Lord of the Rose

by Doug Niles

  By the time the dwarf and the gnomes arrived, a fortnight after Jaymes, the area was transformed. A score of hill dwarves were busy making charcoal. Others were busy grinding the sulfir into a fine powder, using cauldrons and large rocks in lieu of the mortar and pestle Sulfie had demonstrated in Sheedra’s lair.

  After Jaymes brought Dram up to date on everything, the dwarf took over as foreman, supervising the preparation of the sulfir and charcoal while Sulfie and Pete made saltpeter. Within a matter of days they had stores of all three materials, and soon the black powder was being produced and collected in stout kegs.

  When, one day, Swig Frostmead’s lovely daughter, Pilsy, came over the mountain to inspect the work, Dram strutted with pride and showed her all their progress. Jaymes watched, amused. Even the gruff Frostmead himself finally seemed to approve of the match—anyone who consorted with a man of such wealth could not, in the hill dwarf’s eyes, be all rotten

  Jaymes stayed until he was certain all aspects of the work were proceeding well. Casks were being filled with the black powder every day, safely stored in an underground bunker that was well insulated against fire as well as wetness. After the first six days of full production, the warrior went to find Dram overseeing the great charcoal fires. The dwarf was sooty and unkempt, but he flashed a fierce grin when Jaymes asked him how things were going.

  “We’ll have all the charcoal we can use—for the rest of the year—within the next week,” the dwarf proclaimed. “Sulfie is doing a good job overseeing those fires—says it’s for her brother.”

  “Good,” said the warrior. “I must leave this in your hands.”

  “You’re off again?” Dram asked, raising his eyebrows. “Let me guess: Thelgaard?”

  “I have an important rendezvous with the duke,” said the warrior. “It has to be him—if Solanthus was telling the truth about the green diamonds. I told you, he said had never heard of them.”

  “You can’t be sure he was telling the truth,” the dwarf said.

  Jaymes shrugged. “The treasure—and the Compact of Freedom—were taken by the agents of one of the lords. Lorimar was a lord of the Rose, so that tends to cast suspicion upon the lords of the Crown and the Sword. The Sword Duke is dead …”

  “So you’ll be seeing the Crown,” Dram agreed. “Good luck, and be careful.”

  “Always,” Jaymes replied. He flexed his finger on which he wore the golden ring, and in a glimmer he disappeared.

  “My Lord?”

  Duke Crawford spoke to the mirror in a hush and looked over his shoulder. Though Lady Martha was elsewhere, he could not get over the impression someone was sneaking up on him.

  He had a bad feeling that time was running out.

  After a seemingly interminable delay, the mirror glimmered to life, and Lord Regent Bakkard du Chagne glared at him. “What is it?” he demanded

  “Duke Rathskell of Solanthus is dead. His treasure was stolen before he could bring it to Caergoth.”

  “Damn that fool! He lost the Stones of Garnet?” cursed the regent. “Did the goblins take him? That villain Ankhar?”

  “No, lord. I am afraid the news is even worse. Solanthus departed his city with his treasure loaded into a wagon, as you had ordered. He was pursued by goblins, but they didn’t catch him. Instead, he was ambushed by the Assassin himself—with some kind of blasting magic. The Assassin tore the roadway up, killed the duke, took his treasure, and vanished just as miraculously as he appeared. Those knights of his escort who survived rode on to Caergoth and just yesterday informed me of these facts.”

  “The Assassin? I tell you, the man is the greatest menace we face. He must be destroyed!”

  “I understand, lord!” Indeed, Duke Crawford did understand. What he did not understand was how he could possibly catch a man who never seemed to be where he was supposed to be, who appeared at the most inconvenient locales then simply disappeared, and who was now, apparently, capable of some kind of new and destructive brand of magic.

  “Enough of that wretch—talking about him gives me a headache,” growled the regent. He stared into Crawford’s eyes, and it seemed as though his vision bored right into the duke’s skull. “You will need to join your army in the field, you know.”

