Lord of the Rose

by Doug Niles

  “Dead?” The dwarf scowled. “All of ’em? Not a single survivor?”

  “Please—the whole town was destroyed! Firesplasher was killed! It wasn’t my fault.”

  “Tell us about it,” the human pressed. “Even destruction such as you describe would not have claimed the lives of all who lived there. Where did the survivors go?”

  “I don’t kn—!”

  The advancing tip of the sword now pressed against Cornellus’s leather vest, sinking an inch into the soft flesh.

  “Wait! Please!”

  He held up his two fat hands, pleading. “There might have been a few who lived—gnomes are hardy souls, after all!”

  “Where would these few survivors be?”

  “I don’t—wait, there is one place perhaps. Yes, it’s the only one that makes sense. Caergoth!”

  “Caergoth?” Dram spat contemptuously. “Why would they have gone to Caergoth?”

  The human eased back on his sword, squinting at the blubbering bandit lord.

  “The ghetto—they call it the ‘Gnome Ghetto.’ It’s a filthy place along the waterfront. No decent person would go there, but the gnomes are living there, teeming like rats! All gnomes are welcome there!”

  “What makes you so certain?” the warrior rasped. “You are certain, aren’t you?”

  “Because—all right, I admit it, because some of them came through here! I sold them two wagons and four oxen—there were twenty or thirty of the little wretches. All that was left of Dungarden. They needed wagons large and sturdy enough to get to Caergoth.”

  “Are you telling us the truth finally?” demanded the dwarf, brandishing the axe and baring his teeth.

  “I think he’s lying,” the man said, holding the blade steady.

  “No, it’s the truth, I swear!” squawked the lord. “You said that you’d leave here, leave me alive if I told you the truth.”

  “I did? No, uh-uh, sorry. I don’t recall saying that.” The warrior swung his sword back, and flames exploded along the whole of the metallic edge. Cornellus cried out and hurled himself backward, tumbling across the floor. The human raised his blazing weapon high, took a swing at the hulking bandit lord—and missed, distracted by his companion’s shout.

  “To your right!” cried the dwarf, springing at the first of two or three draconians who crashed through part of the fire-weakened wall behind Cornellus. The winged creatures swarmed at them out of the dark, as the bandit lord shouted orders and curses and scrambled away.

  With one axe blow, the dwarf dispatched the first draconian, who petrified instantly. The second one pounced atop the dwarf and bore him to the floor, snapping wildly with his huge jaws. The third kicked and stomped, but the human warrior materialized from behind, swinging his blazing sword, killing first the one atop Dram, then his gaping fellow. He kicked away the bodies as they began to petrify.

  “Where’s Cornellus?” asked Dram, springing to his feet, axe still in hand.

  The warrior peered ahead, realizing that the draconians had entered through a hidden storeroom. “There’s a door back there—he went out that way.” He started in that direction, his fiery sword raised over his head.

  Above, flames roared through the ceiling, consuming the straw thatching overhead, sending cinders and ash spilling down into the warren of rooms. Smoke grew thicker, radiating heat. Burning straw and pieces of the ceiling fell, crackling and blazing, cascading sparks across the floor.

  “Damn.” The man frowned then turned and hacked the blazing sword into one wooden support pillar, then another. Fire ran up the dried poles, crackling hungrily, adding to the rapidly growing conflagration.

  The dwarf laid a firm hand on his elbow. “Wait!” Dram said urgently

  “For what?” demanded the human.

  They heard shouts, the stamping of running feet, cries of warning and fury. The man grimaced and shook his head as the dwarf looked into his face and spoke. “Time to get out of here.”

  “Damn!” the warrior repeated. Again he chopped that blazing sword into a wooden pillar. More fire crackled up and out.

  “To the horses!” Dram bolted out, his human companion sprinting right behind.

  They crossed the large, empty chamber and burst into the crowded bar—where, to judge from the music and continued ribaldry, the nearby melee and growing fire had remained largely unnoticed. The dwarf knocked a hobgoblin to the floor, and they both sprang over the furious—but quite drunken—brute. Smoke billowed through the door, a choking cloud rolled into the tavern, and there were shouts of alarm, screams. The two raced straight out the front door.

