Measure and the Truth

by Doug Niles

  “You two will wait here,” Ankhar told Laka and Pond-Lily seriously. “I send for you when fight is over.”

  Pond-Lily nodded vacantly, staring at him with the limpid puddles of her small, deep-set eyes. Even Laka, to the half-giant’s mild surprise, accepted her role of waiting, perhaps understanding that she was no longer capable of keeping up with a night-long march.

  Darkness was complete a few hours later, and Ankhar led the great column, thousands of ogres marching on foot, between two of the border outposts, the forts with the towers and horsemen that could be seen from the woods and were spaced about every five miles along the line. Moving quietly, with many whispered admonitions to avoid making any noise, the band somehow escaped notice as it swept toward the great garrison camp, the place where the real defensive force awaited, all unaware.

  Dawn turned the eastern sky blue as the ogres came into sight of the vast wall around the fortified camp. Made from sharpened birch stakes driven into the ground to form a palisade, the barrier would have been a formidable obstacle to goblins, hobgoblins, even some ogres. But Ankhar had taken note of the weaponry preferred by Heart Eater’s warriors, and his plan was shrewd.

  “You lead the way,” he said to the strapping bull. “Use your axes and break down wall—make many holes. The rest of us come after you, charge through holes, and kill the knights.”

  Naturally, Bullhorn raised some objections—“Why Heart Eater go first?”—but was mollified by the argument that the axe-wielders had a special job in the attack. Guilder, concealed by a spell of invisibility, quickly ventured out for a look and was pleased to report the vast horse corrals on the north side of the camp were very lightly guarded.

  “We can stampede the herd,” he reported with confidence.

  The ground was still shrouded in shadow, though the sky grew steadily lighter as the ogres spread out into a line more than a mile long. There was as yet no sign that they had been noticed when, at Ankhar’s command, the monstrous warriors raised a great shout and charged forward en masse.

  Almost immediately a trumpet brayed within the Solamnic camp. Ankhar loped along in the front rank, and from within the palisade he heard orders shouted, cries of panic and alarm, and the frantic neighing of horses. All the while his ogres pounded closer, the ground trembling under their massive, lumbering weight. A few arrows arced from behind the palisade, many falling harmlessly to the ground, a few puncturing the flesh of the hulking attackers.

  But it took more than one lucky arrow hit to stop a massive ogre. The brutish warriors who were struck typically plucked the annoying missiles out of their hides and cast them away—the glancing wounds merely enhanced their fury, their determination to wreak terrible havoc. Tusks slick with drool gleamed in the eerie darkness. Eyes wild, throats hoarse, the horde swept closer.

  Soon the picket wall loomed before them, and Heart Eater’s axemen attacked with a vengeance, whipping their heavy, bladed weapons through roundhouse swings, right into the bases of the stout timbers. Several of the posts snapped free with the first blows, while others could withstand only two or three smashes before splintering.

  Looking up, Ankhar’s heart filled with pride as he saw the company of sivak draconians, some fifty strong, flying overhead, winging toward the great corrals.

  The attackers pressed forward, and the logs of the palisade toppled inward on the knights and infantrymen who were scrambling to the defense. Some men were crushed outright, while the rest were forced to back out of the way, beating a hasty retreat before the barrier collapsed on top of them. Bloodthirsty howls rang out along the whole mile of the front as ogres spilled into the breached camp and lay about with axes, clubs, swords, and spears.

  Ankhar’s army hit the fort like a wave, a tide surging against a picket fence, finding gaps in the barrier, crashing and seeping through. Like water, the warriors spilled through the gaps, widening them, dragging down more and more of the birch poles as the trickle became a flow and the flow became a flood.

  The half-giant yodeled a great battle cry, feeling a joy he had not known since his defeat in the foothills. This was the life! He thrust with his emerald-tipped spear, piercing a footman like a piece of meat on a spit. With the limp body still hanging from his mighty weapon, he smashed to the right and left, stabbing another swordsman, smashing the weapon—and arm bones—of a frantic archer. Blood ran down the shaft, slicking his hands, and he relished the moment.

