Douglas Niles - The Crown and the Sword

“That’s not the point!” protested the priest.

Dayr and Markus exchanged nervous glances-even Jaymes’s highest-ranking generals were not so quick to bluntly contradict the army commander.

“Now, lad,” said Markus sternly, clearing his throat. “Remember your place. This is the lord marshal you’re addressing.”

“I know!” said Templar dismissively. “But it’s a matter that needs to be addressed. Thus far this army has been blessed by remarkable success-the gods have smiled upon us! But if we don’t take that obligation seriously, who knows how long this favor will last?”

“What obligation, exactly, do you mean?” asked Jaymes softly.

“Why, the obligation to the great legacy of Solamnia! Of Vinas Solamnus, who forged these scattered realms into an empire! And to the noble lords who have carried his legacy on through the ages!”

“Noble lords, such as Duke Walker of Caergoth? Who killed his own wife to further his ambitions? Who betrayed his fellow dukes and allowed hundreds, even thousands, of brave men to die because he was reluctant to spend his treasury, too lazy to leave the protection of his city walls? You mean that legacy?” Jaymes’s voice took on an edge.

“Yes! I mean, well, no-not that part of Walker’s character. Surely, he made mistakes. But he was corrupted by the Prince of Lies! It was Hiddukel who turned him from the path of righteousness!”

“But he took the Oath, did he not? In fact, he administered the Oath to countless recruits, good men who became knights.”

“Yes, exactly! It was the Oath… I mean… but it’s important! The Oath must be preserved and furthered as best we can. Surely you can see that.”

Jaymes nodded, pausing before he replied. “Yes, the Oath is important when it is spoken by one who believes that to which he swears. And so it shall be in the Army of Solamnia. You can teach the men-and the dwarves-about the Oath and the Measure and the legacy of Vinas Solamnus. But nobody will be required to speak that oath, nor shall any soldiers in this army be criticized or harangued for failure to speak its credo.”

“But-”

“Son, I think the lord marshal has made his wishes known. Thanks for bringing your concerns to us.” Dayr spoke brusquely.

Templar, finally, seemed to get the hint. He looked glum as he rose, but he bowed with stiff formality and nodded to the commanders. “And thank you, my lords, for hearing me,” he said before turning and shuffling off into the gathering darkness.

The lord regent’s palace overlooked the city of Palanthas and the splendid, deep-water Bay of Branchala from a mountain vantage outside of the city’s walls-the walls that could, in truth, no longer be said to contain the vibrant metropolis. In fact, much of this splendid city now sprawled outside the ring of ancient fortifications. These outlying districts included the splendid manors of nobles as well as the stockyards and corrals necessary for the bustling commerce that was the city’s lifeblood. Markets, artisans, and manufactories lined the wide highway leading to the inner city.

Within the palace halls, on this early evening, an elegantly dressed nobleman made his way toward the regent’s drawing room bearing an expression of quiet satisfaction. By the time he reached the chamber and was admitted, he was smiling broadly.

“I thank you for your intercession, my lord,” said the man. “Your daughter has consented to accompany me to the Nobles Ball next month.”

“Ah, Lord Frankish. Good. I knew she would,” said Lord Regent Bakkard du Chagne. He was a short, pudgy man with only a thin layer of hair on his head, but his visitor-as well as most others in this city-knew that his unassuming looks were deceptive. Du Chagne was the most powerful man in Palanthas, descended from a long line of stewards who had held authority in the city since the end of the lineage of Solamnic kings. His influence, and money, was enough to intimidate other powerful persons in Solamnia-with the notable exception of the Lord Marshal Jaymes Markham.

“In fact,” the regent went on, his voice dropping conspiratorially. “I encouraged her to welcome your approaches. She needs someone like you-a man of good station and impeccable loyalty-to guide her future.”

Lord Frankish was also one of the wealthiest nobles in northern Ansalon, and while this, too, counted as an important factor in the lord regent’s favor, neither man felt that this asset needed to be voiced aloud. In addition, Frankish was the commanding general of the Palanthian Legion. This large, well-trained, and well-equipped force had been serving as the lord regent’s personal army since shortly after the fall of Mina and the Dark Knights.

Only then did Lord Frankish notice two other men present in the drawing room. One was the tall, dour priest, the Clerist Lord Inquisitor Frost; the other was Sir Russel Moorvan, a magic-user and Solamnic Kingfisher knight.

“Good sirs,” said Frankish with a polite bow. Frankish was more a man of action, an accomplished swordsman and equestrian, but he understood that these two men were policy advisers who were equally important to the lord regent.

“We are discussing matters on the plains,” du Chagne announced, “and would be pleased to have you join us, my lord.”

The plains, Frankish knew, meant Lord Marshal Jaymes Markham. The four men were united in their firm belief that the upstart army commander-a man of common birth! — was an irritant that they could not continue to ignore. So long as his army was occupied fighting Ankhar’s barbarians, it was hoped that he would stay away from this great metropolis. But as soon as that campaign was resolved, there was nothing to prevent him from marching to Palanthas and offering the city his vaunted “protection.”

“His operations are very expensive,” the inquisitor observed. “Can you not cut his funding?”

“I have tried,” du Chagne said with a groan-and they all knew that he was a man who, insofar as it was possible, would clutch every coin in his treasury until it could be physically pried out of his hands. They took him at his regretful word. “But the families of the knights stay my hand. If they feel that I am not sufficiently supporting the war effort, they make things very difficult for me-very difficult indeed.”

“And how fares the campaign?” asked Moorvan, the Kingfisher.

“It is hard to tell-he shares little or no information with me,” admitted the lord regent.

“Haven’t we tried to place spies in his camp?” asked Frankish.

“Yes-and he willingly accepts any volunteers we send to him, but none of them is ever granted an ear at his councils. No, I suspect he rather enjoys sending my agents out on the front lines of battle.”

“Then what is to be done?” asked the inquisitor.

“We must keep watching and waiting,” said du Chagne. “And hope that, sooner or later, he fails miserably. Or makes a fatal mistake.”

The lord marshal’s tent was surrounded by alert pickets, who had sworn upon penalty of death to keep any intruders, potential assassins, or random nuisances from their master’s domain. Even so, no one noticed the small figure that darted stealthily from the horse corral, through the armory, past the smithy tent, and up to the very base of the army commander’s brown canvas shelter. Disdaining the entranceway, where two guards shifted their weight from foot to foot and stared vigilantly into the night, the figure lifted up the edge of the tent, pressed himself flat against the ground, and slipped inside.

He rose to his full height, about that of a human child, peering into the pitch darkness of the shelter’s interior. He crept to the low cot where Jaymes Markham lay sleeping. Extending a hand, the intruder poked sharply into the man’s face.