Lord of the Rose (45 page)

“Indeed, Excellency. I shall try to exercise greater diligence. It’s just that there is so much to do.…” This time Rathskell was unable to stop himself from mopping his trickling sweat. “I most humbly apologize. It shall not happen again! If only I did not need to conceal my activities from the one who shares my chambers …”

“You know women are not to be trusted, not with such secrets as we possess. If the slut is not capable of restraining her curiosity, you must see that she sleeps elsewhere!”

“Yes, of course, my lord!” If the duke was distressed by the regent’s characterization of his wife, he gave no hint.

“Let us turn our attention to your responsibilities, then,” said the Lord Regent. “Are you aware that the forces of the Crown are defeated, cowering within the walls of Thelgaard. That Caergoth, too, has retired, taken his army south of the Garnet River again?”

“Indeed, my lord? I knew Thelgaard was routed most ignobly by the horde of the half-giant. Half his men killed, the rest falling back to the walls of his city. He refused, my lord—absolutely refused—to cooperate with me on a rational plan of defense.
Caergoth was still on the field with a considerable force, while I was compelled to return to my own bastion—I did not want the barbaric rascals to get between me and my own fortifications.”

“Good course, that. Prudent, in the event. Thelgaard is a fool, and our path to empire will only be paved when he has been replaced by someone more capable and reliable. You should not risk your own army until the others’ forces have been exhausted. At the same time, you should encourage them to inflict damage upon the enemy.”

“Indeed, lord. Though it seems that Thelgaard inflicted precious little upon the foe. Have your agents informed you how Caergoth is faring?”

“Yes. He has retired to his city, driven by timidity and indecision. Your own city will be the next target of the enemy.”

The duke mumbled his agreement, shivering—for this was the very revelation that had stalked him in his most recent dream. The Lord Regent’s next words surprised him, however.

“If Solanthus falls to the goblins, it is no loss—we can retake it when we desire. However, it is important that the treasures of the vault be retained, for the good of the knighthood. Therefore, you must empty your treasury and bring the Stones of Garnet to safety. I hereby order you to bring those stones to Palanthas for safekeeping.”

“My lord!” Solanthus was appalled. “The risks of such a journey!”

He remembered what it was that had shaken him to the core. In his dream he had been trapped with the stones, here in the city! Both he
and
his treasure had been doomed by the surrounding horde! Surely that was the meaning of the dream. The Lord Regent was right—he needed to get them out of here for safekeeping!

“Very well, Excellency.” The duke tried to conceal how unsettled he was. In the face of such dire portents it seemed that fleeing with his riches was the only way to preserve his life and his fortune.

“Be quick and secretive about this,” instructed the lord. “You
know the White Witch has been asking persistent questions, making a pest of herself, as usual. Give her wide berth.”

“She is wily, the Lady Coryn,” agreed Rathskell. “If she presses me, I do not know if I can thwart her.”

“You
must!”
Du Chagne’s voice was a hiss. “Do whatever it takes to stop her! Do you understand?”

“Anything?”
the duke asked, with a gulp. “Her powers are daunting, my lord! But I shall do what I can—”

“Rathsky?” The voice—a familiar nasal whine—came from the bedroom. He could picture the duchess sitting up in bed, looking around in confusion. How much had she heard?

“I must go!” the duke said urgently.

The Lord Regent scowled darkly, but the voice rose—“Rathsky! Rathsky!” She was out of bed now, approaching the alcove!

Rathskell dropped the cloth across the mirror and blew out one of the candles. He took the other in his hand as he pulled the secret door aside to find his wife, blinking sleepily, with her hair in a tousled mess, just outside the alcove.

“Oh, there you are. What are you doing?” she asked. “Where were you?”

“Just a little meditation in my private closet,” he said. “I have so many problems of state to worry about.”

“Well, I can’t sleep very well if you are jumping up and meditating all the time,” she said, grumpily, stumbling back toward the quilts. “Why don’t you come back to bed?”

The duke’s eyes narrowed as he watched her. That was close.

“Yes, dear,” he said quietly. “It is time.”

They could no longer be described as a horde. Ankhar and his followers moved out of the Garnet Mountains and onto the plains—not as any rag-tag barbarian force but as a formidable army.

Even before the worg-riders emerged from the forested foothills,
the commander had dispatched a dozen auraks—the only draconians capable of true flight—on aerial reconnaissance of the lands across the planned route. They reported universally that the knights seemed to have withdrawn into their great fortresses and were patrolling only in the immediate vicinity of each city’s walls.

Even so, the half-giant enforced strict discipline as his army swept across the plain. He had hundreds of lupine cavalry covering the ground before and to either side of his mighty columns. His footsoldiers marched in thunderous cadence. His regiments teemed with goblin spearmen and swords. There were huge phalanxes of archers, draconians advancing with wings furled, including companies of kapaks and baaz, commanded by snarling, whip-cracking sivaks.

Riding in the midst were the heavily armored knights of the Blackgaard’s Brigade, forming a solid block, a crushing hammer to be wielded in accordance with the army commander’s will. The legions of humans, mercenaries and brigands who had joined together marched shoulder to shoulder with gobs and draconians that had been their lifelong enemies. It was an impressive tide of martial power, driving across the landscape like a force of nature.

