Measure and the Truth

by Doug Niles

  Jaymes nodded. “The old brute has learned a thing or two about making war, it seems. Well, we’ll have to assume he’s moving on Solanthus. But be prepared for any tricks. I would be surprised if he laid siege to the city again—it didn’t work out so well for him last time. But I can’t figure out what else he could be doing.”

  “Yes. I’ve been wondering about his movements.” Dayr removed his helm and scratched his head. “We defeated him pretty certainly last time. Why would he attack Solanthus again?”

  “Arrogance? Vengeance? No, I’ve been asking myself the same questions,” the emperor admitted. “He does not strike me as one who has a death wish.”

  “No, certainly not. He’s a wily old brute and, above all, a survivor.”

  Jaymes nodded in agreement. “We’d better be ready for a surprise. Remember the old maxim: don’t try to imagine what your enemy will do; instead, think about what he is capable of doing.”

  “He could come around north of the city,” Dayr acknowledged. “General Rankin is deploying his cavalry up there. They wouldn’t be strong enough to stop him, but at least we’d get a warning if he shifted that way. And the Garnet Range stands in his path if Ankhar tries to go south of the city. I don’t think he would try to take his whole army through there.”

  The emperor stared in that direction. The Garnet Mountains were not visible from that distance, but he knew those heights were just over the horizon. “Maybe. Maybe not,” he allowed. “Those mountains were once his home, after all. And he’s used them as a hiding place before.”

  Suddenly he thought again of his old companion, the dwarf who had refused his direct orders to manufacture additional bombards—and who lived in a valley high up in those very mountains.

  What was Dram doing?

  “Where is that damned steel?” Dram demanded of no one in particular. He stood at the top of the watchtower his dwarves had just completed, a sturdy stone structure dominating the road that led into New Compound from the heart of the Garnet Range. The tower, of necessity, had been hastily constructed, but dwarven skill insured the stones were tightly meshed.

  Dram had learned of Ankhar’s resurgence barely a fortnight earlier, when three bedraggled survivors of one of the border outposts had staggered into New Compound. Exhausted, battered, and half-starved, the three men had made their way through the mountains, barely avoiding the patrols of wolf-riding goblins that seemed to be everywhere. After reporting their news and getting some solid food and a hot bath, their leader—a grizzled sergeant who had seen fifty years—had voiced the opinion that a major war was under way.

  The mountain dwarf had reacted with decisiveness. He had immediately sent to Kayolin an order for all the spring steel that could be scrounged up. His legion of dwarf workers, more than a thousand strong, had been pulled off mundane duties and assigned to quickly create defensive obstacles around the town. The watchtower was one such installation. Others included a fortified wall at each of the two passes leading into the valley, as well as a walled compound in the center of the town. The splendid bridge with its three arches had been mined with casks of powder, so it could be destroyed with only a few moments’ warning. Dram had supervised every aspect of the defenses—issuing orders, coordinating workers and tasks, and allocating personnel and materials.

  Only one member of the community had proved resistant to the mountain dwarf’s instructions.

  “You’ve got to leave now!” he had barked to Sally, barely an hour after absorbing the news of the invasion. “Take Mikey and get back across the plains to the Vingaard range. I’ll call you back here when the danger has passed.”

  “I will do no such thing!” she retorted predictably.

  “But—the baby—”

  “The baby belongs with his mum and pap,” Sally shot back. Her voice softened and she touched Dram on the shoulder, a gesture that never failed to soothe his deepest agitation. But he shook her off.

  “Look. You heard the man. That damned half-giant has thousands of ogres, and he’s just fifty or sixty miles away from here.”

  “He’s on the other side of the mountains,” Sally replied calmly. “And I think Jaymes and his knights will have something to say about it if he tries to march around Solanthus.”

  Jaymes! Dram felt a twinge of guilt. No doubt his old friend had received word about the dwarf’s refusal to build him additional bombards. Of course, that refusal had been overtaken by events—Dram would gladly build more cannons as fast as he could—but he found himself thinking he had betrayed his greatest friend.

