Lord of the Rose

by Doug Niles

  Finally, after an interval for one last civilized breakfast, it was time for the duke himself to depart. The thousand knights of his personal guard would escort him into the field, where he would take command of the larger force. The companies of the Ducal Guard were organized by the colors of their mounts. First came the blacks, then the chestnuts, followed by the grays, and finally the whites. Each rider was clad in gleaming armor, the silver outline of the rose visible upon every breastplate. The horses trotted in formation, as precisely as if they were leading a coronation parade. They proceeded out of the gates of Caergoth in ranks of four, proudly leading down the long, swept pavement of the King’s Road.

  The duke himself rode in a carriage, with Sir Marckus and Sir Reynaud on their chargers beside the open vehicle. The lord accepted the cheers of his adoring populace as he rode through the streets and out the gates, enjoying the accolades so much that it seemed considerably dull once they left the city and were left merely trundling along the road—good, paved highway though it was.

  Because of that road they made very good time, and in two days they rode all the way to the crossing of the Garnet River. Here the army was camped beside one of the engineering wonders of the Solamnic Realm: the King’s Bridge. The span of white marble had stood for hundreds of years, since long before the Cataclysm. Indeed, it had been erected by dwarven masons under the auspices of Istar’s Kingpriest and had once been called the Kingpriest’s Bridge. After the fall of that great city and the convulsions of the Age of Despair, the people of Solamnia had chosen the shorter appellation.

  Lord Lorimar had erected his manor in the shadow of this bridge on the north bank of the great river, and the ruins of that once-splendid house could be glimpsed from the crossing. The duke felt his eyes drawn to the charred site, even as he shuddered in horror. Dara Lorimar had been such a beautiful woman … what a shame she had to die that way.

  More relevant to Crawford’s immediate future—and a relief to his distracted mind—was the spectacle of the great army, more than ten thousand men encamped along the south bank. The men exploded with cheers as their lord rolled through the vast tent city.

  The next day the duke led his entire army across the bridge, which was nearly a quarter mile long. At the north end, where the road started across the vast plain, he climbed one of the two watchtowers, and relished the sight of his great army flowing over the gleaming span, and forming into neatly organized columns on the north side of the river.

  The Garnet River was not as great a waterway as the mighty Vingaard, which lay to the north and drained the vast swath of the plains through the port of Kalaman into the northern ocean. But the Garnet was still deep and fast-moving and bore snowmelt and rainwater from the mountains of the same name through the fertile bottomlands of Caergoth into the Strait of Ergoth. Marshy banks kept the troops away from the river’s edge. Like the road itself, the bridge was paved in granite slabs, and stood as proof of the greatness of the Solamnics.

  First across were the knights of the Ducal Guard on their uniformly colored horses. Next came the ranks of pikemen marching in crisp formation, the silver tips of their tall weapons glimmering like a field of diamonds. This column alone stretched more than a mile long. The pikemen were followed by legions of men armed with sword and shield, with more long ranks of those carrying crossbows. Finally the catapults and ballistae rumbled along, the great war machines pulled by straining oxen—even those ponderous beasts had been combed and brushed to a sheen, their tack polished and buckles shined to a dazzling brilliance.

  Duke Crawford stood atop the bridge tower and watched the mighty column as it marched past. He allowed himself a moment of pride, reflecting that no force on all of Krynn could stand against his multitude on the battlefield. His captains saluted him, their horses prancing with heads held high. Trumpeters brayed, and festive banners and pennants snapped in the breeze.

  In all, the column was more than ten miles long, each detachment formed of men loyal to him, sworn to the Oath and the Measure. They had come from Sancrist, Sanction, and Palanthas, from even farther outposts across the continent of Ansalon, but they would obey his orders alone. Every polished piece of equipment, each steel blade and razor-edged arrowhead, had been provided for such cause as he deemed right and proper. His great power almost made him swoon in his saddle.

