Lord of the Rose

by Doug Niles

  “Did they manage to kill him somehow?” Lady Martha asked breathlessly. “I couldn’t see! I don’t spot any captives!”

  “I fear he may have escaped,” Selinda replied.

  “But how? No, that’s impossible—they had him surrounded!”

  “Shall we go down to the great hall and hear what happened?” suggested the princess.

  The two ladies descended quickly from the lofty parapet and were waiting at the huge conference table as the doors to the hall burst open. Duke Rathskell and Jarrod were the first into the chamber, each followed by a dozen or more of his retinue.

  “—your scouts must have been asleep at their posts!” snapped the thin, wiry Rathskell. “To let them slip by like that!”

  “Pathetic lies!” roared Jarrod, flexing his huge arms. “It was your men who scattered at the first taste of steel!”

  “Nay—they stood firm and drove the scoundrel into your line. Did your men grow faint at the sight of the blazing sword?” Rathskell demanded. His tone was quiet but menacing.

  “Mine followed orders—I have one dead and three wounded to prove it!” answered Jarrod. “What blood did you spill?”

  “What happened?” Lady Selinda asked, the calmness of her voice cutting through the bickering.

  “We had him dead to rights, my Princess,” explained Rathskell with a bow to Selinda. “Until my ‘peer’ ”—he sneered at Jarrod of Thelgaard—“failed to perform his duty in the face of the enemy.”

  “Lies, I tell you!” bellowed the Duke of the Crown. “He was long gone by the time we closed in.”

  “My Lord, Lady Princess.” The speaker was Sir Marckus, interjecting quietly. The venerable knight’s calm tone seemed to soothe the level of tension in the room—at least, for the moment.

  “Yes? What is it? Do you know something?” asked Caergoth eagerly.

  “Not personally, Excellency, no, but I have heard whisperings among the men. One of them claims to have spotted the White Witch.”

  “The White Witch! Could she be in league with the killer?” Duke Crawford wondered. “Her sorcery could help explain that miraculous escape.”

  “If by the ‘White Witch’ you mean the Lady Coryn of Palanthas,” Selinda said sharply. “I have heard her called thus, but I will not stand for such inferences in my presence. She has done good work in the cause of Solamnia over the last few years. She could not possibly be involved—why would she help an assassin who slew one of our most noble and esteemed lords?”

  “There is no accounting for the ways of wizards,” the Duke of Solanthus declared forcefully.

  For the first time Selinda noticed one knight, ashen-faced and perspiring heavily, had been laid upon one of the banquet tables near the door. He held his right hand, wrapped in a bloody bandage, tightly to his chest. Two other knights were borne into the room by comrades, each of them obviously wounded in the leg.

  “Duke Crawford!” the princess said at once. “Those men are injured. Surely this debate can wait. Have you not a cleric who can aid them?”

  “What? Oh, of course,” said the duke, looking with exaggerated concern at the wounded knights. “Patriarch Issel—see first to that fellow, there. The one with all the blood.”

  “My lord,” said the cleric, materializing from the group of people who had suddenly crowded into the great hall. He was wearing his formal golden robe and bowed apologetically. “Of course. That is, I would if I could, but I fear the rigors of preparing for this conference have kept me from my daily meditations. I confess I lack the power to perform the necessary spells at this time. However, there are sub-priests at my temple who may be capable of stanching the bleeding. They will not be able to save the damaged hand, but they can certainly save the lives of these noble knights. I will send word to my priests immediately.”

  “Yes, please do so without further delay,” the princess commanded. She could not stop herself from adding, “In my father’s city, a high priest would attend to his meditations before worrying about the ceremonial requirements of a royal conference.”

  The patriarch shot her a dark look that was noticed by everyone standing near. The dukes looked offended at her insult to the cleric’s authority. In point of fact, Selinda was not entirely sure what priorities should guide the time of a Palanthian priest. She kept her steely expression, even as she made a mental note to herself: Keep an eye on that high priest.

  The two men with leg wounds were carried out, but the third man objected, shaking his head in despair.