  Just as he couldn’t do anything about getting Sally to leave, there was nothing to do about that at the moment. Like every other dwarf in New Compound, she had thrown herself into the defensive preparations, supervising teams of leatherworkers who were busily turning out stiff, arrow-resistant tunics for the defenders of the town. She, like Dram, hoped battles would be fought elsewhere, that their peaceful valley was in no danger. But they would be prepared.

  Dram stiffened abruptly, spotting a small caravan of mule-hauled carts coming into view down the mountain road. Rogard Smashfinger had come through! Each of the carts was loaded with the steel bands he needed to make the new bombards. He counted a dozen of the little wagons and guessed that there would be enough of the strong metal to make an equal number of the big guns. He glanced back to the lakeshore, where the ironwood planks were already assembled and a score of massive wagons had been prepared.

  Now he had the last of his necessary ingredients. But would he have enough time to do the work?

  There was no way to know.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  MOUNTAIN DARKNESS

  Blayne Kerrigan moved quietly down the darkened street, counting the doorways on his right. Archer Billings had given him very specific instructions, warning him there was no sign, no outward indication, of the secret meeting hall. Finally he came to the thirteenth door, the one he had been told to find. He hesitated and for a fleeting moment felt like turning and running away.

  A glance over his shoulder failed to spot anyone on the street, though the young noblemen had the distinct feeling that he was being followed and observed. He remembered the tragedy of his father, thought about the emperor whose power smothered everything in the city, and found the courage to press on.

  The building was seedy and rundown, with boards nailed over the windows. No sound came from within. He tried the latch and found the door unlocked, just as the archer had told him it would be. Pushing the door open slowly, he expected the loud creak of rusty hinges and was surprised when the door glided easily, effortlessly inward. With a quick step, he was inside. The door shut behind him, and for a moment he was enveloped by darkness and silence.

  But it was just for a moment; almost immediately he felt strong hands grasp both of his arms. He struggled instinctively, but felt the iron grip of his captors and knew that he was firmly held. He lashed out with a kick, only to bang his shin painfully against something; the blow produced a metallic clang.

  Light seared his eyes. It was only the flame of an oil lantern, but the sudden brightness was painful. Still struggling and half blind, Blayne was trundled along like a squirming child, through another doorway and into a larger room.

  It might have been the hall of a moderately prosperous inn: a large stone fireplace on the far wall held a huge pile of glowing coals, while several long tables, each flanked by a pair of arches, took up most of the space. The ceiling was lost in shadows, though he saw beams and arches connecting to a central pillar. To his left was a long bar. There was no other exit or entrance visible.

  More interesting than the room itself were the occupants. There were a dozen men in there, all regarding him suspiciously. To a man they wore the handlebar mustaches of the Solamnic Knights, yet the men were not dressed in armor, nor did they display the heraldry of their order on their tunics. Instead, they looked more like thieves, wearing dark cloaks and old, well-worn boots. A few had hoods pulled over their heads, while se
veral wore ratty gloves with fingers missing. Not one was smiling; on more than a few faces, he noted stares of suspicion or outright hostility.

  The two men holding his arms were the largest fellows in the room, and they also glowered down at him. Apparently they didn’t like what they saw, for their iron fingers dug more deeply into the flesh of his arms as Blayne was roughly propelled toward a table in the center of the room.

  A single man sat there, slightly older than the rest to judge by the creases around his eyes, the traces of gray in his mustache and his long hair. He stared at Blayne while deliberately pulling a long dagger from his belt. Never taking his eyes off the visitor, he started to trim his fingernails with what was obviously a very sharp blade.

  Blayne ceased to struggle against the tight grip of the two men. Among the several warnings Archer Billings had given him was an indication that these men were perfectly willing to use violence against their enemies. With that in mind, the young lord didn’t trust himself to speak, but he tried to remember the legacy of his birth as he held his head high and levelly met the gaze of the man.

