Lord of the Rose

by Doug Niles

  “Why don’t you ask him yourself?” the warrior encouraged.

  Nodding, as if that had been his intention all along, the young knight turned, knocked once at the great door, and pulled it open. “I apologize for the interruption, my lord. There is a knight here who claims to have brought information on developments within the enemy camp.”

  “Send him in!” ordered Thelgaard, the words booming from his massive barrel chest. Jaymes strode past the guard and advanced across the great hall. Despite the warmth of the night, a great fire blazed on the hearth, as if the duke needed some tangible evidence of life and vitality within his tomblike fortress. Thelgaard was huddled with four other men, all Knights of the Crown, examining a map that had been spread out on the table nearest the fire. The duke was the largest man in the room, looming over his soldiers. Indeed, thought Jaymes, the man was bulky to the point of fat.

  “What is your name, Sir Knight?” asked the duke, frowning as he studied the advancing warrior. “I do not recognize you.”

  “Perhaps my sword will serve as a reminder,” Jaymes said casually, drawing his weapon with a smooth gesture. “You must have seen it before, in Lord Lorimar’s house!” he declared, as blue flames burst from the gleaming steel blade.

  “By Joli—it is the Assassin!” gasped the duke, taking several steps backward. “Stop him! Kill him!” he cried.

  Jaymes heard a rush of sound from behind. He whirled and slashed, cutting in two the spear held by the young guard who was charging to his master’s aid. With a lunge and a stab, the warrior drove the man back through the door, knocking him onto his back in the hallway. Quickly Jaymes stepped back inside and pushed that massive portal shut. With one hand he dropped the heavy latch into place. He heard the guard calling for help, pounding on the stout barrier, but there was no immediate threat from that quarter.

  By then the four captains with the duke had drawn their own swords. Protecting their lord, who shrank behind them, they fanned out and approached Jaymes with varying degrees of aggressiveness. One, a dashing knight with red hair and tiny, glittering eyes, was careless enough to rush ahead of his fellows. It was the last mistake he ever made—the Sword of Lorimar eviscerated him with one swipe. His scream died and he flopped face forward in the puddle of his own gore.

  The other three knights, all seasoned combatants, advanced in unison, forcing Jaymes back to the door. He parried a blow from the left, a stab from the right, a slash from the middle. Smoke swirled around him as the legendary sword slashed through the air. The scent of ozone lingered in the air, bittersweet in his nostrils, and the blue flames trembled as though eager for blood.

  “Dayr—kill him!” cried the duke.

  The officer in the middle, who was trying to do just that, snapped through clenched teeth, “Yes, my lord!” Dayr was thickly bearded, short but nimble. He charged Jaymes, who parried his thrusts with several savage blows of Giantsmiter. Dayr’s two comrades hesitated. With several blocks and a counterattack, the warrior seized the initiative, driving all three Crown knights back.

  The men were deft, however, dodging his deadly blade—until Jaymes sidestepped. A backhand cut sliced right through the blade of the nearest captain, and a twisting forehand blow gashed the man’s forearm. Dropping the hilt of his sword, gasping in pain, the wounded knight sank to his knees, moaning.

  Dayr and the other one angled away from the determined Jaymes. They stayed close together until they came up against a heavy banquet table. With a brazen rush, Jaymes drove his weapon against both their swords, shattering the blades and knocking the men to the floor. They glared up at him as he raised his sword.

  “Take your companion!” Jaymes snapped, gesturing with his head toward the man with the wounded arm. “Leave here—now! I intend to have a private conference with your duke.”

  “No—don’t leave me with him!” cried Thelgaard, aghast.

  Unable to challenge Giantsmiter, the two officers, averting their eyes from their pleading lord, helped their wounded comrade to his feet, and bore him to the great doors. Jaymes followed, pushing them out then latching the door tightly again.

  The warrior closed in on the duke, who stumbled backward until he was almost crouching in the fireplace. “Please—don’t kill me!” he begged, dropping to his knees.

