Douglas Niles - The Crown and the Sword

“My lords!” he shouted, thundering closer and pulling up in a skidding stop. “Treachery! Ankhar’s Thorn Knights-at least one of them-has appeared in the ravine. He has created a cloud of deadly gas that sinks and slithers along the trail, killing every man caught within. The survivors are fleeing back toward the river, but the cloud is moving quickly-it seems certain they are all doomed.”

“The bastard!” snarled Dayr. “We should have kept the archers in position-we could pick off those goblins and show him the fruits of his treachery!”

Jaymes ignored his general, instead striding up to the nearby signalman who stood listening to the scout’s report in shock, his banners neatly coiled at his feet. “Raise the red pennant-now!” snapped the marshal.

Quickly the man did as he was told. Another scout rode up, confirming that the men of the trapped company were perishing in the magically conjured gas cloud. The Thorn Knight, of course, had teleported away immediately; there was no chance of exacting vengeance upon the villain. The lord marshal displayed no reaction upon hearing this news, even as his general practically wept with frustration and rage.

The crimson banner snapped in the breeze as the flagman hoisted it upon a slender pole. He waved it back and forth in response to the marshal’s curt command. Dayr and the nearby soldiers watched anxiously, knowing better than to ask Jaymes what was going on. Below, the vile gas, a greenish yellow in color, seeped from the bottom of the ravine. No man could escape that corridor of death.

The cliffs above the fleeing goblins suddenly shattered in a gout of smoke, fire, and blasted rock. The huge shelf of stone split free from the canyon wall and tumbled down toward the helpless warriors, burying some in the cloud of debris and carrying the rest to doom on the rocks a hundred feet below. Several breaths passed before the sound of the explosions-a stunning eruption of noise that bellowed and rumbled through the canyon like a violent thunderstorm-reached the watchers on top of the cliff.

“You placed charges there?” Dayr asked in astonishment. “You didn’t trust the truce?”

The marshal shrugged. “Captain Powell made the arrangements. The red flag was the signal to light the fuses,” he said.

Debris continued to tumble downward, an avalanche of stone and gravel and dust that swept the cliff and the winding trail clean of goblins. So great was the destruction that, in many places, the entire pathway was carved away from the cliff. A cloud of dust lingered for a long time, obscuring their view, but as it gradually settled toward the water, it became clear that not a single one of the enemy warriors had survived the blast.

General Dayr wondered aloud. “The black powder is precious… and the preparations are always extensive. Had you planted the explosives in case Ankhar betrayed you? Or… you were planning to ignite those fuses all along?”

Jaymes looked at him, his expression cold and emotionless. “This is war,” he said curtly. “And the objective is to kill the enemy. I know this, and Ankhar knows this.”

And the war would go on.

Jaymes ordered his army to concentrate all three wings on the west bank of the Vingaard, south of the great fork in the middle of the plains. The generals put his orders into action while he himself traveled with only the two dozen Freemen of his personal guard. Captain Powell knew his commander well enough that, for the most part, the escorting knights rode several hundred yards behind Jaymes. The party followed the meandering course of that mighty river, so the lord marshal could enjoy a few days of relative leisure before immersing himself again in the complexities of command.

At last he turned the little roan mare due south, riding with purpose now. The column tightened up. The marshal passed the first pickets of the army camp some ten miles out. These veteran scouts, in leather armor with their fleet, long-legged steeds, were not surprised to see their leader riding across the flat steppe at the head of a small company. Even before they waved him through their outposts, the scouts detached galloping riders to carry word of the lord marshal’s approach to the main camp.

Soon Jaymes could make out the vast spread of his army’s tent city gathered around the officers’ encampment, where plain brown domes rose above the lesser dwellings. Horse corrals were small, scattered among the units so the mounts were close to their riders. A large pasture, well guarded, had been established to the rear, where hundreds of cattle-used both as cargo haulers and food-grazed.

When the dukes had ruled these troops, each noble’s tent had been a huge, colorful pavilion, with attendant dwellings for retainers, courtiers, and other key members of the ducal entourage. Whole wagon trains had been devoted to luxuries such as crystal dinner services, silk tablecloths, and padded thrones. A central part of the camp would typically have been set aside for formations, parades, jousting, and other elaborate games.

But those days were gone. Now the officers, from the generals down to the platoon captains, dwelled in nondescript shelters of the same nondescript denim-larger than the tents of the enlisted troops only insofar as space was needed for map tables, rosters, and signaling equipment. Undistinguished, perhaps, but they also made it difficult for an enemy to determine where they would find the important leaders of the Solamnic Army. As an added benefit, the common men in the line understood that their officers shared their living conditions, and this boosted morale.

Lord Marshal Jaymes had appointed his officers based upon their demonstration of military ability, not because of any accident of birth. True, his three army generals-Dayr of the Crowns, Markus of the Rose, and Rankin of the Swords-had been captains under the dukes. Still, each had proved on the field that he was skilled and trustworthy; each merited the responsibility of his command.

The rank of lord marshal was new to the Solamnic military hierarchy. Jaymes had created it for himself after being awarded the united command two years earlier, when his steadfast leadership-as well as his discovery of explosive black powder-had saved Solamnia from Ankhar’s horde. After the horde had been halted on the brink of attacking Caergoth, the nobles had had little choice but to reward their savior with supreme command. In the years since, Jaymes had slowly driven the invaders back, liberating Thelgaard and Garnet, finally clearing them from the entire reach west of the Vingaard.

Many of the men still referred to Jaymes as the Lord of the Rose, and he accepted this honorific when it was offered. Others called him the Lord of No Sign. For though his banner incorporated elements of all three orders of the knighthood, he was comfortable riding about in his plain woolen poncho, displaying no heraldry whatsoever.

Riding the roan at an amble, Jaymes made his way through the outer camp. These were the pikemen and archers who could form ranks in a matter of moments to defend the perimeter, while the knights with their more elaborate accoutrement armored themselves and their horses before supplying reinforcements. He was recognized by many as he approached and accepted the salutes and cheers of his men with a gracious nod to the right and left, or the raising of his hand toward a man or a company of particular note.

Many of these men had won great victories for their marshal. The Vingaard pikes, woodsmen from the mountains who wielded their long wooden pole arms with unflinching discipline, were often the first responders. Many a charge of warg-riding goblins had been broken by their iron will, and one regiment of pikemen served in each of the three armies. He rode now past the Southshore Longbows, deadly archers from across the coast of the Newsea. The dwarves of the Kaolyn Axers, not to be outdone, raised their foaming tankards aloft and roared a lusty toast to their commander, who politely declined the invitation to stop at the dwarven campfires for a friendly tankard or three.