  Finally he gave the spear a contemptuous flip, tossing the slain man from the end of his weapon, while he looked for his next victim. The ogres were roaring everywhere, smashing through the Solamnic camp. Their quickness belied their huge size as they rumbled through tents, kicking through cook fires and mess halls and canvas-sheltered armories where the knights’ weapons had been neatly stacked.

  Human warriors were still scrambling from their tents, strapping on breastplates, sometimes fighting without boots or helmets. Officers screamed and shouted, directing their troops this way and that in the face of howling, growling foes. Often the tents were cut down even before the men emerged, and the trapped humans flailed around under the smothering tarps while ogres gleefully danced across the heaving fabric, bashing it down any place where it moved.

  One knot of men fought in a little circle, shields raised and swords brandished as the attackers swirled around them. Bullhorn led a charge, crushing the captain of the company with a powerful downward smash of his club. The circle breached, every man fought for his own life as dozens of ogres pierced the formation. Any place a human looked, there was a deadly enemy, and in a few moments, the last of those brave men had been battered into a slain, bloody pulp.

  A trumpet brayed from the rear, and a column of horsemen bearing lances charged the ogre line. They were not many in number, but several of the brutish attackers went down, stabbed by the long spears rendered especially lethal by the driving power of the charging horses. Their armor was incomplete, but the knights wore breastplates and helmets, and their horses were saddled securely. Ankhar wasted no time wondering how they could have equipped themselves and counterattacked so quickly; instead, the half-giant bellowed furiously for a response from his followers.

  Ogres rushing behind him, he raised the glowing spear and charged at the leading horseman, a knight with a gray mustache and long, silvery hair. The man lowered his lance and urged his warhorse forward, and the half-giant halted. Bracing his feet and crouching, Ankhar bashed the long weapon out of the way. But the horse surprised him, lowering a shoulder and knocking him backward.

  The half-giant barely maintained his footing but recovered quickly, and the two combatants circled as the battle raged around them. Each held his long weapon with the deadly tip aimed at his opponent’s chest. Pacing sideways, Ankhar looked for an opening, while the knight rested in his saddle as if he were a part of the horse. His shield firmly held over his chest, the knight peered over the top of the metal barrier, keenly studying the half-giant’s maneuvers.

  Ankhar lunged, and the steed skipped sideways. Then it reared suddenly, flailing with its great hooves. When the half-giant charged, the horse veered again and the rider jabbed quickly with the lance. Once again, Ankhar parried with the Shaft of Hiddukel.

  With a sharp kick in his horse’s flanks, the knight suddenly attacked. The massive horse bared teeth like some kind of nightmare steed and rushed at Ankhar, intent on trampling him. The half-giant crouched, aiming his spear at the horse’s breast, but the man again used his lance to knock the great weapon, the Shaft of Hiddukel, out of the way. Ankhar tumbled into the dirt, rolling away from the charge, barely holding onto his precious spear.

  Springing to his feet with a growl, he sprinted after the horse as the steed pivoted and reared, those massive forehooves lashing at the half-giant’s face. He felt a glancing blow on his cheek and staggered back. Surprise gave way to rage, and he bored in, driving between the flailing hooves, sticking the spear right through the horse’s muscular chest. The mount reared back with an e
arsplitting shriek, toppling onto its side, fatally wounded.

  The knight tried to leap from the saddle as his horse went down, but his foot stuck in the stirrup. With a strangled curse, the man sprawled on the ground, his leg trapped under the thrashing, dying horse. Ankhar yanked on his mighty spear, but the Shaft of Hiddukel was stuck fast. Releasing the weapon, the half-giant hurled himself on the knight, bashing the lance out of the way, smashing a huge fist into the shield so hard that the man gasped and lay momentarily stunned. With one massive hand, Ankhar seized the stunned warrior by the neck and squeezed until he heard the snap of bone.

