Jaymes and the Rose captain rode at opposite ends of the last remaining line. The makeshift brigade included men who bore crossbows. Others were armed with pikes or swords. The goblins came after, almost desultorily. The goblin strikes were usually beaten off, but on each occasion several more valiant soldiers fell.
Some worg riders and their wolves also rode forward in daring assaults. Once, Jaymes’s horse reared at one of these sallies and brought its heavy forehooves down hard, crushing the skull of the leading worg. After that, the enemy cavalry stayed away.
Jaymes’s leadership was of far more value than his sword in the retreat.
“Drop those pikes!” he urged at one point, seeing that the long poles wielded by some men-designed for tight ranks-were of little use now. “Pick up swords and shields. Stand fast, men!”
There were plenty of weapons available. Many of the troops, as they fled south, had simply cast aside their swords, crossbows, and shields. The rout was as chaotic as any Jaymes had ever seen.
At one point he came upon an overturned armorer’s wagon. Among the litter of blades and spear shafts he spotted a crate that had burst open to reveal several small, single-handed crossbows. He took only a few seconds to dismount, pick a couple of his favorite weapons, and snatch up several quivers of the small, lethal darts that served as ammunition. With the crossbows cocked and loaded, suspended beneath his cape, he felt better.
After dusk they got a brief respite as, at last, the pursuing army seemed to be sapped by the day-long battle. The humans were tired, too-dead weary, in fact-but the knowledge that survival depended on continuing southward provided powerful motivation, kept them moving long past the point of exhaustion.
During one of these lulls the Rose officer introduced himself to Jaymes as Captain Marckus, in the service of the Duke of Caergoth.
“Where’s your commander?” the swordsman asked.
“I saw him ride past, earlier,” Marckus remarked dryly. “He had a good horse under him.” The captain leaned over in his saddle and spat onto the ground. Then he squinted, staring at Jaymes.
“You look like you’ve held a command in your life,” he said. “Perhaps, as I have noticed, you know how to make ordinary men stand, to give courage with a word and a look. That’s not a thing that comes to many men. Tell me, were you once a knight?”
Jaymes scowled darkly. The question stung more than he had anticipated. “I did stand with the knights at Mason’s Ford,” he replied. “We held these bastards off over a long, bloody day.”
“Fair enough,” said Marckus, with a nod. He turned to ride back toward his end of the line, but his eyes lingered over the embossed hilt of Jaymes’s sword, now hanging at his side. “Nice weapon,” he said, before spurring his horse away.
The retreaters kept moving during the long, surprisingly cold night. The fighting faded away owing to the enemy’s fatigue, and the men kept marching southward in silent ranks. No one wanted to stop-and everyone understood that to fall behind was to die.
Near dawn, gray light suffused the plains, and the mass of men waiting to cross the bridge was visible even from two miles away. In a panicked throng, terrified soldiers scrambled, begged and pleaded for a chance to move onto the long span of white stone.
When Jaymes looked to the north, he saw that the army of Ankhar had made good use of the night’s rest. The goblins and other troops were refreshed, moving quickly, converging on the mass of terrified and disorganized humanity thronging at the entry to the bridge. Once again the worgs were in the lead, but now ogres and draconians were plainly visible, hastening to keep up with their mounted brethren. A compamy of armored men, apparently Dark Knights, rode at both flanks of the pursuing force.
The warrior rode over to Captain Marckus, who was staring at the scene. The veteran knight’s mustaches drooped, and his face was lined, as though he had aged ten years overnight.
“You should go down there,” Jaymes encouraged, pointing at the knot of disorder at the very terminus of the bridge. “Try to get them moving in some semblance of order-as fast as possible. They need an officer, someone to steady them. I’ll try to get our boys here to make a stand and gain for the rest a chance to get across.”
Marckus seemed ready to argue-no doubt he felt his place was here at the rear, facing the enemy.
“These men know you,” Jaymes argued. “You wear the crest of their duke. If they obey anyone, it will be you.”
The captain nodded, then offered a salute. “You’re a brave man,” he said.
