Lord of the Rose

by Doug Niles

“You—Notch—you stop them!” barked the chieftain, whacking one of his under-chiefs on the side of the head—forgetting that he was still holding the curve-bladed knife.

  The stricken Notch recoiled with a howl, clasping a hand to his bleeding ear. The next moment he snarled, lashing out at Bonechisel, who lifted his daggers and tried to step back. The group on the porch behind him, however, blocked his exit.

  “Big house!” roared Ankhar again, relishing the squabble. The crowd surged forward, goblins on all sides pressing close, ignoring the hapless few who fell to be trampled underfoot.

  The goblins behind Bonechisel were in no mood to expose themselves to Notch’s fury. They pushed back, and the chieftain wobbled precariously at the lip of the porch. The bleeding sub-captain grappled with him while other lieutenants hooted and howled in amusement.

  The pair fell together, vanishing into the mass on the wide stone steps. Ankhar could see only a thrashing, chaotic melee, and he pressed forward for a better look. The crowd parted almost magically before him, and he reached the base of the steps. Notch lay dead, bleeding from several deep cuts, but Bonechisel had not escaped the tumble unscathed. To judge from the bloody punctures in his legs and sides, several of his trusted lieutenants must have taken stabs at him as he rolled past them. He gasped, spitting furiously, as he looked up to see the hill giant looming over him.

  Ankhar, in later years, could never reconstruct what impulse caused him to act in this fashion—but undoubtedly it had to do with the years of abuse, the vicious cruelty and bullying of his hated master. The giant abruptly brought his spear down, the steel head punching through the stiff bearskin of the hobgoblin’s breastplate, through the body underneath, and into the hard ground. There it stuck, the elm shaft rising up like a flagpole, quivering from the force of the lethal blow.

  For a long moment—two or three heartbeats, at least—Ankhar gaped at the dying chieftain. The crowed seemed to share his reaction, as many edged back and a murmured gasp ran through the mass, spreading outward like ripples through still water.

  “Bonechisel is dead!” croaked one subchief, looking not at the slain hobgoblin but at the giant who stood like a statue over the bleeding corpse.

  “Ankhar killed him!” cried another, in a tone of triumph. “Hail Ankhar!”

  “Ankhar! Ankhar!” The chant started with those on the steps of the mill-house, but quickly spread through the square, down the narrow streets, through the throngs on the surrounding hillsides.

  “Ankhar! Ankhar!”

  Time had stopped, and now it started to move again for the half-giant. He felt liberated and empowered—two sensations wonderful and unfamiliar. He looked through the crowd, trying to spot his mother, but Laka was invisible among the sea of faces.

  Slowly, with a hesitation that might be mistaken for diginity and deliberation, Ankhar reached out to grasp the stout spear shaft. He flexed his powerful mucles and drew the shaft free, lifting Bonechisel’s body off the ground until he shook the weapon and the corpse dropped free.

  The head of the spear was glowing, and the giant raised it curiously. He had inadvertently split the talisman of Hiddukel that the hobgoblin had worn over his heart. The vial had spilled forth its contents, an oily liquid that now slicked over the sharp, double-edged bit of his spearhead. The hard steel glowed with an emerald light that made it look as though the forged metal had just been pulled, cherry-hot, from the smith’s furnace.

  Wonderingly, the half-giant raised the weapon to his face, touching the sharp edge with his fingers. It was cool to the touch.

  “He is the favored one of the Prince of Lies!” cried Laka. The old shaman came beside him now, shaking a rattle made from the skull of a human. “See how the god favors him with the Emerald Fire! It is the Truth! Ankhar is the Truth!”

  Ankhar raised the spear over his head and relished the cheer that erupted, spontaneously from ten thousand bloodthirsty throats. Holding the weapon by the base of the shaft, he extended the glowing head high into the air, where it seemed to spark and shine with light brighter even than the full, silver moon.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CITY KNIGHTS

  You sure you want to do this?” Dram Feldspar asked. The dwarf was slouched in the saddle, his mare stolidly plodding along the road beside the warrior’s gelding. The Garnet Mountains and the city of the same name were by now several days behind them.