  “Leave me here,” the injured knight protested. “My hand is gone—I am no use to the Order of the Crown. Let me die!”

  “Nonsense,” said the cleric, with a note of spite in his voice. “The Lady of Palanthas has decreed that your life be saved, and so it shall if at all possible. You men, offer him your shoulders. Bring him to my temple—it is just beyond the castle gate.”

  “No!” cried the knight.

  “Come!” demanded the cleric. Even across the great hall, Selinda felt the hush in the room that followed this angry shout. There was a magic in that word.

  “Bah—the fool may as well die for his failure,” murmured Duke Rathskell, as the knight was helped from the hall. “He had the assassin before him, six swords to one.”

  “I tell you, it was sorcery that aided his escape!” shouted Jarrod.

  “All I’m hearing are pathetic excuses,” sneered Rathskell. “If your men were half as fast with their swords as you are with your ale, they would have had the killer in chains by now!”

  “How dare you?” barked the hulking lord. “Why, if you handled troops anywhere nearly as well as you handle that wench you married, we would be planning a hanging right now! Instead, the assassin of Lord Lorimar runs free!” The bearlike Jarrod balled his great hand into a fist, and thrust it toward his counterpart.

  “Watch yourself, my lord,” declared Rathskell, his rapier appearing in his hand as if by magic. The slender tip danced only a foot away from Jarrod’s keg-sized chest.

  “Stop it—both of you,” demanded Selinda, stepping between them. The rapier almost brushed her cheek as Rathskell, with a grimace of irritation, yanked his weapon away. Jarrod of Thelgaard drew a deep breath and let his hands drop. She was surprised to see that the big man was trembling. His eyes were wild as he stared past the princess, as if he didn’t even see her. Suddenly she felt afraid but would not allow herself to back away, not in front of these lords whose respect she required.

  The tension hung in the room.

  “Enough!”

  The command roared through the great hall. It was Sir Marckus, the tips of his trailing mustaches quivering in rage.

  “By Joli, have your Excellencies forgotten our common cause?” Sir Marckus demanded. “You should be ashamed! The Assassin is loose in the realm! You bicker among yourselves like children while he gets farther and farther away from the justice he so richly deserves! Why …”

  Marckus finally seemed to realize that he was addressing his liege, and his liege’s peers. With a visible effort he gained control of his tongue. Dukes Jarrod and Rathskell glared at him, but there had been truth in the captain’s words, and the tension was broken.

  “Now, now,” said the Duke of Caergoth. “Let’s sit down and talk about this calmly. The Assassin will turn up again—such evil-doers are nothing if not habitual. We’ll get him soon enough. How about a round of drinks?” He gestured to several stewards, and they hastened to fetch bottles of wine from a nearby rack.

  The dukes, with their respective entourages, withdrew toward separate tables. Selinda put her hand on Sir Marckus’s arm as he started after Duke Crawford. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

  He surprised her by putting his large hand over her small fingers. “No, my lady. Thank you,” he replied softly. She looked into his eyes and was pleased to note a newfound respect.

  “Hurry up with that.” Duke Crawford was directing his stewards as the Princess of Palanthas once more took her throne-like chair at the
raised table, facing the semicircular arrangement of tables seating Solanthus, Caergoth, and Thelgaard. Jarrod and Rathskell exchanged brief, hostile glances then each huddled with his captains, whispering and muttering as the wine was poured. The Duke of Thelgaard took his glass and half-raised it to his lips, before noticing that everyone else was waiting for Selinda. Slowly, he put the vessel back onto the table.

  “Lords, Knights, and Ladies,” the princess began a toast. “Let us not forget the lessons of today—”

  She stopped at the sounds of a disturbance. The great doors burst open, and a Knight of the Rose stumbled into the room. His breastplate was dented, his leggings gashed, and a wound on his cheek was crusted with dried blood. Dust covered him in a layer of light brown, and he advanced only far enough to lean both hands upon a table. His eyes, pleading and filled with grief, sought and found the Duke of Caergoth.