  “Why the glum face?” the duke asked Captain Marckus, who stood in the position of top honor on Crawford’s right. “Does it not look like a splendid army?”

  “Aye, lord. There is no more splendid looking army. Please forgive my melancholy—I was but reflecting that the late duchess would have been delighted by the pageantry.”

  “Ah, yes, the Lady Martha was always one to relish a display,” the duke allowed, grimacing. Marckus was always reminding him of the last thing he wanted to remember. As a practical man, he had come to see the death of his wife—distasteful as the whole affair had been—as a blessing. Now he was free to seek a truly worthy wife!

  His mind wandered to the Princess Selinda. He recalled the golden sheen of her hair, the breathtaking swell of her breasts beneath her velvet gown. Now that was a woman who would make a proper wife! Not only that—by virtue of her own rank, she could raise a duke to the status of a king. The duke imagined Selinda’s certain delight when he communicated to her, hopefully in person, news of the great victory he was about to win. He wished she could be there to welcome him when he returned, victorious, from the field of battle—what a perfect moment!

  Now, as the duke stood on the tower and watched, it took more than three hours for his army to make the crossing. In fact, he stepped back from the brink several times for refreshment, and once even enjoyed a short nap under the shade of a hand-held awning. When he awoke, his troops were still marching past! They gave a hearty cheer as he again appeared at the battlement and offered them an encouraging wave.

  Impatient at last, he climbed down the many steps from the tower, mounted his charger, and started to ride away. He passed uncomfortably close to the ruined manor of Lord Lorimar—the blackened, burned structure seemed to stare ominously at him. He spurred his horse forward, cantered along the side of the great column as it advanced northward. He knew that he cut a dashing figure as he rode his stallion, trailed by a dozen or so men of his entourage.

  Caergoth was going to war! He felt a twinge of nervousness, suddenly conscious that this was real war. The news from the east was dire. The horde of Ankhar had sacked Thelgaard. Solanthus was isolated, the duke slain. Crown and Sword had been humbled by a mere barbarian chieftain. It was time for the Knights of the Rose to set matters right. The Lord of that order, Duke Crawford of Caergoth, was just the man to command the forces of good.

  The excitement of the march diminished considerably in the following days as they steadily moved northward along the road. One the second day the Garnet Mountains rose into view on the eastern horizon, but the force passed only within a dozen miles of the outlying foothills.

  The great body of the infantry, the foot soldiers who were the backbone of this and every other army, plodded along stolidly in the center of the great formation. The individual units were spread out in a fan-like pattern so they could respond to a threat from either flank. A strong screen of heavy cavalry brought up the rear. The baggage train and war machines were in the middle of the infantry columns, securely protected against threat from any side.

  Caergoth’s outriders, his light cavalry, swept the plains ahead of his army. Soon reports began to arrive, and they were exactly as the duke had anticipated: The horde of Ankhar was heading south to meet them. The enemy, too, was closing his ranks, massing his great army into a single phalanx.

  The army of Caergoth slowed as it continued north. No longer was the army spread along a ten-mile stretch of the road. Now they marched in block formations, covering a half-mile frontage. Only a small portion of the army could actually use the paved roadway. At least the catapults and other war machines, as well as the wagon trains hauling su
pplies, ammunition, and everything from portable smithies to huge stocks of coal, could still roll along the highway dating back to the days of the Empire.

  It was when they passed the border of Southlund that they began to smell the nearby Garnet Mountains. The ruin of the city of Garnet, scene of Ankhar’s first conquest, appeared like a blackened scar, and the troops grew quiet, deadly serious, as they marched past. It was only a few miles north of the devastated fortress-city and a similar distance west of the mountains that they finally got scouting reports of the army of Ankhar.

  The outriders rode as close as they could, though they were driven back by sweeping charges of goblins on their worg mounts. The light cavalry of the knights exchanged battle with these lupine riders in a number of sharp skirmishes, with neither side prevailing. The duke knew his horsemen were feeling the size of the enemy, gathering information on its dispositions, its line of march, and its order of battle.