  “But … my lord. They are doing quite well, guarding the Kingsbridge. I am needed here in the city.”

  “You have important work to do, my good duke—and it is time that you take matters into your own hands!”

  Crawford’s blood turned cold at the threatening tone. The Lord Regent adopted a more genial look, almost avuncular.

  “You know, my daughter says that she was rather struck by you during her recent visit. She carried on quite a bit about your city, your banquet, your grace and manners. Too bad you’re married—else you’d have the prospect of a splendid match there!”

  Crawford nodded, not trusting himself to reply. He remembered the words of the Nightmaster, commanding just such a union. The words had seemed mad at the time. Du Chagne was speaking again, once more stern and commanding.

  “Take care that our Assassin is found! Beware that he does not strike at the very heart of your stronghold!”

  “Er, yes, lord. I shall!” The duke all but quivered at the prospect of such an occurrence. The Assassin, striking right in Castle Caergoth?

  “My lord.” Crawford bowed his head, humbly. “I shall do everything in my power to see that events remain under control.”

  “So this head of famous Rathskell?” asked Ankhar, admiring the grisly trophy that was proudly proffered by Dirtborn, the hobgoblin sub-chief who had led the pursuit of the duke’s wagon that had tried to slip out the back gates of Solanthus.

  “Yep!” declared the tusked warrior, beaming. “We kilt a bunch of his knights too, but we thought you’d want th’ duke’s head.”

  “Treasure it,” declared the half-giant. “See head of duke!” he roared to his fighters, holding it up and showing it around. “This fate of enemies of Ankhar!”

  Dirtborn bowed deeply, shivering in delight.

  “What about duke’s treasure? Spy told me it on that wagon. You got it for me?”

  For the first time, the hob looked crestfallen, even a little fearful. “Sad to say, lord, there was no treasure when we reached the duke. It was taken by another man—we saw him pour it into a magic bag.”

  “Who this man?” demanded Ankhar, glowering.

  “I do not know, lord. He had a sword that blazed with a blue flame.” The sub-chieftain was about to say more but abruptly looked down, clearing his throat with a low growl. “And … well …”

  “Speak truth to me! You bring me head. Now tell me what happened!”

  “Lord, it was this man with the fire sword who first struck the duke, not us. He did not kill the duke but crippled him so that we could take him after we slew all the knights of his guard.”

  “Very well. I glad you tell me this Truth.”

  Ankhar hefted the head, which fit easily into his palm. The duke’s thin mustache was frozen in a curl that might have been disdain or amusement. The half-giant was about to call for his foster mother to admire this trophy when he heard her dry cackle close behind him. He turned and offered the head, which she snatched up eagerly and mounted on the stick rattle—she must have been expecting this prize, for she had already discarded the skull she had carried since the sacking of Garnet.

  Still cackling, Laka shook the head on its stick. Ankhar watched, saw the green glow come into those eyes. He was not surprised when the jaw started to move, the words a croak and hiss.

  “Walls too tall and gates too thick,

  “Will break an army’s will,

  “Seek the softer target hence,

  “In greener pastures kill.”

  The half-giant looked toward the stout, tall walls of Solanthus. The city was still defended by many knights, he knew—and now there was little treasure and no lord, within those walls. Certainly an attack against that place would entail considerable risk, and ther
e was little to be gained by wasting his army.

  Nodding to himself, Ankhar made his decision.

  “Rib-Chewer!” He summoned his reliable goblin scout.

  “Yes, lord?”

  “We will leave Solanthus. Great treasure no longer here.”

  “What are your orders, lord?”

  “Riders charge walls—make great charge. Humans cower, scared of you and your wars. Rest of army march away.”

  “It shall be as you command, lord. What, then, after the army has marched away?”

  “You follow me. We go to Thelgaard. Remember: Est Sudanus oth Nikkas.”

  “Aye, lord,” said the goblin with a cackling laugh. “Your power is your Truth!”

  “Guards! Come quickly!” shrieked Duke Crawford, bursting from his bedroom wearing only his dressing gown. Dawn was a pale fluff in the eastern sky. Most of the castle was dark and quiet.