  They leaped down the steps. A quick flip of the warrior’s hand freed the reins from the railing. In another second each had mounted, wheeling their stamping horses. The sheep gate opened with a rattle. The little gully dwarf stared at them, eyes big and mouth wide open, pulling on the rope as the two riders galloped toward him.

  A draconian ran out to block their path, wings flapping, waving a spear menacingly. When the two showed no signs of slowing down he wisely darted out of the way.

  “My coin! Give coin!” cried the gully dwarf. Instead, the man picked him up by the scruff of his neck and threw him across the pony’s withers.

  “First I’ll save your life!” muttered the human warrior, following the dwarf and his steed through the gate. Side by side, they pounded into the night. Moments later, some draconian thought to trigger the two catapults poised on the courtyard. Tons of rock smashed and splintered on the roadway, hitting only the cloud of dust left by their thunderous flight.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  LORDS AND LADIES

  Lord Regent Bakkard du Chagne, the Ruling Mayor of Palanthas and Vice Chairman of the New Whitestone Council, walked alone through the marbled hall of his palace. It was ever thus; whether here on the mountainside overlooking his splendid city, or within the streets of the city, he was alone. Oh, there were always other people around, crowding and clamoring for his attention, but the crushing weight of his station, the burden that was his solitary load, bore down on him with unmerciful force. Even in the midst of a teeming, adoring crowd, he felt alone.

  It had been a long, hard climb into this palace. He had begun to plan his ascent while the Dark Knights still controlled the city, and after their power was broken by the fall of the One God and the disappearance of Mina, he had been ready to step into the vacuum. Facilitating commerce, hiring former knights to deal with brigands, encouraging the restoration of trade throughout all the lands of Solamnia, he had quickly established himself as the only irreplaceable power in the city. Rumors had spread quickly, blaming Mina for abandoning her followers, for turning her back on those who had devoted their lives to her. If some of these rumors had been started by the Lord Regent’s own agents, no one voiced that accusation too loudly.

  When the Knights of Solamnia had regained control of the city, they realized that they required a lord to guide them. Bakkard du Chagne—though not a warrior—had been nominated by Lord Tasgall in distant Sanction. In Palanthas that appointment met with nearly unanimous approval. Once again, those few who might have disagreed had possessed the good sense to keep their mouths shut.

  Du Chagne climbed higher up the mountain, relishing the cool breeze blowing off the sea. He was high above the city now, and from this pinnacle—this tower called the Golden Spire—he could look across his domain from an almost godlike perspective. Despite the long climb, he experienced no fatigue as he approached the top. Instead, he felt energized.

  He stood before a round, glass-walled room at the peak of the highest tower. He took the key—the only one in all Krynn—from his pocket, and opened the door. When he stepped inside, the sight, and even the smell, of his gold enfolded him in a welcoming embrace. The bars of the precious metal were stacked everywhere, in great piles that reached higher than his head. The sunlight streamed in through the many windows, reflecting off the shiny ingots, casting brilliant yellow ripples across the lord regent’s transfixed face
.

  The room was hot, but it was a comforting heat that warmed du Chagne’s heart. He tried, as he always did, to sense the magic here, the arcane protections the wizard Coryn had placed strategically around his treasure. He could not sense them—though he knew they were there—but the knowledge of their existence comforted him as much as the sight of his treasure.

  How splendid the gold was! And what a great hoard! He knew, at the latest count, that there were twelve thousand four hundred and sixty eight bars of gold in here. And they all belonged to him!

  There were those who claimed that steel, not gold, was the most precious metal. Others, like Duke Rathskell of Solanthus, preferred to keep their wealth in the form of precious gems, like those Stones of Garnet the duke was always boasting about. But to Bakkard du Chagne, there was nothing like the solidity of gold. It was good for his soul to come here, now and then—as often as possible, if truth be told—to bask in the sight of this vast fortune.

