by Doug Niles
One of the knights watching the operation, already seated on his horse, was Sir Dupuy.
Throughout the morning the file of mounted knights climbed into the Vingaard Range, along the winding road leading up to the High Clerist’s Pass. Jaymes had traveled this road often in the past, and he saw that the rainy summer had taken a grievous toll on the ancient highway. In places half the surface had eroded away, much of the gravel tumbling down into the precipitous gorge. Here and there erosion left only a narrow trail for the riders to negotiate, and in single file their horses skittered past drops of several hundred feet. Far below, Jaymes could see the whitewater rapids, a headwater of the West Vingaard River, flowing over and around jagged rocks and fallen timbers.
Jaymes rode along in silence. The nearby knights made no attempt to converse with him, and he avoided attracting attention as much as possible. Sir Dupuy had taken up a position near the head of the column—while the prisoner was in the middle. As the morning progressed, however, Dupuy fell farther and farther back in the line. Finally, as the noon hour approached, the rider from Palanthas was just ahead of the brace of guards near Jaymes, one of whom was always holding the ancient mare’s reins.
Once again the column reached a washout, where the heavy rains had eroded a great section of the roadway. The remaining path barely qualified as a thin ledge above the cliff below. The first knights dismounted and one by one led their horses across, as the rest of the column came to a halt, each man waiting his turn. Dupuy, standing at the edge, extended his hand as Jayme’s escort slipped out of his saddle to get ready to make the narrow crossing.
“I’ll lead this one,” Dupuy said, reaching for the reins of the prisoner’s mount.
“Wait—you’re going to let me dismount, aren’t you?” Jaymes spoke to his main escort, a knight who had treated him humanely through most of the journey. “That looks a little too slippery there—you might lose a good horse, if I overbalance him.”
“Sure. Makes sense to me.” The knight addressed one of his comrades. “Darron, keep a hand on your sword and an eye on the prisoner, while I let him down.” He released the shackles around Jaymes’s ankles as Dupuy watched impassively. When the manacles were loose, the warrior slowly, carefully lowered himself from the saddle. The resulting cramps paralyzed his legs, and he held on to the reins for a few seconds, trying to regain some strength, eyeing the dangerous passage before him.
“Come on—let’s get moving,” urged one of the knights.
“I’ll take the horse—you can make your own way,” Sir Dupuy said pleasantly, but his eyes were cold. He stepped back from the narrow, mud-streaked ledge, pulling Jaymes’s horse to the side.
Moving awkwardly on the narrow muddy path, with his hands tightly manacled, Jaymes had no choice but to step past Sir Dupuy, with the sheer drop directly beneath him to his left. The prisoner tried to brush by quickly. Sir Dupuy bumped him slightly, a movement no doubt invisible to the other knights behind them. Jaymes slipped and lost his balance—but not before grabbing the other man’s belt with his fingers.
“Let go, damn you!” hissed the knight, but the prisoner’s powerful grip made sure that both of them slipped from the steep heights.
Together, they fell toward the raging river below.
Dram had ordered the gnomes to stay near the riverside camp, feasting on blackberries and fish until he returned. Unware of his plan, they were grateful for the chance to rest. Starting off by himself, Dram put Coryn’s magic to the test immediately.
He took a small sip from the blue bottle. The haste spell worked as well as the wizard claimed—although dwarven legs were not made for speed—Dram churned up the mountain road as fast as a galloping horse and much faster than a column of horses proceeding at a cautious pace. Consequently, the dwarf had caught up to the column of knights and concealed himself behind a nearby shoulder of the mountain ridge by the time they drew up to pass, single file, around a washout in the road. The dwarf was feeling a bit shaky from the lingering effects of the potion but deduced from the look on Jaymes’s face that he had little time to waste.
He acted swiftly, swallowing the second potion, and was stunned and a little taken aback as his body, rendered utterly invisible, vanished even from his own sight. Looking down, he saw only the ground where his feet ought to be. He took a few teetering steps and gulped as he saw footprints pressed into a patch of the soft ground. The strange sight gave him the shudders.
Taking care to step on solid ground, so that he wouldn’t leave telltale footprints, he approached the rear of the column and started making his way past those knights and their horses who were still waiting to move across the bottleneck. He leaned away from the horses, nervous that one of them would smell him and spook or that one of the knights would see a telltale puff of dust or other clue to his presence. Fortunately the attention of men and horses alike seemed fixed upon the taut spectacle of the perilous crossing.
Edging around one of the knight’s steeds—the mount of the company captain—he paused in astonishment. He found himself staring at Jayme’s great sword, Giantsmiter, lashed to the saddlebag. The dwarf’s fingers tingled—he had to grab that sword somehow, return it to Jaymes! Remembering what Coryn had told him about the second potion, he recalled that anything he held or wore while he was concealed by the magic would also vanish.
No one was looking in his direction as Dram reached up, unlashed the rope, and pulled the long sword away. The mighty weapon immediately became as invisible as the rest of him.
Suddenly his attention was riveted on his friend. Jaymes had started across the narrow ledge, moving past another knight who stood against the uphill side behind him, when the two men grappled for some reason, slipped, teetered, and fell over the brink.
Praying to Reorx that he was not too late, Dram reached for the third potion.
Jutting rock struck Jaymes in the ribs, knocking the air from his lungs. Still, the warrior retained his vise-like grip on the squirming Dupuy. For a sickening instant they went into a free fall. The warrior’s head snapped back as the knight’s elbow, then fist, jabbed at him. Dizzyingly they spun through the air.
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 c
ommander. 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.”
