even so, Selinda, who was off to the side of her father and Captain Powell, was certain that she had never heard him so bottled up with fury.