  “Who are you?” the fellow with the knife demanded after what seemed like a very long silence during which he kept trimming his fingernails.

  “I am Sir Blayne Kerrigan of Vingaard Keep,” he replied proudly.

  “Ah, I have heard of you,” the man replied with a snort that could have indicated derision or amusement.

  “Perhaps I could say the same thing, if I knew who it was I addressed,” Blayne retorted sharply. “Why do your men hold me so rudely? And who are you?”

  The man did laugh then, loudly. “Perhaps my men hold you because you entered like a thief—silently, stealthily. Perhaps we should cut your throat, Sir Blayne, like we would any other thief?”

  “But I am not a thief!”

  “Why do you come here, then?”

  “A man from the city guard sent me. I am looking to make contact with a group of brave people opposed to the tyrannical emperor, and he said I would find them here. They are—”

  “Don’t tell me what ‘they’ are!” the man snapped back. “Who is this man who sent you to our door?”

  Blayne drew a breath. “He told me that I could identify him to … the men I met, but only if I was satisfied that I had come to the right place and found them.”

  “And, Sir Blayne, are you so satisfied that you can speak now, or do I need to exercise some further persuasion?”

  The man continued to wield his knife, whittling away at his fingernails with as much ease as skill. The light from the oil lamp caught on the steely blade, reflecting brightly in Blayne’s eyes. He took a chance.

  “The man was Archer Billings of the city guard. I was sent to him by a mutual friend who is not of the city. I came here because the emperor slew my father, treacherously, and then destroyed the towers of Vingaard with his bombard. He must be stopped!”

  “Now there, lad,” said the man, clearly enjoying himself. “You surely have heard that it’s a crime to express such sentiments? Most especially it is a crime here in Palanthas, the very heart of the emperor’s realm? You could be subject to, oh, I don’t know, imprisonment or loss of property. Exile, maybe. Hanging! Why, the emperor might even scowl at you!”

  The last line provoked coarse laughter from the rest of the men. Blayne could hear the mockery in the fellow’s words but sensed that it was not he who was being mocked, but rather the emperor himself.

  Blayne felt his courage reborn. If he had somehow come to the wrong place, he would not be cowed into disclaiming his father, his quest. But he was certain that they were the right men and the room was the place that he sought.

  “I care nothing for the emperor’s laws!” he declared passionately. “They are an abomination of the Oath and the Measure. He fears his own people, even as he claims to have their interests in his heart. He is a despot and must be brought down.”

  “Well, my young lord,” said the man, “it may be that you have come to the right place and are speaking to the right fellow.” He stood up; somehow the long-bladed dagger vanished into the folds of his cloak as he held out a strong hand. Blayne took that hand and shook it, impressed by the firmness of the dry grip.

  “I am Sir Ballard,” he said. “And your archer friend—I know of him as well—spoke the truth. We are the Legion of Steel in Palanthas. And the emperor is no friend of ours.”

  Magic wrapped the gray wizard Hoarst and Sirene in a whirlwind sensation, transporting them together from the camp in the Vingaard Mountains to his stronghold across the plains in the Dargaard Range. They arrived in the huge laboratory, the vast chamber that had once been the great hall of the castle.

  Many of the wizard’s other women, more than a dozen of them, had been living there in his absence, and he was pleased to note the fires were lit and the rooms had been kept warm and clean. The women gathered quickly when he shouted out his arrival, delighted to see their master.

  “Bring me a cask of the dry white wine from Nordmaar,” he snapped to a pair of strong blondes who hailed from that country. “Lara, you start a fire under my largest caldron. I want it blazing hot. Use the hard coal. Dani, Kammra, Tenille, go to the cabinets and bring me ten jars of down feathers, a dozen silk fans, and a cask of whale oil.”