  Pushing himself to his feet, the half-giant took hold of his weapon with both hands. He put a massive, booted foot on the dying horse’s chest and pulled with all his vast strength. At last the weapon, the emerald head glowing all the brighter for its soaking in blood, burst free. Raising it over his head, Ankhar shook the weapon at the sky, howling like a maniac to celebrate his personal victory.

  Before him he saw a knot of fighting around the gate at the northern end of the great camp. Some of the sivaks had landed there, where they were fighting furiously, holding the passageway against knights who were trying to reach the horses. Quickly the half-giant rallied a hundred ogres and charged toward the draconians. Beyond the corrals, he saw a deluge of sparks and flames, sputtering lightning, and dramatic pyrotechnics. Guilder Aurak was there, casting spectacular—if relatively harmless—spells. The effect on the horses was the important thing, as more than a thousand of the normally steady mounts panicked and stampeded away from the battle, away from the camp, and away from the knights who depended on them for mobility and survival.

  When next he looked around, Ankhar saw that the last pockets of defense were being mopped up. Some ogres plundered the extensive food supplies piled behind the kitchen tents while others were hoisting grotesque trophies, including the severed heads of their enemies, and dancing about in triumph and glee.

  “Enough!” roared the half-giant in a voice that rumbled even over the celebratory chaos. “We feast later. Remember those forts! Now is the time to go back … and to kill them all!”

  With howls of anticipation, the ogres responded to his command. Ankhar himself would remain in the conquered camp—he made sure that a message was conveyed to Pond-Lily and Laka, inviting them to join him in his luxurious surroundings—while thousands of ogres spread across the plains, intent on wiping out the border outposts to the last man.

  The half-giant chuckled, a sound of genuine happiness that had not erupted from his chest in several years. It was good to have an army again, good to march, to fight.

  And it was good to kill Knights of Solamnia.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  PALANTHAS AND HER PASS

  Lord Regent Bakkard du Chagne watched the city of Palanthas from the serene height of his Golden Spire, the tallest tower on his palace. It was an ornate building, which he had ordered erected on the slopes of the mountains rising above the city and well outside the wall. It was nightfall, and the lights were twinkling throughout the great metropolis. Ships in harbor were draped with navigation lanterns, which winked in the placid waters of the bay. It was not hard for the lord regent to imagine he was looking down on a field of fireflies, insignificant creatures bustling around in the illusionary comfort of their own short-lived brightness.

  He liked the feeling of superiority provided by his lofty vantage. From his palace, his tower, he had the sense he was looking down on the lesser beings of the world like a farmer might look down on the ants in his garden.

  But there was a very potent ant in that garden.

  Unlike the lord regent’s edifice, high outside the city walls, the palace built by the emperor was situated right in the middle of Palanthas, facing one corner of the great plaza. Du Chagne could see the emperor’s residence clearly from there, and—if the truth be told—he spent far too much of his time staring at that garish, ostentatious structure. He had worked hard to rein in the powers of the upstart ruler, but thus far he had been thwarted at every turn.

  Du Chagne’s wealth, the magnificent cache that had brightened his world and shed its enchanted light across his city from the top of this very tower, was sadly depleted. The hoard had been claimed by the emperor and spent on public works such as the horrendously expensive widening of the road over the High Clerist’s Pass. The city was a seaport, by all the gods! A narrow, twisting road had served Palanthas throughout the centuries, providing all the land connection with the rest of the world that the city needed … or desired. Why was it necessary to widen and smooth that thoroughfare? Of course, increased trade had been the result, but the city’s greatest tariffs would always be collected at the docks. Didn’t Jaymes Markham understand that?

  Even Bakkard du Chagne’s own daughter, who had been the regent’s most significant pawn in the power game of governance, had been co-opted by the usurping emperor. She represented great power to whoever claimed her and, for reasons du Chagne had never fully understood, she had given herself to Jaymes Markham.

  Even in his aloof aerie, Bakkard du Chagne heard rumors and kept his finger on the pulse of the city and the empire’s government. He had heard the gossip that his daughter might be pregnant and that she was no longer entirely happy with the choice she had made. There were still ways, perhaps, that the lord regent could put his powerful pawn back into play. He had already sent out a valuable agent, preparing a contingency, hoping to retrieve the Princess of the Plains.