“See you on the other side,” Jaymes replied.
He put the spurs to his horse’s heaving flanks and rode along before the line of swordsmen. The first rank of goblins on fleet wolves was bearing down rapidly, barely a mile away now.
“All right, lads,” Jaymes called out, assuming command. “The fools still haven’t learned their lesson. Let’s see if we can teach them how the men of Solamnia make war.”
“Chase!” roared Ankhar, striding back and forth through the increasingly ragged ranks of his mighty army.
His troops had won the great battle, he knew, but the full work was not done. If they could keep up the pressure, smash the remnants of Caergoth’s army on this side of the Garnet River, his would be a victory for the ages. If not, the humans would regroup.
Unfortunately, Rib Chewer’s worg riders were sadly depleted, many killed or wounded, the rest worn out and spread across twenty miles of foothill and plains. Blackgaard’s Dark Knights had done a great deal of killing in the early stages of the retreat, but now the huge horses were exhausted, barely capable of a staggering walk. He had two small companies of armored knights still fresh, and these were posted on the flanks of his pursuit force.
Yet Ankhar knew he was on the brink of an historic victory. If he could annihilate his enemy, the power of the knighthood would be broken across all Solamnia. The half-giant was determined to make that riverbank a killing ground.
He himself was so weary he could hardly stand, but he would not let that fatigue show.
Ankhar looked around, wishing he could have Laka’s counsel, but he couldn’t find her. He had told her to stay back from the fighting once it began, and her feeble legs would not allow her to keep pace with the pursuing army. Well, she would hear about the victory soon enough, and she would have to be satisfied.
“Come!” he roared, waving the emerald spearhead, the enchanted talisman of Hiddukel, over his head.
It may have been his imagination-or the bright sunlight-but it seemed the glow was not as intense as it had been at the start of the day.
Selinda had been restless for five days after arriving in Caergoth, but there was nothing to do but wait. For a time there had been no news. Then, yesterday, the rumors began to trickle in. She picked up from her servants and even from several courtiers of the duke’s court distressing rumors of invincible enemy hordes, a crushing defeat.
She proposed to Powell that they ride out onto the plains to see what was really going on. When he had suggested, not joking, that he would clap her in chains before allowing her to ride beyond Caergoth’s high walls, she had agreed to stay and wait.
Still, she sprang to her feet when she heard the first herald’s cry, and she was already down in the great hall when the Duke of Caergoth came striding through the doors of his mighty keep, flanked by Captain Reynaud. The nobleman stopped, shocked and a little confused, seeing Selinda waiting for him.
“How fared the battle?” she asked.
“Oh, fine,” he said. “I… I am so glad to see you. Can I offer you a glass of wine?”
“Aren’t there more important things right now?” she asked, stunned at his nonchalance.
“None that I can think of,” he said, snapping his fingers and sending a steward hurrying to the wine closet.
“I was terribly sorry to hear about the Duchess Martha,” the princess said. “Her death must be awful to bear.”
“These things happen,” he said, shrugging. “A small thing,
compared to the killing out on the plains.”
“Was it a victory, then?” Selinda asked hopefully.
“Hard to say. Too soon to tell,” the duke replied dismissively before taking a large gulp of the wine the steward had just handed him. “I need to see my priest,” he added, “but then we’ll be having dinner-something splendid, to be sure. Can you join us?”
The princess frowned but saw she wasn’t going to get more information out of the duke, not right now. “Very well,” she said. “Thank you. When?”
Duke Crawford didn’t reply. He had already exited, heading for the temple of Shinare at a most undignified trot.
Through the long, dry morning the throng made its way across the bridge in steady ranks, paced by Captain Marckus’s steady voice and confident air. Jaymes and his diminishing company held the line against constant attacks. The goblins found renewed energy when they sensed the survivors were on the verge of escape.
For two hours the men of Solamnia fought a pitched battle at the north end of the long bridge. Jaymes commanded the soldiers at the rear, as Marckus moved others across the span as quickly as possible. Archers in the bridge towers added to the defense, and Ankhar’s troops were not able to rupture the determined front.