  The warrior squeezed the hilt of the sword, waiting until the flames died away. “I could kill you,” he said calmly. “Just like that.” He brought the blade down upon a nearby bench, splintering the heavy oak planks. Kicking the shards of wood aside he stood over the blubbering Thelgaard.

  “I know!” cried the duke. “Please—don’t!”

  “I’ll spare you if you tell me the truth,” Jaymes said, his voice low and level.

  “I will—ask me anything!”

  “Where are the green diamonds and the Compact of Freedom?” the warrior demanded, holding the tip of his mighty weapon close to the huge duke. “Where did you hide them?”

  The look of utter confusion on Thelgaard’s face was almost convincing. Tears welled in his eyes, and he shook his head wildly. “I know of no such diamonds!” he gasped, his voice a craven whisper. “I haven’t seen the Compact since I signed it—two years ago! Please—I swear, I am telling you the truth!”

  The warrior smashed the sword again into the stout table, hacking off the end of it. “Your wife, the duchess, just passed away mysteriously, didn’t she?” he said coldly, taking a step closer.

  Thelgaard, for a moment, seemed to recover his composure. He stopped his wailing and looked at the Assassin with an expression of genuine grief. “I loved my dear wife, as is well known,” the duke said. “She perished in her sleep last night—Joli was merciful to spare her the sight of her city’s fall.”

  “I don’t care about your city. I care about those green diamonds and that Compact. And about the men who took them when they killed Lord Lorimar. The men you sent to kill him,” Jaymes said.

  “No! That’s a lie!” blubbered the huge duke.

  Jaymes lifted Giantsmiter threateningly. “Tell me what you did with the stones and why you ordered Lorimar killed!”

  “I don’t know anything about green diamonds—I’ve never seen them. And I don’t know why Lorimar was murdered! By Joli, I thought you killed him! That’s the truth!”

  “Liar!” spat the swordsman. “Tell me! Those were your men who killed Lorimar, weren’t they? Did you send the badgeless knights to Lord Lorimar’s house, to steal the document, and the gemstones?”

  “No!” cried Thelgaard. “I swear it upon a thousand gods!”

  “The truth!” snarled Jaymes, bringing the blade down on the floor, shattering the flagstones in front of the cringing, kneeling duke.

  That sudden violence seemed to help Thelgaard recover some of his composure. Still on his knees, he drew his bulky body upward and glared at Jaymes. His expression was calm, even peaceful.

  “I swear upon upon the tomb of my wife that it wasn’t me.”

  Jaymes was taken back. He had expected the man to lie, was fully prepared to kill him, but all his instincts told him that the terrified lord was telling the truth.

  With a sudden retch, the duke toppled forward, vomiting violently, gasping and spewing until he was a sweating, shivering mess.

  Jaymes turned and left him like that, a broken lord, kneeling in his own spew.

  Lady Selinda found life in Palanthas as boring as ever. She spent a lot of time on the upper parapets of her father’s great palace, gazing at the mountains, the bay, the sky, and the clouds. Almost with fondness she thought of the desolate plains, the long ride that had brought her back home. No longer did she fear sea voyages—indeed, the notion of salt air and an ocean wind struck a romantic chord in her breast, as never it had done before.

  Her father was more irascible than ever. His fury at the escape of the Assassin had remained at a fever pitch, and neither Captain Powell nor the regent’s daughter had been inclined to seek his company. Even his treasure room didn’t seem to sooth
e him. He ordered shades pulled over all the great glass windows, so the Golden Spire no longer gleamed over Palanthas. He was far too unpleasant about the whole topic for his daughter even to think about asking him why he rarely visited that once favorite refuge.

  In her heart, she blamed the escape of Jaymes Markham for casting a vile spell on her father and the whole castle, and she knew that she had only herself to blame for that episode.

  It was early in the evening, and Selinda was looking forward unenthusiastically to dining alone, when she was startled by a knock on the door of her private chambers.

  “Who is it?” she asked.

  “The one called the White Witch,” came the answer.

  “Coryn!” Selinda threw open the door and embraced the enchantress, then quickly pulled her into the room and closed the door. “I have been hoping you would turn up sooner or later—though my father tells me you have been terribly busy this summer.”