  The two riders were sunburned and dusty after crossing the dry plain. The previous day, the road had spanned a wide river on a splendid bridge, and here Dram had suggested they stop for a leisurely soaking, maybe an early camp. The warrior had looked across at a gaunt, burned-out structure on a bluff, a former manor house now in utter ruins, and insisted they keep going.

  Now the outline of a lofty city was looming before them. A high wall of stone ramparts marked the end of the plains less than a mile away. Beyond that wall rose the houses and shops, the towers and forts, the docks and smithies, and the Gnome Ghetto of Caergoth. The great gray bulk of Castle Caergoth towered over the whole, ramparts and towers gleaming in the morning sun.

  “Yes,” the warrior replied, after a very long pause. “I’m sure.”

  Nodding and shrugging, the dwarf closed his mouth and rode along in silence—though not for long. His face brightened in inspiration.

  “We don’t both have to go into Caergoth after all—I can enter the city, and find the gnome, and bring him out to you. We can meet you in one of these little plains villages along here where no one is likely to recognize you.”

  “I’m going into the city, I said. Are you going to talk about it all day, or are you coming with me?”

  The high wall, with its fortified gate—closed, and guarded by a full dozen Knights of Solamnia, all wearing the emblem of the Rose—stood less than half a mile away. The dwarf scowled and glowered, finally grunting his reply. “I go where you go.”

  They allowed their horses to amble up to the gate. The two riders tried to look inconspicuous. Though each wore a knife at his belt, their other weapons were wrapped tightly among the bundles of gear strapped behind the saddles of each of their horses.

  The dwarf’s eyes nervously flicked over to his companion—then adopted an air of nonchalance as they reined in before the two armored guards, who raised their halberds to block the roadway.

  “State your names and your business in Caergoth,” declared one of the guards. The rest of the company watched idly from the shade against the base of the lofty wall, though several men had their crossbows cocked, the deadly weapons resting casually across their knees.

  “My name’s Jahn Brackett,” said Dram, with an easy grin. “This here’s my old pal, Waler Sanction-son.”

  The knight scrutinized the dwarf, after a quick glance at the warrior who slouched silently in his saddle. “You’re Kaolyn, aren’t you?”

  The dwarf nodded with a pleased smile. “Right from the heart of the Garnet Range. Always have been, always will be.”

  “And a Sanction-son, eh?” Coming around the head of Dram’s horse, the knight looked up at Waler. “You, you’re a long way from home. How’re things in Sanction these days?”

  The warrior shrugged. “I haven’t been there for years. Still burning, last I heard.”

  The knight laughed at that. “Still burning! I like that—hey, fellows. This guy says that Sanction is still burning!”

  Several of the other knights chuckled. “Good thing them volcanoes haven’t gone out—what would they do for heat?” offered one.

  “So, you two make an odd couple, to say the least,” said the sentry. “Dwarves keep to dwarves and men keep to men is what I usually see. State your business in Caergoth.”

  “Looking for work,” Dram said. “The city under the mountains is nice, but I’ve taken a liking to sunshine and good, steel coin. We hear the city docks are busy, figure someone can use two more strong backs for loading and unloading all these ships people are talking about.”

  The knight nodded approvingly.
“You heard right, but you need to know about the duke’s edict: There is no carrying of long blades or throwing weapons on the city streets. Violation will cost you the weapon and might mean a turn in the city dungeon.”

  “These little pig-stickers are all right, aren’t they?” asked the dwarf innocently, gesturing to the knives he and Waler wore at their belts, the warrior pulling his cape to the side so that the guard could inspect the weapon.

  “No problem with those,” the sentry acknowledged. He turned and waved to someone up on the wall. A few seconds later the massive gate started to swing outward. “Good luck to you both, then—you’ll find plenty of work on the docks. Just follow this main road right through town. It will take you down the bluff and right to the waterfront.”