Finally, the rear guard was the last unit, standing in a tiny knot between the towers at the northern end. Leaving the ground littered with their dead, the pursuing goblins had fallen back slightly beyond the reach of the deadly crossbows on the bridge towers.
They waited as though to see what these last humans would do next. No need to fight and die in such close quarters, after all.
“Let us face the enemy here, men,” Jaymes announced. “Stand shoulder to shoulder, and don’t let them onto the bridge.”
“How long must we hold out?” asked a young, wounded soldier plaintively. He looked with longing at the south shore, a quarter mile away.
“As long as it takes,” Jaymes said, trying not to let his anxiety show as he glanced around. Where was Coryn? Would she find Dram and bring him back in time to help?
“Just have faith, lad,” said Captain Marckus, who had come back to stand with the rear guard. “Your officers won’t let any more harm come to you.”
Not half a mile away, the ground was black with the gathering mass of Ankhar’s army. “If they cross the bridge, there’s nothing to stop them between here and Caergoth,” the veteran captain muttered quietly.
“I know. I might have a plan, but I’m waiting for a wizard to get here and help out.”
As they set up positions, Jaymes dismounted, sending his horse across to the other side of the bridge with a couple of wounded men lashed to the saddle. The first rank of the enemy, a line of huge hobgoblins, rushed forward with a roar.
The warrior drew the sword of Lorimar and twisted the hilt in his hands. Immediately bright blue fire erupted along the keen edge. In the face of those flames, the hobgoblins faltered.
In a flash of white smoke Coryn was there beside him. With her arrived Dram Feldspar and the two gnomes of Dungarden. They bore four stout casks.
Growling and pointing, the goblins balked again at the sudden display of magic. Soon they would deploy archers, Jaymes guessed. He gave instructions to the newcomers. Glancing at the goblins, they saw the urgency.
“So, I should have guessed. Is this your wizard?” asked Marckus, regarding the enchantress, the dwarf, and the gnomes. “Hello, Lady Coryn,” he said, with a formal little bow.
“Hello Marckus,” she replied. “You look spent.”
“Just doing my job,” he said. “I had help-from your friend, here.”
“Yeah, yeah. Will one of you help me put these under the bridge?” Dram cut in. “One at each of the four northern supports.”
Several knights helped lower the dwarf, supported by ropes, until he could crawl along the pillar that supported the marble slabs of the bridge. He lodged the first cask in place, then crawled out, trailing a piece of string that, he explained to Jaymes, was a refined version of their earlier fuses. “Leave it be for now,” the dwarf counseled.
In short order, the rest of the casks were placed underneath the span, with the shortest fuse at the south end, increasingly longer lines toward the north. With the touch of matches, the long fuses were fired. Immediately they started to sputter and flame.
“Run!” cried Jaymes, ordering the rest of his men away. Seeing the fire dance along the fuses, they needed little urging to sprint for the south bank. Dram and the gnomes followed.
Jaymes brought up the rear, but as soon as the humans started to flee, goblins and draconians surged onto the bridge, howling. A great, painted hobgoblin led the way, waving a studded mace. The span vibrated under the pounding of hundreds of boots.
That first hob disappeared as a towering explosion lifted a whole section of the bridge into the air. Smoke and fire billowed skyward, soaring up hundreds of feet, sending shards of white marble cascading down into the Garnet River.
The subsequent explosions came in staggered sequence. Each one of the four casks of powder blasted out another portion of the bridge, and with each section a score or more of enemy warriors were blown to pieces, or hurled through the air and into the river. Many goblins were trapped on standing parts of the bridge or pinned under wreckage. Without their connecting supports, the last parts of the bridge swayed and, one by one, toppled into the river.
When the last blast had sounded, and the smoke began to clear away, the King’s Bridge was a ruin. Fully half of its length was gone.
No army would be crossing to the south of the river any time soon.
CHAPTER THIRTY — THREE
The Rose Has Thorns
Go along bank! Swim! Get after them! Kill them!”