Over the course of five days the army made steady progress toward the great, walled fortress city of Solanthus. As they drew near all of the human outposts retreated within those lofty battlements—“Like turtle pulling in legs and head!” Laka cackled—and Ankhar’s troops were not even subjected to harassing attacks as they spread in a vast semicircle around the city.

Of course, Solanthus was not an easy target. It stood at the northern terminus of the Garnet range, on a commanding bluff overlooking the plains to the east, north, and west. Gentle ramps had been excavated in all three directions, carrying wide, smooth roads up to the city’s massive gates. Yet each gatehouse was a small castle in its own right, and each road passed directly beneath the parapets of the city wall for a good quarter mile before reaching the gates, so any attacker would have to run a
lethal gauntlet before coming close to those massive, ancient barriers.

The city’s great landmark, its Cleft Spires, rose above the walls, the towers, everything else. This great natural pillar, cloven in half by a blast of lightning many centuries before the city was founded, loomed hundreds of feet high. The two halves bent away from each other, curving above the great marketplace at the heart of Solanthus.

Ankhar knew all this, and knew to be patient.

His army made a sprawling camp outside those three plains roads. There was another, much narrower, track leading out of the city to the south, climbing through a perilous series of switchbacks as it ascended along the front ridge of the mountain range. That was no path for an army or for the flight of a panicked populace. Instead, the commander knew to keep his eyes and his army trained on the three great gates, intimidating the enemy army and the lord huddling behind those high, thick walls.

He was standing in the middle of his camp, staring up at the north gate, when one of the guards came up to him in the late twilight hours. “Lord Ankhar?” said the hobgoblin, snuffling loudly. “An ogre is here to see you.”

The half giant nodded. He followed the guard through the camp toward the darkening expanse of plains. To the south the vast bulk of Solanthus rose against the sky. The walls and towers of that ancient bastion were already aglitter with torchlight.

The half giant shook his head at such foolishness. Didn’t the knights know those flames only served to night-blind their own men and provided no defense against the great army before their city?

At the edge of the camp, the hulking chieftain could not disguise his surprise. There was not just “an ogre” to see him, but a feathered and painted ogre chieftain of strapping sinew and size. Even more significant, this visitor stood at the head of a vast column of his fellow ogres and another great host of hobgoblins and gobs. There were at least two thousand fresh warriors, and
all of them pressed forward, casting admiring eyes toward the huge war leader.

“Lord Ankhar?” asked the ogre, prostrating himself on the ground at the half-giant’s feet. Behind him, the great company of savages knelt in unison.

“I Ankhar.”

“I am Bloodgutter, chief of the Lemish vales. Even beyond the mountains we have heard tales of your deeds among the plains of men. You have battled the knighthood on the open field and defeated them! Your victories are the birth of legend, and you give us hope against our hated foe. We hurried here over many days of marching to offer you our swords, and our blood.”

“Aye. Lemish long way. You a bold ogre.”

“In truth, lord, Lemish is a poor country now. We were driven there in ages past by the armies of the knights. For years we have waited for a chance at vengeance. We ask only a fair position in your army, lord Ankhar. For that, we will gladly give you our trust, our lives.”

“Est Sudanus oth Nikkas,”
the half giant said. “My power is my Truth.”

“I pledge my tribe to the Truth that is Ankhar,” the ogre said, bowing his head.

“You serve me? Only me?” asked the half-giant.

“To the death, lord!”

“Very good,” said the war chief, pleased by the surprise reinforcements. “Make camp with ours. Welcome. Bloodgutter valued sub-captain. Rest and eat. We attack humans soon.”

The duke gazed at the Cleft Spires, which rose higher than the loftiest castle tower and broader even than the great gatehouses that stood astride the three highways leading from the city.

Solanthus was a plains city, though it stood in the shadow of the mountains. Now the plains were lost, taken by the horde—the army—of Ankhar. Who knew how long the city itself would last?

The duke felt a stranglehold of fear, like a fist clamped on his throat. He had to get away from here—he had to flee!

“What is it?” The Duchess of Solanthus, her face pale, confronted her husband as he paced back and forth in his private offices. She was a beautiful woman, much younger than her husband, but now her face was drawn, almost haggard with worry. Duke Rathskell’s obvious fear only made her more terrified.

The Duke of Solanthus was wringing his hands, as he had been doing throughout the night. Couriers had been bringing him a steady stream of reports, and he knew that his city was nearly surrounded. The last news—that a great brigade of ogres had joined the foe—had driven him to an uncharacteristic burst of profanity. That outburst, emerging from beyond the closed door of his chamber, had brought his wife running in concern. He glared at her, then back at the message. Abruptly the duke crumpled the sheet and cast it aside with a furious gesture.

“I must get the Stones of Garnet away from here!” he declared. “The Lord Regent commands it—he needs them to bolster the knighthood across Solamnia!”

“But … Rathsky? You always said those stones were yours, to be used as you see fit! Not for Bakkard du Chagne or the other dukes. Isn’t that right?” she asked, as sweetly as she dared.

“I see fit now to take them away from here!” he snapped.

“But the goblins!” gasped the duchess, waving in the general direction of the city walls. “They have ogres and draconians with them too! There must be ten thousand of them out there! They could attack at any moment! Should we really be worrying about the stones”