  “Thank you kindly, Sir Knight!” Dram said with a bow and a flourish. His companion merely nodded and, with the gate partially open, the two riders led their horses into Caergoth.

  The street was bustling with foot traffic—mostly human, though a few dwarves were swaggering about, and a whole gaggle of kender were playing some kind of game in an empty lot between two storefronts. There were only a few riders, all of them knights, visible above the heads of the pedestrians. Here and there a freight wagon or oxcart nudged through the crowd.

  A hundred paces from the gate the two riders came to a large livery stable, and here they turned into the yard. They arranged to have their horses fed and tended—a steel piece for each animal insured care for the next seven days. They rummaged through their saddlebags to remove a few items. They left bedrolls, cooking gear, and heavy clothing behind, but took their coinpurses, a spare cloak for each, and a selection of weapons.

  The long-bladed knives they wore at their belts. Reluctantly Dram wrapped his battle-axe in a bedroll and left it with his saddlebag. The warrior took his long sword and wrapped the whole thing, scabbard to hilt, in a blanket. He lashed the bundle to his back as inconspicuously as possible. He wouldn’t be able to sit down without unstrapping the sword, but it would serve. His twin crossbows he fastened again to his belt, relying on the long drape of his cape to conceal the contraband weapons.

  “We’d better not run into any knights,” said Dram, as they emerged onto the sunny street again.

  “Won’t encounter too many of ’em in the gnome ghetto. Here, this way.”

  The swordsman led his dwarven companion along a winding series of side streets, avoiding the main avenues and, surprisingly enough, making better time than they would have on the more crowded main streets. The gnome ghetto was located in the lower quarter of Caergoth, where the ancient city clung to the banks of the Garnet River. The streets were unpaved there, and recent rains had turned them into a morass of slick mud, deep ruts, and overflowing gutters. The human warrior said they should seek lodging near the squalid gnome neighborhood but not within, and Dram was more than content to go along with this plan.

  “The places around the square or below the fortress will be all packed to the rafters with knights,” the man explained.

  “We won’t be here very long, will we?” Dram asked hopefully.

  The warrior smiled sardonically. “Are we ever any place for very long? C’mon, let’s go find this Brillissander Firesplasher.”

  “What if Cornellus was telling the truth, and Firesplasher is dead?”

  “Fine by me, but then I’d like to find out exactly how he died.”

  An ashen haze blanketed the horizon as the sun dropped behind the city wall, casting not so much distinct shadows as a spreading murk that seemed to darken under the eaves of the great buildings, and to shroud the narrow alleys and walkways between the wooden buildings that made up the greater part of the city.

  Even along the main avenue there remained evidence of war. The Dark Knights had taken the city during the War of Souls, and the Solamnics had recaptured it several months later. The edifice of a great marble building, which the man knew had been the meeting hall of the city’s neophyte parliament in decades past, was gashed and cracked by dragon breath. Several huge columns lay where they had toppled, and weeds sprouted through cracks in the wide steps.

  In the lower part of town, they passed a whole block that had burned to ashes during the battle. The blackened shells of several large inns and houses remained like gravestones, jutting from a dark expanse of crumbled stone, charred timber, and debris.

  But most of the city was thriving.

  They finally secured rooms at a bustling travelers’ inn close to the waterfront. The landlord charged exorbitant prices but pledged easy access to the duke’s palace, the great marketplace, the silver and stoneworkers’ districts, even the riverside stockyards that—the proprietor was quick to point out—were generally downwind of the inn, and may all the gods curse the unseasonal breeze that was currently filling the city air with the odiferous perfume of those vast, muddy corrals!

  “Keep in mind, Honored Travelers,” finished the fellow, a rat-faced little man who leaned uncomfortably close to them and spewed bad breath as he talked. “If there be anything else ye be wishing for, such as entertainment of the female persuasion, ye just be letting me know.” He winked at Dram. “We can even fix ye up with a little dwarf-maid, if that be yer natural preference.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Dram allowed, turning and hastening after the warrior, who was already crossing the crowded common room. They took the stairs to their rented room and found it to be reasonably private, with a shutter over the single window in a small parlor, which adjoined two windowless bedrooms.