  There were whole regiments of battle-hardened hobgoblins, huge swaths of ground covered by the winged draconians, and more and more goblins spilling down from the mountains.

  Finally the duke called a halt. His army camped in a broad front, all units facing the north. The catapults and ballistae were positioned among the infantry, with archers dispersed along the great line. Crawford ordered his men to dig a deep, steep-walled trench more than three miles long that would defend the northern edge of his position. This ditch was lined with spiked poles, while the artillery captains drilled the catapults, studying the ranges on the field, even going so far as to stake out distance markers so that, when the enemy attacked, they would be able to shoot accurately.

  The wooded slopes of the Garnet foothills anchored the right side of the line, while the vast left, where the plains allowed maneuvering room, was protected by more than a thousand knights on horseback.

  A mile to the north, the barbaric warriors of Ankhar made their own camp, and the two armies spent an uneasy night staring across the gap at each others’ campfires, and wondering if the morning would bring a dawn of bloodshed and death, or victory.

  Jaymes traveled south from Thelgaard, avoiding the patrols of goblins and draconions that roamed everywhere. He wended his way through the separated camps of Ankhar’s army. The next morning he saw the black ranks surge forward and knew the city would fall under the onslaught of Ankhar’s army.

  He was unpleasantly surprised by how quickly that army moved southward after their victory. He had taken it as a matter of certainty that such a makeshift force would stay many days to plunder and pillage Thelgaard. Instead, their leader propelled them on the move again, the day after the battle.

  Meanwhile, Jaymes was forced to enter the Garnet foothills for cover. He was able to slip through the forests without being detected, but the going was much slower than if he had remained on the flatlands. He followed the roughest terrain he could find, scaling rocky bluffs, plunging through tangled ravines.

  Approaching the ruins of Garnet, he crossed over a ridge and caught the first glimpses of outriders—silver knights with pennants and fast horses—and knew the duke of Caergoth had brought his army into the field. Patrols from both side were sweeping into the Garnet valleys, so Jaymes found a tall hilltop, with sides too steep for horses or wolves, and climbed to the top. He looked out over the plain and saw the two great forces assembled, facing each other.

  With the Sword of Lorimar over his lap and his back resting against a sun-warmed stone, Jaymes settled down to watch.

  Selinda sailed to Caergoth in the same stout galleon, the Pride of Paladine, which had carried her to Duke Crawford’s fortress earlier in the year. The spring excursion had been so balmy and peaceful it was almost boring. Now, in the autumn, great gray mountains of water loomed on all sides, and the ship pitched and rolled violently through the whole of the ten-day voyage. When at last they arrived in the port of Caergoth, she was bedraggled, sick to her stomach, and anxious to regain her footing on solid land.

  Although once again the city guard came out to salute her, the city some offered some contrast to her previous visit. Captain Powell, riding at her side, was the first to remark upon it.

  “The place looks empty,” he said, approvingly. “All the troops must be in the field.”

  “At last,” Selinda agreed, knowing how reluctant Duke Crawford had been to send his men to war—even when they were so sorely needed to defend the realm. “There’s something more to the odd quiet, I gather … the place is still in mourning.”

  They heard tales of the murder from the servants, as they were shown to their sumptuous guest quarters. Powell talked to the few knights, old or disabled, who had remained in their barracks as the bulk of the army went to war. Selinda chatted with several ladies of the court. They compared the versions they heard from various parties of what happened: the Assassin had struck in the early morning, slaying the duchess and leaving the duke alive.

  Selinda still felt a personal responsibility for every crime that villain committed, but she had a hard time seeing Jaymes Markham as the perpetrator of this senseless crime.

  Captain Powell voiced the same doubts when the two met for a quiet dinner.

  “It stinks. There’s not a bit of logic to the story,” he said to the Princess of Palanthas. “Why would he break into a castle to slay a helpless silly fool of a duchess—begging your lady’s pardon, of course.”