  “Help!”

  Immediately, Sir Marckus, who was rarely far from his master’s side, burst into the ducal apartments. “What is it, my lord?” demanded the knight captain, his eyes widening as he saw the blood on Crawford’s garments. “Are you hurt?”

  “Not me!” cried the duke, “but the Assassin was here—Lady Martha has been slain!”

  Marckus went into the sleeping chamber, his sword in his hand. His eyes widened in horror at the sight of the duchess, her throat slit, lying in bed and staring sightlessly at the ceiling. Her face was locked in a death-mask of shock.

  The captain turned around, once again regarding the blood-spattered duke. “Tell me, what happened, lord?” he asked soberly. “When was she killed?”

  “Moments ago, I should think,” the duke said. “I was strolling on the balcony, taking the morning sun. I went over to the main keep, and that’s when the wretched villain must have acted. I returned to see someone in a black cloak running along the parapet, in the other direction. He had a sword in his hand—a sword that was burning with blue flames! It can only have been the Assassin!”

  “What is it?” Captain Reynaud, buckling on his sword, came charging in. “What happened?”

  The duke repeated his story, his voice growing more steady as he recited the same horrifying tale.

  “Oh, Marckus—Reynaud! It’s too horrible!”

  “Indeed, lord, quite tragic and shocking. Won’t you have a seat?” The senior captain ushered his lord to one of the padded chairs in the royal anteroom. Other guards, drawn by the commotion, came in now, and Marckus sent one of them to get some wine for the duke. Reynaud organized a search, dispatching knights in teams of two to comb the castle, the nearby passages, the courtyards, and even niches in the moats below.

  Others were sent to search the surrounding streets, the buildings and temples nearby, all told to seek a man with a large sword wearing a black cloak. Marckus pressed the duke for more details, but Crawford admitted he hadn’t even seen enough to be certain even that the killer was male, not female. Only one thing was he sure of: The sword had burned with an enchanted blue flame.

  Servants helped the duke change from his bloody garments. Others carefully wrapped the body of the duchess, and hauled the corpse away with as much dignity as they could muster.

  In the midst of al this activity Marckus stood at the doorway to the balcony. His eyes roamed along the clean flagstones, seeking some trace of blood, but there was nothing, no signs or clues. Nor did there seem to be any singeing or charring, not even on the bedding where Lady Martha had been struck by the burning blade.

  Instead, the captain found his eyes drawn back to his master. The duke, taking a sip of wine, seemed calmer now.

  Indeed, he almost looked pleased about something.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  THELGAARD UNCLOTHED

  Thelgaard—the duke himself and his army was hard pressed. That much was obvious to Jaymes immediately as he released the ring of teleportation for the last time. He had brought himself to one of the high ramparts of the castle that rose in the heart of that once-thriving city. He found himself alone upon the dark wall and could spot no guards on any of the adjacent ramparts. There were no weapons stockpiles, nor watchfires set—in short, nothing indicated this ancient fortress was ready for war.

  Yet war was coming to Thelgaard.

  It was night, and the swordsman could see thousands of campfires spread nearby across the plains. Ankhar’s army had come and laid siege to the duke’s city. When Jaymes considered the size of the enemy force he had seen at Mason’s Ford, he realized the horde had grown considerably, tripling in size since that battle four months earlier. Now the army’s fires were like a thousand constellations across the plains, tiny starlike specks flickering in the blackness of the night.

  In contrast, the city seemed bleak and deserted. The city gates along the King’s Road leading out of the city were shut, but at first glance Jaymes couldn’t spot any guards. As he looked more carefully, he saw a half dozen men slouched in the shadows on the parapets, hardly enough to demonstrate a defense, let alone stop a determined attack. They looked more like stealthy bandits or starving beggars than bold knights in the service of an ancient order.