  “My Lord!” he groaned. “Garnet is sacked and burned! The garrison has fallen to the last man save me. The goblins have come down from the mountains—they are invading the plains!”

  “No, by Joli!” bellowed Jarrod of Thelgaard, leaping to his feet.

  “When did this happen?” Selinda asked loudly.

  “Three days since, my lady,” the knight replied, noticing the princess among the dukes for the first time. He stood straight, seeming to find strength at the sight of her. “They came in the hour before nightfall. Thousands of them, for certain—they streamed into the town from three sides at once. We had scant warning—a half a day. Sir Mikel sent as many of the women and children away as he could, making for both Thelgaard and Solanthus.”

  “Take some water or wine. Then you will need to tell us more,” Selinda said gently.

  The knight took a deep draught. When he looked at her, his eyes filled with anguish. “Lady,” he said, “I wanted to stay there with him, shoulder to shoulder with Sir Mikel and my comrades to the end. He ordered me to flee, and I refused. He bade me go upon the Oath and the Measure that word of the disaster could reach the dukes. I could not but obey.”

  “You did right by your captain and by the Order of the Rose,” the princess replied. “Now, tell us all you know about this army. How many thousands? What manner of troops?”

  The knight nodded, reflecting for several moments. “They were more a mob, Lady. No companies, regiments, brigades. Just a rampaging mob. I should guess something like four or five thousand—compared to some of the armies I saw in the War of Souls. Goblins, mostly. Some hobs, of course. Howling and screaming like madmen, tearing with claws—even feasting on the dead! They were led by a great brute, an ogre or giant I should say. They chanted his name: I will never forget it. Ankhar. Ankhar!” His tone grew bitter. “They chanted ‘Ankhar!’ as they swarmed in on the forlorn city and as I rode away into the night.”

  “Did you see the direction of their march from Garnet?”

  “They followed me as far as the upper ford of the Vingaard, Lady. I don’t know if they were pursuing me or if we simply traveled in the same direction. From the western bluff the next morning I could see their raiding parties extending along the bank, so I could not say where the army as a whole is going.”

  “The Upper Ford!” Duke Jarrod’s voice was hoarse, and the color had all but drained from his face. “That places them only two days’ march from my own hall. War is upon us!”

  “Thelgaard be damned,” cried Rathskell. “They can march up the Vingaard and reach Solanthus by tomorrow night! Captain Rankin—muster your company! Get the squires to the horses—we ride for home within the hour!”

  Jarrod, too, was already spurring his knights into a frenzy of activity. Captains and sergeants ran from the hall, heralds hauled down the traveling banners. The two dukes were soon ready to leave but not before addressing Caergoth and the princess.

  “Crawford—you must put your army in the field!” pleaded Jarrod of Thelgaard. “I have two thousand under my command. If you come from the west, we can smash the bastards between us.”

  “Yes. That is, unless they go north,” Duke Crawford acknowledged.

  “Then Solanthus will fall!” snapped Rathskell. “I have but two thousand swords in my own companies and twice as many villages to hold as Thelgaard. You can’t leave us to the wolves!”

  “No, of course not,” Selinda answered for Caergoth. She looked at him earnestly. “How soon can you march?”

  He blinked. “Well, I could put a force into the field, of course, but not for at least ten days. I will have to call in my own garrisons from the outlying villages. Can’t leave the city unprotected, you know. Not when there’s such evil afoot!”

  “Ten days!” spluttered Jarrod. Rathskell narrowed his eyes coldly.

  “Surely you can move more quickly than that,” Selinda said encouragingly. “The goblins are hundreds of miles from Caergoth, on the very doorsteps of our two great allies. Thelgaard is right about one thing—if you bring your army east, you can be the anvil on which the enemy horde is crushed.”

  Her eyes swept over them as she spoke. “You must use all three of your armies, together. March in coordination, and there is no way that a ‘mob’ of raiders can stand against you!” She asked Caergoth, again, “How soon can you march?”