  There were other biting ants in the city as well. During his term as ruler of that place, the lord regent had been awarded the loyalty of the Solamnic Knights, as was his due as their lawful lord. But there always had been knights, a secret legion of them, who had resisted his will, had worked to hinder him at every turn. Those knights still existed, and though they were not the emperor’s tools, they stood in the way of the lord regent’s resurgence.

  He had a plan for them as well.

  He did not hear the newcomer enter this room—he felt more of a chill, like a metal gate closed across the door to a stove—but neither was he surprised to welcome that particular visitor. Du Chagne turned to notice the Nightmaster was standing quietly, well away from the windows, waiting to be noticed.

  “Well?” asked the lord regent. “How do matters proceed? Are you nearly ready?”

  “Yes,” came the muffled voice from the behind the black gauze. “Yes, my great master—our minions are now prepared to strike.”

  Blayne Kerrigan felt almost at home in the camp of the force known as the Black Army. His host, the gray wizard Hoarst, was unfailingly pleasant, courteous, even solicitous. Blayne had been given the freedom of the valley, joining Hoarst and Captain Blackgaard for meals, even sharing the charms of a slender elf maid who, he learned, was one of several beautiful females who inhabited the gray wizard’s domicile.

  Hoarst seemed not the least bit jealous, even encouraging the lass to go off alone with the young nobleman. From her, Blayne learned that it was only the albino woman, Sirene, who seemed to arouse any sense of possessiveness in the delightful, cultured magic-user. While his nights were busy enough, during the days Blayne was allowed to sleep late, and he was tutored for a few hours in the routes through the mountains. He observed the road that Blackgaard’s men were constructing, and realized it would provide a route for the High Clerist’s Tower to be assaulted from the north—an unprecedented flanking of those ancient walls.

  Finally, Hoarst told Blayne that it was time for him to go on his important errand, and the young lord was all too willing to comply. He was provided with an old nag of a mare to ride, the horse that would take him down to Palanthas. The steed was by no means the best that he could have drawn from the well-equipped herds of the Black Army, but—as Hoarst had counseled—it was best for the young nobleman to enter the city in a nondescript fashion. He needed to look like a humble country squire coming to the city looking for work or apprenticeship.

  The Gray Robe warned Blayne th
at the emperor had posted a reward for his capture. With a little bit of shaving and some hair dye, the knight had completely altered his appearance, darkening his skin and shortening his long black hair. He felt quite confident he would not be recognized, even if he should encounter someone who knew him in passing—a distinct possibility since he had lived in Palanthas for five years as an apprentice Knight of the Crown.

  When he could see the spires of Palanthas rising before him, he guided his horse off the main road onto one of the farm tracks that curled along the ridges to the west of the city. From there he could see the Bay of Branchala winding off to the north and the lofty palace of the lord regent dominating the city from its foundation on a slope. Closer, against the city’s defense, he saw his objective: the gate in the west wall of the Old City.

  Heart pounding, Blayne followed the road down from the ridge and toward the city gate on the west side of the Old City wall. That was where the man named Billings was posted, and where Blayne was eagerly headed. It was all he could do to let the nag shamble on at her leisurely pace when what he really wanted was to spur toward the gates and get on with his mission. But Hoarst had impressed on him the need for disguise and discretion, and he was determined not to let down the man who had saved him in the wilderness and who shared his desire to bring down the emperor of Solamnia.

  How difficult would it be to meet up and recruit the Legion of Steel? Blayne had wondered about that for most of the long ride down from the mountain heights. The organization had been around for a long time, always existing on the shadowy fringes of the knighthood. They were traditionally loyal to the Oath and the Measure but sometimes had proved a nuisance to the men who attempted to rule. Working outside the rigid hierarchy of the orders of Rose, Sword, and Crown, the Knights of Steel could venture certain strategies and employ unconventional tactics that would have scandalized the more hidebound members of the Solamnics.