  He stayed for more than an hour, occasionally touching one of the smooth bars, letting the essence of that treasure wash over him. Sweat slicked his head, ran down his face, but it was a cleansing perspiration and only invigorated him. Finally, he felt healed, complete, and ready again to face the world.

  Emerging from the lofty tower-top room, he carefully locked the door and started down the long, winding staircase. It took a long time for him to descend to the great hall of his palace. The trip down was harder, and every step away from his gold seemed to add weight to his shoulders, to bring further burdens to his soul. By the time he reached the bottom, he felt fully mortal again, glum and moody about the challenges awaiting him.

  Frowning, he crossed the vast courtyard and leaned against a chiseled column as he stared at the vast, blue expanse of the bay. Ships dotted that azure highway, two dozen sails that appeared as tiny dots from the regent’s lofty vantage—each one representing another brick in the great house of trade that was once again bringing his cherished city into the forefront of world commerce. Sailors were sailing, merchants selling, craftsmen manufacturing, and vast sums of money were changing hands. Each transaction brought a percentage of profit to him, and every transaction made him richer. He was already rich beyond the imaginings of most.

  Everyone had a task, a part to play, a job to do in the grand scheme of du Chagne’s operations. His main work was to oversee, to organize. He had many to help him, and he paid his assistants, even his common workers, very well. Why, then, did it seem that the lord had to do all the really important things by himself?

  With a sigh, Bakkard turned back to the high, arched doorway of his splendid domicile. He looked up one last time at the turrets, gleaming white against the sky. Tall windows, precious glass imported from Ergoth, gleamed like mirrors in the stone wall, reflecting the dazzling sweep of sea. Inside was the gold.

  Well, didn’t he deserve his rewards? After all, Palanthas had not been prosperous, clean, and productive for long. It was only three short years ago that Bakkard’s knights had finally evicted the Dark Knights from the city and raised the Solamnic banner here for the first time since the before the Chaos War. Signs of devastation, of the thirty-nine years of scourge that had followed that shattering conflict still darkened whole swaths of the city. There were blocks, entire neighborhoods of shantytowns, where teeming thousands lived under tents, crate-planking, or thinly thatched roofs. Other places were still black ruin—catacombs and mazes of charred timber and blasted stone, domains only of rats and of things that preyed upon rats.

  Yet so much of the city had sprung back to life under his leadership! All around was evidence of his success. Sometimes, though, he felt it was all too much. Too many things needed his attention, nothing worked properly without his direct involvement.

  A guard in gleaming golden armor and scarlet tunic pulled open the door and mutely, probably even unconsciously, invited the prince back to his responsibilities. The regent held his head high as he stalked past the man into the lofty room.

  The great chamber managed to be ornate and sterile at the same time. Sunlight poured through the windows, illuminating the relief works etched onto the two dozen columns, reflecting from the bronzed engravings lining the interior walls. Even so, he immediately felt as if he had entered a realm of shadow. The air was cool here, and now for some reason he shivered, though it was early summer and the day was balmy even at this morning hour.

  “I have the maps displayed in the planning room, Excellency,” noted Baron Dekage, his aide de camp. “Together with the dispatches that arrived overnight.”

  “Dispatches? More than one? What is it now?”

  “I am afraid the squabble between the realms on the western shore continues to escalate. Word arrived by pigeon last night, after you had retired, sir, regarding Coastlund’s claim that the fishing fleets of the south and Vinlund are encroaching upon Costian waters. This morning, shortly after dawn, a ship arrived at the docks, bearing word from a captain of the Southlund fishers. He says his comrades were attacked by Costian galleys. Boats have been burned and crews left to roast or drown.”

  “By Joli—how dare they play around with war! Do they know that the Princess Selinda was just sailing through those very waters?” snapped the regent. “By all the gods, if they so much as fired an arrow in my daughter’s direction, I’ll hang them all from the topmasts without so much as a by-your-leave!”