Spittle flew from Ankhar’s jaw as he roared commands at the mass of his troops milling around on the north bank of the Garnet River. His frustration was so great he was trembling. Pacing in agitation, he kicked more than one slow-moving goblin so hard he broke its bones.
The smoke had drifted away by now, revealing huge gaps in the bridge that had stood for more than a dozen centuries. At least four of the vast support pillars were smoking wrecks. He didn’t know how many of his troops had perished in the hellish eruptions, but certainly many hundreds. What kind of terrible magic had these cursed knights used against him? He looked around, wanting to shake an explanation out of Hoarst, but the Thorn Knight was missing.
“Move!” he bellowed, waving his spear at a group of hobgoblins hesitantly probing the marshy bank. Three of them leaped into the water and were carried downstream by the current. Flailing and splashing, they tried to return to the shore, but only one-aided by the clasping hands of his comrades-was able to reach safety. The other two went under and didn’t come up.
“Wait!” The voice came to him as though from a distance, familiar, but irritating him like a bug that wouldn’t go away. “My son-wait!”
Ankhar heard the cry only after Laka had repeated it many times. He ordered his units to spread out along the bank, to seek a crossing of the Garnet River so he could continue the campaign against the shattered Solamnic Army. Finally the half giant turned to glare down at his foster mother.
“See-bridge gone!” he roared. He gestured to the long, ragged files of weary soldiers on the far bank, shuffling in the direction of Caergoth. “That army beaten-but it getting away! I must destroy!”
His frenzied anger would have driven any other member of his army into panicked retreat, but not his wizened foster-mother. Laka put a frail hand on the half-giant’s great paw, and-though he wanted to brush her away-he could not ignore her insistent touch.
“Listen to prince!” the old she-hob said, shaking the rattle she had made from Duke Rathskell’s head.
The eyes glowed, and the jaw spoke. Ankhar scowled at the talisman but knew that he must listen-he had to listen.
“Enough of blood,” came the hissing commands.
“For now did fall,
“The river stands
“A fortress wall.”
“But…” He waved his hand at the escaping Solamnic formations.
“Listen to Prince of Lies,” Laka repeated. “To you, he speaks Truth. Remember: Truth!”
The half-giant rubbed his fingers across his eyes, trying to hold back the headache that was starting to throb. He hated this Truth, but he knew that his mother and their dark god must be right.
“One time before you make war without prince’s blessing,” Laka reminded him unnecessarily.
Indeed, Mason’s Ford stuck in his memory like a thorn. On that occasion he had attacked merely because he felt the impulse to do so. He had ignored his own warriors’ disorganization and fatigue and hurled his troops against a feeble defense that had, nonetheless, inflicted the only defeat Ankhar had suffered. It was a defeat that would have been avoided if he had taken the counsel of Hiddukel and Laka.
“You win so much!” his foster mother reminded him in a whisper, her eyes glowing with pride. “You shatter cities of knighthood! You break their armies. You have surrounded city of Cleft Spires-now you lay siege to it! You not need to drown army in river.”
Ankhar nodded. His agitation melted away.
“You right,” he said. He raised his voice, shouting to his captains-Bloodgutter, Rib Chewer, Dirtborn, Blackgaard, and the rest-who stood nervously nearby, waiting for his orders.
“Stop attack. Camp here. We rest. Enjoy spoils.”
And those spoils, he admitted with some pride, were great. Not just the treasures and provisions they had gained in sacking Garnet, Thelgaard, Luinstat. No… his gains were greater than all that.
“Est Sudanus oth Nikkas.” He murmured the phrase quietly, looking to the north and relishing the great Truth:
All that vast plain belonged to him.
The city gates stood open, and the few knights still on duty actually flinched away from Jaymes as he rode into Caergoth at full gallop. Everywhere he saw signs of the defeat-wounded men on porches, in alleys, even stableyards. Sergeants-major shouted and cajoled. Shamefaced men-many lacking the weapons they had dropped on the long retreat-took positions on the walls, in the gatehouse. Others marched with lackluster gait but with some semblance of discipline toward the castle or other defense points.
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