  He stopped to consider: he had water in plenty but needed a few other ingredients that he would have to select himself. “The rest of you, prepare us some food. And see that Sirene gets a hot bath. I want all of you to gather in the lab at sunset tonight!”

  “Yes, lord! As you command!” they chorused and scurried off to do his bidding, with two of the youngest girls taking charge of the albino. When all were busy, Hoarst left the hall and entered the connecting corridor leading to his chambers. But he did not climb the stairs.

  Instead, he went to the plain door near the kitchen and touched it, sensing the power of his wizard lock. He was pleased but not surprised to note the door had not been disturbed in his absence.

  With a murmured word, he released the locking spell and opened the door. A thin, steep stairway led down into the shadows, and he had to turn sideways to descend the narrow steps. A single word ignited a light spell on his belt buckle, illuminating his way as he plunged deep into the passages under his ancient keep.

  At the bottom of the steps, a narrow corridor led to the right and left. He turned left—for the other direction was an illusion, and though it appeared to be a long, straight passageway, in actuality it led to a cleverly concealed trap over a large pool of acid. Anyone who went more than ten steps in that direction would fall through the floor and into the pool. They would not come out again.

  Hoarst continued down the narrow passage, each footstep kicking up little swirls of dust that danced in the light of his spell. He passed a number of side passages to the right and left and took the third corridor on his right. That led him to another intersection of passages, and again he made the correct turn.

  There was only one way to walk through those dark corridors, he knew: each false move led to a death certain, violent, and inescapable. One trap would crush an intruder with a slab of rock weighing many tons. Another opened into a chute that plummeted into a hundred-foot-deep pit; the bottom of the pit was layered with spears planted, sharp tips up, in the ground. A third, one of the most ingenious, would pour oil over any trespasser and then, a few seconds later, release a cascade of bits of phosphorus that would ignite a searing, completely lethal blaze.

  After a hundred and fourteen steps, Hoarst turned to the left into a corridor that looked just as ordinary as any of the rest. He came to a mundane-looking door, confirmed with a gentle touch that his locking spell was still intact there, and with a single word released the door, pushing it open to enter the most secret, most cherished of his rooms.

  The light spell still gleamed from his belt buckle, but that pale brightness was completely overwhelmed by the brilliant glow emanating from a dozen different places in his treasure chamber. Jewels and scepters, a cr
own, and a magnificent wand all shone with magical light. A chest, overflowing with coins, glowed crimson as though from the embers of a fire. Yellow and green light rose from statues and paintings, while a magical chandelier—perpetually illuminated—brightened the place more than a hundred candles.

  Hoarst spent a few moments perusing his trinkets, fondling the limitless piles of coins, admiring his favorite painting—which displayed a partially disrobed woman beside a deep, clear pool—hoisting a prize scepter, and cradling the hilt of a splendid flying dagger.

  But business, not pleasure, had drawn him there, and he had precious little time to waste. He moved to a jar that was full of powdered flakes of gold. He needed both hands to hoist the heavy vessel until he slipped it into a bag of holding. Then he was able to suspend it from his belt as if it were a small purse. He found another small chest, one containing pure, crystalline diamonds, and added that to the bag. After a moment’s thought, he dropped the enchanted dagger into the bag as well.

  Securing the wizard locks behind him, he went out through the dungeon tunnels and back up the long stairway, returning to his lab to find that the women had followed his instructions precisely. A great fire burned under his cauldron, and the wine and other ingredients had been brought over to the nearby table, where they were neatly arrayed.

  He dined in the laboratory, mixing and working through the meal, then chanted spells and wrote arcane symbols deep into the night. The women tended the fire while he slept, and he continued to mix and cook for all the following day. Powdered gold, its weight equivalent to two thousand pieces of steel, was added. He put the diamonds—ten times the value of the steel—in his grinder, and reduced the precious stones to powder after an hour of hard labor.

  For six more hours, the huge cauldron boiled, the magical potion taking effect until, finally, there was only one thing he needed to add.