  “That’s quite all right,” Selinda replied. “Why, indeed?”

  The more she thought about the man she had met, the man she helped to capture, and the man who had escaped from her party of knights, the more she shared Powell’s view: Such a man had no motive or cause to kill a hapless innocent like the Duchess of Caergoth.

  Her suspicions, growing to a certainty as she tossed in bed that night, made her sleep as fitful as during her turbulent voyage.

  It was early evening as Coryn the White stalked through the camp of Caergoth’s army, seeking the command tent. The knights she encountered bowed or salute, but all looked at her fearfully after she passed. She knew they called her the White Witch behind her back, and for now she was content to know she provoked their fears.

  She found the duke before his tent, enjoying a savory steak served on rare and delicate china. He was dining with a half dozen of his currently favored officers. Several bottles of wine—an excellent vintage from Qualinesti, she noted idly—stood on the table.

  “My lord duke,” she said, ignoring the cross look upon Caergoth’s face as he greeted her. “I am pleased to find you here.”

  “Of course, a visit from the Lady Coryn is always a welcome diversion,” he said warily. “Please, will you join us for the meal?”

  “Thank you, but I cannot,” she replied, half-smiling at the look of relief that passed across his features. Indeed, the thought of dining with this pompous peacock was enough to put her off her appetite.

  “I have been observing the camp of the enemy,” she said. “I believe they are preparing to move north, perhaps as soon as tomorrow. Some of the northernmost units have already extinguished their fires and seem to be readying for a fast march.”

  “Ah!” crowed the duke, gesturing to his men. “It is as we suspected—the wretches have no stomach for a fight with a real army!”

  “Perhaps,” Coryn acknowledged. “Though I have seen no signs of fear or disquiet in the enemy camp.”

  “But you just said—”

  “I said they were preparing to move. I said nothing about retreat. I suspect Ankhar intends further maneuvering—after all, anyone can see it would be foolish to attack you here, behind the great ditch you have created as a barrier, with all your ballistae and catapults safely sited on one side of the ditch, aimed across the plain. One thing this Ankhar has shown, my lord duke, is that he is not a dolt.”

  “What are you suggesting?” pressed Caergoth.

  “Simply that if you know they are on the move you might consider attacking in the morning and catch the enemy unawares as they prepare to march. Com
e out of your entrenchments, and attack at once! If you act quickly—strike by dawn, you might seize an opportunity.”

  “Attack?” The duke looked at her as though she were mad. She showed no emotion, though his response made her heart fall. “We are solidly entrenched here! No, my fortifications are good, my deployments cautious. My lady Coryn, we intend to stand as a wall here and let the enemy break himself upon our rock-hard surface!”

  A chorus of assenting ayes rose from his captains, though one knight—Coryn recognized him as Sir Marckus—stared down at his plate, obviously troubled.

  “And what if he is marching away?” The duke posed the question, rhetorically. He was obviously thinking aloud. “Then it is my opinion that he has chosen to fall back. Therefore, he is as good as beaten!”

  “My lord duke—that is not the case! He marches for some mysterious purpose. If he slips away, he will fight elsewhere.”

  “Ah, but my lady Coryn, you are not a tactician. He has obviously had a good look at my army and does not like what he sees! I appreciate your advice, as always, but urge you to study military strategy in your spare time. This discussion is concluded. Now, if you cannot join us for dinner, please allow me to enjoy my food while it is still at least a bit warm.”

  In the morning, the vast army of Caergoth watched from its camp as the enemy army turned its back on them and marched away. Coryn didn’t see this—she was already gone.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  SHATTERED RANKS

  Jaymes stayed in his hilltop position until full darkness had descended. He watched Ankhar’s formations begin to break camp at sunset, companies starting to slip away to the north or move into the Garnet foothills. The first of the horde’s detachments to leave were those to the rear, so unless the duke had observers posted high in the hills—and Jaymes knew he did not—Caergoth would never guess his enemy’s slow, methodical withdrawal.