  “So, I understand, have you,” said the black-haired wizard, looking at her.

  “Oh, Coryn—you know everything! So you know I captured the Assassin, and we were bringing him here, but he escaped.”

  “Yes, I know you’ve met him. I have too.” Coryn looked closely at the princess. “Do you really think he killed Dara and her father?”

  “He’s certainly capable of murder,” Selinda said, a little defensively. “He killed a brave knight of my escort, Sir Dupuy. Dragged him right over the edge of a cliff.”

  “Well, then you would be interested to know they claim he has struck again. Another murder.”

  “The Assassin has murdered someone else?” The princess felt a twinge of confusion and dismay. “Whom did he kill?”

  Coryn shrugged, strangely noncommittal. “I didn’t say he murdered someone. I said, people claim that he did.”

  “Who is claiming?” Selinda pressed? “Who was killed?”

  “The Duchess Martha of Caergoth. Duke Crawford claims that the Assassin, identified by his burning sword Giantsmiter, came into his chambers and struck down his wife in her bed.”

  “Lady Martha!” Selinda gasped. “But she was … harmless!” Only after a moment did she shake her head. “Wait, that doesn’t sound like him, not at all. He’s a dangerous killer, but why would he kill the wife of Duke Crawford? Was the duke hurt, also?”

  “Strangely enough, no,” answered the mage. “He was present and witnessed the killing, but the Assassin did him no harm.”

  “That makes no sense,” Selinda said.

  “No, it doesn’t,” Coryn agreed. “But that’s what they are claiming. They’re tearing about Caergoth in a frenzy, looking for him.”

  “It seems a bizarre mystery,” the princess admitted. “Why would the Assassin kill harmless Martha?”

  “Why, indeed,” Coryn said, turning to leave. “I wanted to warn you. Be careful.”

  “You too. Good bye,” said the noblewoman.

  It was only an hour after the white wizard had gone, that Selinda found Captain Powell at the waterfront. The Palanthian flagship, Pride of Paladine, was tied to the wharf and was being provisioned and made ready to sail. She told the veteran knight what Coryn had told her.

  “The duchess? Killed in her bed, in the palace?” Powell said, frowning.

  “The duke was there, but unhurt.”

  “It seems … it seems very unlikely indeed, my lady,” the captain observed cautiously.

  “I think so also. Too strange.” In that instant, Selinda made up her mind. “Captain. I have a mind to return to Caergoth. Leaving as soon as possible and going by ship. Will you accompany me?”

  “My lady princess, I would be delighted.”

  “Good. I’ll tell my father.” She realized as she said it that she meant tell, not ask. It was a good feeling. “We can sail on the morning tide.”

  Ankhar raised the mighty spear over his head. The green tip glowed ever more brightly, despite the sun that was just beginning to poke above the eastern horizon, casting the tall keep of Thelgaard into long shadows across the plain. The horde covered a vast ring of plains, the landscape dark with their numbers.

  All awaited his command.

  He knew that much of the population of the city had fled even before his army had arrived on the scene. Long files of refugees made their way south, toward Caergoth, and Ankhar had let them go—he and his army no longer killed for killing’s sake.

  Now the half-giant stood for a long while and admired the ranks of horses and wolves and their riders, of broad-backed ogres and wing-stiff draconians, the legions of gobs and hobs extending to the far horizon in orderly lines. It was dawn, and the light of the sun glinted on the brass roof of the keep.

  “Charge!” cried the Ankhar. His ordinary shout was loud as thunder, but the power of the Prince of Lies amplified its volume. As the green light pulsed from the spearhead in his hand, the commander’s words were not just heard by every single one of his soldiers, no matter how far away they stood—each word was felt as a visceral impulse to work the will of their leader and his god.

  The goblins surged toward the low walls of Thelgaard. Archers filled the sky with arrows that rained down upon the few men who dared to defend the city. Ogres marched forward to the beat of heavy drums that echoed through the ground and the city walls. Teams of humans rushed to the walls, scrambling up crude ladders. Brandishing swords, they swept along the battlements and dropped down the inside walls to spread out through the tangled slums.