  After taking turns in a hot bath, the travelers shared a meal of beef stew and crusty bread. The human washed his down with a bottle of vinegar-tinged wine, while Dram drank three large bottles of ale. Finally, the pair lit the lantern in the parlor and laid the shard of marble on the sturdy, rough-hewn table.

  The letters, BRILLISS, were clearly inscribed in one corner of the shard, and the stone had been broken in such a way as to suggest that the word had continued on the missing surface.

  “Brillissander Firesplasher. That’s the name Cornellus gave us,” the swordsman said.

  “Yep. That was it. Should we get started looking for him?”

  “Don’t see that we have any other option.”

  “We could wait until morning,” Dram said wearily.

  His companion shook his head. “If we head out in an hour or two, we’ll stand a better chance of a lot of the gnomes being asleep. I prefer to take my gnomes—and my kender and gully dwarves, for that matter—by surprise, whenever possible.”

  The dwarf took a small lantern along as they departed the inn, and this proved wise, as the few burning streetlights in this part of Caergoth were confined to the wide avenues around the palace and treasury. As soon as they started down the narrow lanes leading toward the riverbank they found themselves surrounded by darkness.

  Dram touched a match to his lamp and held it so that they could avoid the overturned barrels, sleeping drunks—human, invariably—and other refuse that seemed to be scattered haphazardly in the muddy, winding way. They passed an inn that was raucous with the sounds of fiddle music and loud conversation. The doors burst open and a big man staggered out. He glared at the two, his eyes small and bloodshot in the midst of a flowing black beard and a mass of dark hair. With a belligerent sneer he raised his fists until, a moment later, his eyes glassed over and he collapsed, facedown, on the ground.

  “Nice place,” muttered the dwarf, carefully stepping around the fellow. “Let’s keep it in mind for a drink afterward.”

  The dwarf’s companion wasn’t listening. Instead, he was trying to remember his way around this part of the city.

  “Down here,” he decided at the next intersection. For two blocks they walked close to the battered facades of two-story wooden houses, on streets that were slippery with mud and worse.

  The road began to change. The mud became clean, white stones. The wetness vanished through grates. Several buildings here were made of stone, with rows of window
s reaching three or four stories. Some doorways were tall enough for a man, but many were barely four feet high, with eaves hanging so low that the tall warrior would have to duck his head just to stand next to the house.

  “If this is a ghetto, I like it better than the neighborhood we’re staying in,” the dwarf said sourly.

  Lanterns bobbed here and there as individuals, mostly gnomes, bustled back and forth along the well-kept road. The warrior stepped in front of one of the lantern-carrying gnomes, a youngish-looking male with a short beard and a distracted expression. He was busy talking to himself, an earnest discussion in which he sounded as if he was trying very vigorously to press his point of view.

  “Excuse me,” said the warrior.

  “What?” asked the gnome, blinking in confusion. “You are most certainly excused. But … do I know you?”

  “No—I’m a stranger here,” the warrior said patiently. “I’m hoping you’ll help me with some directions.”

  “Directions?” The little fellow scratched his head. “Not my specialty, directions. What are you looking for around here?”

  “Who, not what. I’m looking for a gnome named Brillissander Firesplasher, or anyone who might know something about him.”

  The gnome’s eyes went wide. “Oh! Oh. Do you mean the Brillissander Firesplasher?” he asked in a tone of awe.

  “I think so,” the dwarf confirmed.

  “Never heard of him.”

  With that, the earnest pedestrian was off, muttering to himself once again.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  A GREAT HALL AND A DUNGEON

  The welcoming banquet was a great success, despite the absence of the dukes of Thelgaard and Solanthus. Patriarch Issel began the occasion with an overlong invocation but spoke many beautiful words in praise of the Lord Regent in Palanthas. Duke Crawford also made a splendid speech, and Lady Selinda and the duchess, Lady Martha, got a little tipsy on the bubbly wine.