Lord of the Rose (44 page)

The closet door sagged inward but held. Jaymes was the first to recover, staggering to his feet, pulling the gnomes and dwarf up too. He charged out of the room and up the hall with his sword in his hand. The shop was revealed as a mess of wreckage and choking smoke. Large cauldrons had been overturned, the benches smashed, with smoldering bits of debris everywhere. The smoke was thick, but he saw that the blast had worked and the heavy boulder had been expelled into the outer corridor by the explosion.

Wasting no time, he charged into the hall and looked around, waving his hand to clear away the smoke. The rock had been tossed six or eight feet. A taloned foot and a slinky black body
stuck out from under it, twitching. Its huge head was out of sight.

Dram came out and joined him, chuckling at the sight.

“Musta been listening ‘real close’ at the door, like Pete suggested. I guess she got popped over the head.”

“Let’s get going—come on!” Jaymes barked.

By then the three gnomes had emerged into the hallway, Carbo and Salty Pete each carrying one of the extra kegs of powder they had prepared. Together the companions raced up the muddy corridor, into the adjoining passage, back to the pit. With profound relief Jaymes saw the rope still dangled from the opening overhead.

“Quick!” Dram urged, racing to the rope, taking hold of the bottom to brace it for the gnomes. Overhead the sky was a hazy blue, a promise of freedom and fresh air awaiting them.

The daylight vanished, replaced by a shadow darker than night. The black dragon loomed above them, the bulk of her massive body blocking out the light.

“Uh-oh!” Pete cried suddenly, pointing upward. “It’s Sheedra. She must have gotten out from under the boulder, and slipped out her bolt hole, and come around here. I think she’s mad!”

“Right, back the way we came!” cried Dram. He pushed Carbo and Sulfie, who had just reached the bottom of the rope, then followed them, sprinting back toward Pete’s workshop.

Sheedra slithered down through the hole like a monstrous snake diving into a rabbit’s burrow. She was immense, black, and scaly, with muscular shoulders and a wedge of a head that lashed from side to side, yellow eyes staring into the darkness. Her huge wings flapped, completely filling the round chamber, and she hissed with a sound of a volcanic steam leak.

“Petey!” she called, her voice stern, crackling. “Nasties tried to kill me!”

“Run!” screamed Sulfie, sprinting as fast as her little legs could carry her. Her brothers, and Dram, came behind. Jaymes, however, stepped into the darkness of a side corridor, crouching low, his blade—flames extinguished—held low.

“There are the nasties—hssst!” spat the monstrous serpent, her forked tongue flashing in the darkness.

Serpentine jaws gaped. The warrior heard a gurgle of bubbling pressure, then a gout of caustic acid streamed past him. Someone screamed loudly down the twisting passage.

Jaymes twisted the hilt of his sword in his two hands, outlining him and the weapon in blue flame. The dragon took no notice of him, however, slithering after the fleeing gnomes and dwarf.

The warrior raised the sword before him, flames surging brightly from the blade. Another stream of acid spewed down the corridor, away from him—the mere vapors brought tears to his eyes.

Jaymes stepped into the corridor and from behind charged the black dragon, which was coiling to fling herself after the gnomes. She roared loudly as the flaming sword pierced her skin. Sheedra’s head snapped around, like a striking cobra, but the swordsman was already beside her, and with one brutal slash he chopped through her neck. Drooling acid, jaws gaping, the black head tumbled free. Sheedra’s body thrashed wildly, its huge tail smashing Jaymes to the side. By the time he sat up, however, the corpse was gurgling, and the black dragon was dead.

“Carbo’s burned!” Sulfie was sobbing, as she and Pete carried the stricken gnome back into the chamber. Carbo’s tunic was half dissolved, and the upper part of his body and his head were covered with terrible wounds.

“There’ll be more spawn coming,” Pete warned, as Dram scrambled up the rope. “We gotta get him out of here fast!”

“Then climb for all you’re worth!” the human said. “I’ll take Carbo.”

As gently as possible Jaymes picked up the wounded gnome, who was moaning in pain, his beard singed away by the blast. The warrior held him under one arm and tugged on the line with the other, relying on the dwarf to haul him up

At the lip of the hole Sulfie and Salty Pete grabbed their brother. Jaymes pulled himself out, and all the companions were on the ground.

“We’ve got to move!” snapped the human, once again snatching up the injured gnome.

They sprinted for the trail, Dram and Sulfie leading the way, Salty Pete close behind. They darted around the mossy trees, making for the scent of air and glimpse of daylight at the edge of the swamp. Carbo lost consciousness sometime before they reached the edge of the Brackens, but still they ran, splashing through puddles, pushing through the foliage that closed in when the trail petered out. They didn’t slow down until they had burst from the swamp, scaled the embankment, and once again could look down upon the Brackens from the arid safety of the plain.

