Douglas Niles - Lord of the Rose

Ankhar, in later years, could never reconstruct what impulse caused him to act in this fashion-but undoubtedly it had to do with the years of abuse, the vicious cruelty and bullying of his hated master. The giant abruptly brought his spear down, the steel head punching through the stiff bearskin of the hobgoblin’s breastplate, through the body underneath, and into the hard ground. There it stuck, the elm shaft rising up like a flagpole, quivering from the force of the lethal blow.

For a long moment-two or three heartbeats, at least-Ankhar gaped at the dying chieftain. The crowed seemed to share his reaction, as many edged back and a murmured gasp ran through the mass, spreading outward like ripples through still water.

“Bonechisel is dead!” croaked one subchief, looking not at the slain hobgoblin but at the giant who stood like a statue over the bleeding corpse.

“Ankhar killed him!” cried another, in a tone of triumph. “Hail Ankhar!”

“Ankhar! Ankhar!” The chant started with those on the steps of the mill-house, but quickly spread through the square, down the narrow streets, through the throngs on the surrounding hillsides.

“Ankhar! Ankhar!”

Time had stopped, and now it started to move again for the half-giant. He felt liberated and empowered-two sensations wonderful and unfamiliar. He looked through the crowd, trying to spot his mother, but Laka was invisible among the sea of faces.

Slowly, with a hesitation that might be mistaken for diginity and deliberation, Ankhar reached out to grasp the stout spear shaft. He flexed his powerful mucles and drew the shaft free, lifting Bonechisel’s body off the ground until he shook the weapon and the corpse dropped free.

The head of the spear was glowing, and the giant raised it curiously. He had inadvertently split the talisman of Hiddukel that the hobgoblin had worn over his heart. The vial had spilled forth its contents, an oily liquid that now slicked over the sharp, double-edged bit of his spearhead. The hard steel glowed with an emerald light that made it look as though the forged metal had just been pulled, cherry-hot, from the smith’s furnace.

Wonderingly, the half-giant raised the weapon to his face, touching the sharp edge with his fingers. It was cool to the touch.

“He is the favored one of the Prince of Lies!” cried Laka. The old shaman came beside him now, shaking a rattle made from the skull of a human. “See how the god favors him with the Emerald Fire! It is the Truth! Ankhar is the Truth!”

Ankhar raised the spear over his head and relished the cheer that erupted, spontaneously from ten thousand bloodthirsty throats. Holding the weapon by the base of the shaft, he extended the glowing head high into the air, where it seemed to spark and shine with light brighter even than the full, silver moon.

You sure you want to do this?” Dram Feldspar asked. The dwarf was slouched in the saddle, his mare stolidly plodding along the road beside the warrior’s gelding. The Garnet Mountains and the city of the same name were by now several days behind them.

The two riders were sunburned and dusty after crossing the dry plain. The previous day, the road had spanned a wide river on a splendid bridge, and here Dram had suggested they stop for a leisurely soaking, maybe an early camp. The warrior had looked across at a gaunt, burned-out structure on a bluff, a former manor house now in utter ruins, and insisted they keep going.

Now the outline of a lofty city was looming before them. A high wall of stone ramparts marked the end of the plains less than a mile away. Beyond that wall rose the houses and shops, the towers and forts, the docks and smithies, and the Gnome Ghetto of Caergoth. The great gray bulk of Castle Caergoth towered over the whole, ramparts and towers gleaming in the morning sun.

“Yes,” the warrior replied, after a very long pause. “I’m sure.”

Nodding and shrugging, the dwarf closed his mouth and rode along in silence-though not for long. His face brightened in inspiration.

“We don’t both have to go into Caergoth after all-I can enter the city, and find the gnome, and bring him out to you. We can meet you in one of these little plains villages along here where no one is likely to recognize you.”

“I’m going into the city, I said. Are you going to talk about it all day, or are you coming with me?”

The high wall, with its fortified gate-closed, and guarded by a full dozen Knights of Solamnia, all wearing the emblem of the Rose-stood less than half a mile away. The dwarf scowled and glowered, finally grunting his reply. “I go where you go.”

They allowed their horses to amble up to the gate. The two riders tried to look inconspicuous. Though each wore a knife at his belt, their other weapons were wrapped tightly among the bundles of gear strapped behind the saddles of each of their horses.

The dwarf’s eyes nervously flicked over to his companion-then adopted an air of nonchalance as they reined in before the two armored guards, who raised their halberds to block the roadway.

“State your names and your business in Caergoth,” declared one of the guards. The rest of the company watched idly from the shade against the base of the lofty wall, though several men had their crossbows cocked, the deadly weapons resting casually across their knees.

“My name’s Jahn Brackett,” said Dram, with an easy grin. “This here’s my old pal, Waler Sanction-son.”

The knight scrutinized the dwarf, after a quick glance at the warrior who slouched silently in his saddle. “You’re Kaolyn, aren’t you?”

The dwarf nodded with a pleased smile. “Right from the heart of the Garnet Range. Always have been, always will be.”

“And a Sanction-son, eh?” Coming around the head of Dram’s horse, the knight looked up at Waler. “You, you’re a long way from home. How’re things in Sanction these days?”

The warrior shrugged. “I haven’t been there for years. Still burning, last I heard.”

The knight laughed at that. “Still burning! I like that-hey, fellows. This guy says that Sanction is still burning!”

Several of the other knights chuckled. “Good thing them volcanoes haven’t gone out-what would they do for heat?” offered one.

“So, you two make an odd couple, to say the least,” said the sentry. “Dwarves keep to dwarves and men keep to men is what I usually see. State your business in Caergoth.”

“Looking for work,” Dram said. “The city under the mountains is nice, but I’ve taken a liking to sunshine and good, steel coin. We hear the city docks are busy, figure someone can use two more strong backs for loading and unloading all these ships people are talking about.”

The knight nodded approvingly. “You heard right, but you need to know about the duke’s edict: There is no carrying of long blades or throwing weapons on the city streets. Violation will cost you the weapon and might mean a turn in the city dungeon.”

“These little pig-stickers are all right, aren’t they?” asked the dwarf innocently, gesturing to the knives he and Waler wore at their belts, the warrior pulling his cape to the side so that the guard could inspect the weapon.

“No problem with those,” the sentry acknowledged. He turned and waved to someone up on the wall. A few seconds later the massive gate started to swing outward. “Good luck to you both, then-you’ll find plenty of work on the docks. Just follow this main road right through town. It will take you down the bluff and right to the waterfront.”

“Thank you kindly, Sir Knight!” Dram said with a bow and a flourish. His companion merely nodded and, with the gate partially open, the two riders led their horses into Caergoth.