  Across the sprawl of the city a few chimneys emitted puffs of smoke, but the narrow and winding streets of Thelgaard were quiet. A few people scuttled quickly from one place to the next, but there was no raucous activity, no inns doing bustling business, no merchants or craftsmen laboring late into the night.

  No streetlights burned, either. Jaymes wondered, at first, if this was because the oil was being conserved for battle, but even on the ramparts, the platforms where catapults and ballistae should have been positioned were bare. Nor did he see any cauldrons filled with oil and left to heat in preparation for a battle.

  A door opened a few dozen paces away from him, and Jaymes shrank into the shadows of the crenellated battlement as a pair of watchmen emerged from a darkened tower. Both were speaking in hushed whispers, staring at the enemy camp. Jaymes remained silent as the two men peered at the enemy horde, whispering.

  They were walking in his direction along the battlement, and soon he could make out a few of their words.

  “Died in her sleep, they say … old woman … surprised she hung on this long.”

  “Duke is heartbroken … hasn’t been the same since the Crossings Battle … do you think he’ll fight stoutly?”

  “Who knows?”

  The guards paused a half dozen steps away from Jaymes, one lighting a pipe while the other took a drink from a small flask. Their attention remained on the vast army spread out on the plains.

  Sticking to the shadows, he slipped away from the guards, and quickly came to a stairway that led down into the interior courtyards. He had the sword of Lorimar strapped to his belt now and guessed that if he walked about normally he might be mistaken for someone who belonged here. This theory was put to the test immediately as at the base of the steps he came upon several scullery maids carrying buckets of water to the kitchen.

  “Beg your pardon, Sir Knight,” said one of them as the maids quickly bowed and stepped out of his way. He nodded as he passed, suppressing a amused smile—he wore no uniform armor, no knightly insignia, and yet they still assumed he was one of the fighters in their duke’s employ. Perhaps they were grateful for every able-bodied man in the city and weren’t about to quibble.

  He made his way past a sprawling barracks that seemed abandoned. The doors stood open, revealing an empty common room. Jaymes remembered places like this—always centers of gambling and music and merriment when a company of soldiers was in residence. Now, the barracks looked forlorn.

  Strange, thought Jaymes, it is almost as if the duke has surrendered without a hope.

  Nearby was a stable, the doors standing open, not a horse to be seen. He remembered the stories of Thelgaard’s defeat on the bank of the Vingaard north of here and wondered if it was true that most of the duke’s men had been lost. Certainly that could explain the lack of catapults and other war machines. If the
duke’s army had been routed, they would have had to leave all of their heavy equipment behind. Horses, too, would have been trapped against the river, most likely captured or drowned.

  Making his way to the castle chapel, he shrugged away the inconsistencies. Aside from the fact there seemed to be few guards about, and therefore fewer obstacles to his mission on this night, it didn’t matter to him whether the knights were busy drinking in the city’s beer halls, had fled the impending battle, or had indeed been badly decimated in their initial conflict with the horde of Ankhar.

  Jaymes found the chapel and entered the sanctuary through the massive wooden doors, which were unlocked. This temple, like so many in Solamnia, was dedicated to Shinare, mistress of the Scales. Several priests were busy counting coins, stacking them on the large golden scale that was the symbol of their mistress. One glanced at Jaymes as he walked in but offered neither greeting nor objection as he passed through another door and found himself in a hallway connecting the temple to the great hall of the keep.

  Only then, when he reached a pair of tall, arched doors that led into a cavernous chamber, did he finally encounter a sentry who appeared to take his duties seriously. The man held a spear across his chest and blocked the door as Jaymes approached.

  “His Excellency the duke is in council with Captain Dayr and his officers,” declared the guard. “You cannot enter.”

  “His Excellency will want to hear from me—I bring word of developments in the enemy camp,” Jaymes reported, standing at ease.

  The sentry, a young knight—his mustache, which valiantly tried to emulate the long handlebar shape of a veteran’s, was a wispy thing of straggling hairs—scowled as he digested Jayme’s words. He clearly had his orders, but after all how could this lone man inside the very walls of Thelgaard Keep possibly be a threat?