A
nkhar slept on the ground, just like the rest of his army—no tent or cot to distinguish the leader of the horde from his rugged troops. The long march from Cornellus’s stronghold had made his limbs and eyelids feel heavy. Wrapped in a great bearskin sleeping robe—a gift from Blackgaard’s lancers—he was already bedded down for the night when Laka came to see him.

The half giant welcomed the counsel of his foster mother. They crouched beside the dying embers of his fire, while a dozen painted hobgoblins stood in a ring around them, facing outward and guarding against any approach.

The old crone waved her rattle at Ankhar, the skull talisman she had made from the head of the dead captain of the Garnet knights. The eyes glowed green, and Ankhar watched the bony jaw, still studded with immaculate white teeth, start to move.

“The Crowns are now broken,”
hissed the death’s head.

“Shattered and lost
.

“They wait for your justice
,

“While dreading the cost.”

“Listen to the prince!” said Laka, shaking the skull-on-a-stick so that the teeth clattered.

“Crowns have returned to Thelgaard,” the half-giant noted,
scratching his massive jaw. “That place ripe for taking. Keep is strong, but city walls low and incomplete. Too many Crowns die at the Battle of the Crossings. Not be many fighters there. What you think mother? Does Prince wish me to attack Thelgaard?”

In reply, the old shaman shook the skull again, a rattle so vigorous it looked as though she was trying to shake the firmly mounted trophy off of the end of her wand. The ghastly face merely bobbed, once again its jaw clattering.

“Treasures piled high

“ ’yond walls that are thick
,

“Take your war there
,

“ ’Ere trophies, they slip.”

Laka shook the talisman some more, but no more words emerged, and gradually the emerald light faded from the eye-sockets.

“What he mean? Thelgaard’s walls not thick—little treasure there, if we believe Cornellus.”

“These words of Prince,” the crone said, reaching up bony fingers to caress the broad jowl of her adopted son. “You must understand.”

The commander turned away from the warmth of the fire, from the tenderness of the old witch. He stroked his chin, looking at the vast plains spreading below. When he spoke next, Laka could discern his words, but she sensed that Ankhar was speaking more to himself. He raised a hand, pointed generally to the west.

“Thelgaard there. Three days march away.”

He swivelled to the right, pointing toward that horizon. “Solanthus there. Five days march away. Solanthus got great, thick walls. Much treasure.”

He chuckled, like a rumble of distant thunder.

“I understand the Prince. Crowns have been defeated. Time we destroy Swords and take riches.” Ankhar turned to his foster mother, who was regarding him through eyes that were brighter than the red moon nearly full in the night sky. She licked her lips, nodding happily.

“Tomorrow we march on Solanthus,” the commander said, with a self-satisfied nod.

Duke Rathskell of Solanthus was a brave man, but now he lay awake and whimpered into the darkness of his bedchamber like a terrified child. Never in his life had a dream terrified him so much as the nightmare that had just shook his mind. He found himself trembling, drenched in a chilly sweat, and everywhere he looked in his candlelit bedchamber he spotted the shadows of bogeymen, horrific monsters, and cruel, tormenting assassins.

He knew Ankhar was coming, the enemy horde marching out of the mountains toward Solanthus, but, strangely, that wasn’t the worst aspect of the threat. He could barely remember what it was exactly that had terrified him so. He only recalled some vague threat regarding his trove of gleaming gems, the great chests of his treasure, full of the fabled Stones of Garnet.

Had somebody threatened his treasures? Surely that would not have caused him such intense terror! He felt as though more than his treasure was at stake; his life, his very soul, was imperiled.

Only then did he hear the humming, the persistent drone that augured a summons from the sacred mirror. He knew where to find the source of that sound: It would be glimmering in the secret alcove of his bedroom. Alarmed at how loud the humming was, the duke looked to his side, breathing a sigh of relief.

The duchess, his lovely young plaything, slept soundly beside him in the great bed, snoring gently as the duke, his heart pounding, slipped from beneath his covers and went over to the alcove where the magical artifact was gradually coming to life. He pushed the panel to open the hidden door. Nervously glancing over his shoulder, the nobleman—a Knight of the Sword, a veteran of wars and revolution—pulled shut the door so that his wife would not wake and discover his secrets.

Only then did he take a seat on the cushioned chair, striking
a match and lighting a pair of candles—not so that he could see the mirror but so that the mirror could see him.

Composing himself, mopping the sweat from his brow, he pulled down the velvet cloth that covered the mirror. He confronted an image there that was not a reflection.

“My lord duke,” said His Excellency, Lord Regent Bakkard du Chagne. “My time is valuable—you have kept me waiting too long! Didn’t you hear my summons?”

“I beg your Excellency’s pardon,” said Rathskell, trying to keep a calm expression, even as new drops of sweat formed on his forehead. He dared not mop them away, could only hope that his image in the mirror would not reveal every imperfection. “I was sleeping and needed a few moments’ time to wake up.”

“Sleeping? It is not yet midnight! Bah, I am two decades older than you, and my work keeps me busy into the small hours of the night. You would do well to take that lesson from me, Duke.”