  The brigade of ogres from Lemish carried a heavy trunk as a ram and battered down the weakly manned city gates. Thousands of attackers followed them, swarming into the main avenues. Draconians scrambled up the walls and launched themselves from the heights, gliding on their wings to outflank the small bands of defenders who tried to make valiant stands.

  Hoarst and the other two Thorn Knight spellcasters concentrated on the army barracks and armory, igniting the wooden structures with fireballs, blasting with lightning and ice the panicked soldiers who stampeded for safety. The killing would have been greater except Thelgaard’s army was so depleted that the strongholds were already largely abandoned.

  Gobs and hobs and all the other invaders rushed through the streets of Thelgaard, right up to the great keep, the castle that had stood for more than a thousand years. Its walls were high, but flying draconians seized key towers, quickly dropping ropes to their comrades swarming through the moats. Within an hour the curtain wall had been cleared, and the attack swept through the courtyards, penetrating into each barracks and stable, every corner.

  The army of Ankhar was an unstoppable tide. They plundered and killed, burned and looted. Pockets of knights fought to the death, while those citizens who had lingered tried to escape and mostly died. Fierce battles raged here and there, while other parts of the city, bereft of defenders, were, gleefully looted.

  Finally the attackers arrived at the great hall of Thelgaard Keep. Here the mass halted, parting ranks so that the commander could have the honor of the ultimate moment. Ankhar strode forward, stopping before the stout entry to the keep.

  “Est Sudanus oth Nikkas!” he roared.

  The half-giant bashed open the doors to the hall with one mighty blow of his own fist. He charged in with his gleaming green spearhead poised, ready to drive death through the heart of the lord.

  The Duke of Thelgaard was already dead, the blood still draining from the cuts he had made on his own wrists.

  Captain Dayr looked back at Thelgaard Keep. The invaders had claimed the entire city in a few hours of savage assualt. Dayr and two score men had held out in the west gatehouse for a full day, watching as the rest of the city was overrun. The attackers had taunted them with word of the duke’s suicide, but the forty men in the gatehouse—all knights—had inflicted grievous losses at the cost of only two dead.

  Finally, as night had fallen, Dayr led the group on a bold escape. They seized horses from a corral outside the walls and rode bareback onto the plains. Some of the worgs and riders gave chas
e, but they were exhausted from the day of battle while the knights’ horses were fresh. The knights had soon left their pursuers behind.

  “Est Sularus oth Mithas,” Dayr murmured, seeing the banner of the Crown torn down from the castle’s highest tower.

  His honor was his life, but that honor did not require him to die, not in the service of a lord who lacked even the spirit to wield a weapon in his own defense. Dayr thought bitterly of all the men who had died in the Battle of the Crossings and here because of the ignobility of the Duke of Thelgaard. The captain himself had ordered men to their death based on his master’s foolish commands. It was a mistake that Dayr vowed never to repeat.

  Sometimes honor required that a fighting man retreat so that he could live to fight another day.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  THE IMMACULATE ARMY

  Early on a cool autumn morning the whole city of Caergoth was astir. Although most of the duke’s great army remained in the field, camped just south of the Garnet River, Duke Crawford had kept his personal guard, nearly a thousand knights, with him in the city. For a week those knights, and every courtier, noble, and priest had been involved with the pageantry attending the Duchess Martha’s funeral.

  The duke, in fact, was rather taken aback at the evidence of his late wife’s popularity. For all her simplicity and faults, she apparently had struck a chord with the common people of Caergoth, who demonstrated their genuine grief. Patriarch Issel had delivered a stirring eulogy, and six of his stout clerics had borne her casket to the royal vaults, in the catacombs of Temple of Shinare below the city.

  Now, at last, the funeral was over. Knights and squires bustled to prepare for an expedition. Wagons filled with freight lumbered through the streets, starting for the camp of the army some thirty miles away. Great herds of fresh horses to replace battlefield losses and cattle to feed the hungry troops were driven eastward through the city gates and out across the plains.