  The duke gulped. “I can do my best to put the vanguard into the field by the day after tomorrow,” he said. He glanced at his captain. “That is, if Sir Marckus deems it feasible.”

  “It is feasible, my Lord,” the knight said, his face inscrutable.

  It was an hour later, after the parties of both Thelgaard and Solanthus had departed, that Selinda went to look for the captain of her own escort of guards. She found Sir Powell in the duke’s game room, looking over the unusual battlefield display with its thousands of miniature soldiers, and all their horses, catapults and wagons, deployed across imitation hills and streams. The knight captain snapped to attention as she entered.

  “Er, I’m sorry, my lady,” he said in embarrassment. “The time has passed more quickly than I realized. I should have been about my duties. I know the conference has ended unexpectedly and the dukes have gone to battle, but I lingered here, curious to see if this table really existed. People gossip about it, but it is even more elaborate than I could have imagined.”

  “Yes. Caergoth is quite proud of it,” the princess said. “There is no need to apologize. I need to talk to you about something.”

  When the conference had so abruptly ended, she had thought of the galleons and of embarking on the sea voyage home, and her terror had returned and grown. She no longer debated her instincts—she had decided she was not getting aboard the ship.

  “Lady,” the captain was saying. “If I may be bold, your father would be proud of the way you exercised your influence today.”

  “Why, thank you, Sigmund,” she said, pleased at the compliment. “I didn’t want to waste any time, considering events. I want to change our plans for a return to Palanthas.”

  “Well, of course, Lady,” Sir Powell said. “Of course, I immediately issued the orders. It will take a day or two to provision the ships, but we should be able to depart very soon.”

  “That’s just it. Of course, we must dispatch the ships back to Father at once and send word about Garnet and this fellow Ankhar. But I have decided to return to Palanthas overland. On horseback.”

  Sir Powell looked as if he had been punched in the stomach. He blinked a few times and appeared to be straining for breath. “My lady!” he finally said. His lips continued to move, but no other words came forth.

  “I am sure you will attend to the requisite security arrangements,” she continued. “Of course, we can take the Westway along the foothills of the Vingaards. That will keep us far from the goblins. I don’t think Father would approve if we were to follow the route of the Vingaard River. Would he?”

  “No!” he croaked. “Of course not! But, my lady—”

  “Oh, it will be perfectly safe. Besides, Gennard. If I am to be the Lady Regent of Solamnia someday, then
I should really have a look at those fabled plains with my own eyes, should I not?”

  “Yes, my lady.” He already felt defeated, and she had to suppress an urge to give him a hug. He seemed impressed at her decisiveness, too, as he nodded in resignation.

  “Yes, you should,” he concluded.

  The Dukes of Solanthus and Thelgaard were gone, along with their knights. The princess and her guards would depart, traveling overland in the morning. Duke Crawford of Caergoth was back in his game room, alone with his table of miniatures—and the image of Lord Regent du Chagne in the mirror hidden in the small alcove.

  “We shouldn’t get too worked up about a simple band of raiders,” the lord told his duke. “Garnet is small loss—they have rejected our protection, and this is their just desserts. For now, let Solanthus and Thelgaard prove themselves by handling the wretches—they weren’t very cooperative at the council anyway.”

  “Indeed, lord. They deserve your rebuke. Though I did give them my word that I would march, with some haste.”

  “Bah—let them stew!” du Chagne said. “They will learn that they cannot flaunt the will of their master! Besides, an expedition to the east will be terribly expensive. Better to wait and see if they can take care of matters without you.”

  “Very well, my lord,” said Crawford. “I will postpone my deployments.”

  The mirror darkened, but the duke waited until late in the evening to summon his knight captains. Sir Marckus and Sir Reynaud found their liege still in the gaming room, advancing a legion of heavy cavalry against the flank of an enemy formation. If the captains noticed that the opposing formation was comprised of Thelgaard’s knights rather than a goblin horde, they were wise enough to refrain from comment.

  “I have been thinking …” the duke began, as Marckus and Reynaud stood patiently by.