  He went to a sideboard, poured a glass of cold water, and drank it. It was no good—the acid churning in his stomach continued unabated. “Who is my admiral in Caergoth, again?” he demanded crossly.

  “That would be Lord Marrett,” Dekage replied. “He took command this spring.”

  “Oh, yes, Marrett.” The regent didn’t recall much about the man—it was a routine promotion that had been necessary to appease the Duke of Caergoth—something involving in-laws of the recently married duke—but Lord Marrett would have to be ordered to sea. That would require a series of authorizations, issuances, and provisionings that would take half a day just to organize. Damn it! He was expecting quarterly reports tomorrow night and had been counting on these last two days to steel himself for the strain. There were always problems with the books, missing inventories from the iron mines and coal shipments, details that would inevitably cost time and money to resolve.

  Now, he had extra work to do.

  “Er, my lord … there is another thing,” Dekage said hesitantly.

  “What? Spit it out, man!”

  “Patriarch Hower begs an audience. He is waiting outside.”

  “Very well then, send him in—and leave us alone.”

  Seconds later the aged priest, master of the temple of Shinare in Palanthas, came in and bowed humbly before the Lord Regent. He was a rotund bald man, clad in a robe of shimmering gold. He mopped his pate nervously as du Chagne fixed him with a glare.

  “What is it, old fellow? I have a lot to do today.”

  “Begging my lord’s pardon—I must speak with you about the temple in Caergoth. It is the matter of the young patriarch, Issel. I fear, my lord, that he has offended some of the elders. I have received no less that four complaints during the last week. I know that young Issel was your personal selection for the post, and the man suggests great potential, but perhaps it is too soon for—”

  “Have the collections suffered?” interrupted the lord regent curtly.

  “No, my lord. If anything, the donations have increased slightly since Issel’s arrival two months ago.”

  “Then tell these complaining priests that I am satisfied with the new patriarch. Furthermore, tell them that, if they continue to complain, I shall require you to share their names with me.”

  “My lord!” gasped the priest. “That would confound the sanctity of our order’s sacred bond!”

  “Nevertheless, do as I say. Tell them.”

  “Very well, my lord,” replied the chubby patriarch, deflated in his gilded robe. He withdrew swiftly and silently, while the aide de camp returned to introd
uce more business.

  “It is regarding the duke’s conference to be convened in Caergoth next week. Princess Selinda is due to arrive in the next few days, depending on the vagaries of wind and tide, of course—”

  “Yes, I know, I know. I fret for her, but she insisted upon going. The matter was out of my hands, and of course, there are a thousand—no, a million—things I need to attend to here! Matters of commerce, of taxation—of income and debt! Besides, my daughter will serve well as my representative at the conference.”

  “Er, I understand that, lord. I am certain the Lady Selinda will do a more than creditable job in your stead. No, my lord, the problem is the other two dukes. Both Thelgaard and Solanthus have sent missives in the last few hours, begging your lordship’s pardon and pleading that they have been detained. Each will be several days late in arriving for the conference.”

  “By the gods!” The lord mayor’s face flushed, his voice cracked. “This is an insult to my station, my very self! How dare they?”

  “Begging my lord’s pardon, since you sent your daughter to the conference to represent you, the insult—a potent one, to be sure—is directed at your delegated representative and is therefore not, technically, a wrong directed at your own august personage.”

  “Bah,” he said, stroking his beardless double chin, blinking. “Are they acting in concert, conspiring against me?”

  “No, rather I suspect that neither of them cares to arrive first, but both are equally concerned about arriving second. The second would have to honor the first by being present at the moment of his arrival,” the baron suggested. “The Duke of Thelgaard claims that his wife is ill and will not be ready to travel for several days. You recall her, lord … she is rather elderly, and in poor health.”

  “That sick cow!” snapped du Chagne loudly. He felt a little better after the outburst. “Why doesn’t he come without her? What about Solanthus? Sure he’s not complaining of a sick wife! Why, if that slut were any healthier, Rathskell wouldn’t be able to walk!”