Douglas Niles - Lord of the Rose

First across were the knights of the Ducal Guard on their uniformly colored horses. Next came the ranks of pikemen marching in crisp formation, the silver tips of their tall weapons glimmering like a field of diamonds. This column alone stretched more than a mile long. The pikemen were followed by legions of men armed with sword and shield, with more long ranks of those carrying crossbows. Finally the catapults and ballistae rumbled along, the great war machines pulled by straining oxen-even those ponderous beasts had been combed and brushed to a sheen, their tack polished and buckles shined to a dazzling brilliance.

Duke Crawford stood atop the bridge tower and watched the mighty column as it marched past. He allowed himself a moment of pride, reflecting that no force on all of Krynn could stand against his multitude on the battlefield. His captains saluted him, their horses prancing with heads held high. Trumpeters brayed, and festive banners and pennants snapped in the breeze.

In all, the column was more than ten miles long, each detachment formed of men loyal to him, sworn to the Oath and the Measure. They had come from Sancrist, Sanction, and Palanthas, from even farther outposts across the continent of Ansalon, but they would obey his orders alone. Every polished piece of equipment, each steel blade and razor-edged arrowhead, had been provided for such cause as he deemed right and proper. His great power almost made him swoon in his saddle.

“Why the glum face?” the duke asked Captain Marckus, who stood in the position of top honor on Crawford’s right. “Does it not look like a splendid army?”

“Aye, lord. There is no more splendid looking army. Please forgive my melancholy-I was but reflecting that the late duchess would have been delighted by the pageantry.”

“Ah, yes, the Lady Martha was always one to relish a display,” the duke allowed, grimacing. Marckus was always reminding him of the last thing he wanted to remember. As a practical man, he had come to see the death of his wife-distasteful as the whole affair had been-as a blessing. Now he was free to seek a truly worthy wife!

His mind wandered to the Princess Selinda. He recalled the golden sheen of her hair, the breathtaking swell of her breasts beneath her velvet gown. Now that was a woman who would make a proper wife! Not only that-by virtue of her own rank, she could raise a duke to the status of a king. The duke imagined Selinda’s certain delight when he communicated to her, hopefully in person, news of the great victory he was about to win. He wished she could be there to welcome him when he returned, victorious, from the field of battle-what a perfect moment!

Now, as the duke stood on the tower and watched, it took more than three hours for his army to make the crossing. In fact, he stepped back from the brink several times for refreshment, and once even enjoyed a short nap under the shade of a hand-held awning. When he awoke, his troops were still marching past! They gave a hearty cheer as he again appeared at the battlement and offered them an encouraging wave.

Impatient at last, he climbed down the many steps from the tower, mounted his charger, and started to ride away. He passed uncomfortably close to the ruined manor of Lord Lorimar-the blackened, burned structure seemed to stare ominously at him. He spurred his horse forward, cantered along the side of the great column as it advanced northward. He knew that he cut a dashing figure as he rode his stallion, trailed by a dozen or so men of his entourage.

Caergoth was going to war! He felt a twinge of nervousness, suddenly conscious that this was real war. The news from the east was dire. The horde of Ankhar had sacked Thelgaard. Solanthus was isolated, the duke slain. Crown and Sword had been humbled by a mere barbarian chieftain. It was time for the Knights of the Rose to set matters right. The Lord of that order, Duke Crawford of Caergoth, was just the man to command the forces of good.

The excitement of the march diminished considerably in the following days as they steadily moved northward along the road. One the second day the Garnet Mountains rose into view on the eastern horizon, but the force passed only within a dozen miles of the outlying foothills.

The great body of the infantry, the foot soldiers who were the backbone of this and every other army, plodded along stolidly in the center of the great formation. The individual units were spread out in a fan-like pattern so they could respond to a threat from either flank. A strong screen of heavy cavalry brought up the rear. The baggage train and war machines were in the middle of the infantry columns, securely protected against threat from any side.

Caergoth’s outriders, his light cavalry, swept the plains ahead of his army. Soon reports began to arrive, and they were exactly as the duke had anticipated: The horde of Ankhar was heading south to meet them. The enemy, too, was closing his ranks, massing his great army into a single phalanx.

The army of Caergoth slowed as it continued north. No longer was the army spread along a ten-mile stretch of the road. Now they marched in block formations, covering a half-mile frontage. Only a small portion of the army could actually use the paved roadway. At least the catapults and other war machines, as well as the wagon trains hauling supplies, ammunition, and everything from portable smithies to huge stocks of coal, could still roll along the highway dating back to the days of the Empire.

It was when they passed the border of Southlund that they began to smell the nearby Garnet Mountains. The ruin of the city of Garnet, scene of Ankhar’s first conquest, appeared like a blackened scar, and the troops grew quiet, deadly serious, as they marched past. It was only a few miles north of the devastated fortress-city and a similar distance west of the mountains that they finally got scouting reports of the army of Ankhar.

The outriders rode as close as they could, though they were driven back by sweeping charges of goblins on their worg mounts. The light cavalry of the knights exchanged battle with these lupine riders in a number of sharp skirmishes, with neither side prevailing. The duke knew his horsemen were feeling the size of the enemy, gathering information on its dispositions, its line of march, and its order of battle.

There were whole regiments of battle-hardened hobgoblins, huge swaths of ground covered by the winged draconians, and more and more goblins spilling down from the mountains.

Finally the duke called a halt. His army camped in a broad front, all units facing the north. The catapults and ballistae were positioned among the infantry, with archers dispersed along the great line. Crawford ordered his men to dig a deep, steep-walled trench more than three miles long that would defend the northern edge of his position. This ditch was lined with spiked poles, while the artillery captains drilled the catapults, studying the ranges on the field, even going so far as to stake out distance markers so that, when the enemy attacked, they would be able to shoot accurately.

The wooded slopes of the Garnet foothills anchored the right side of the line, while the vast left, where the plains allowed maneuvering room, was protected by more than a thousand knights on horseback.

A mile to the north, the barbaric warriors of Ankhar made their own camp, and the two armies spent an uneasy night staring across the gap at each others’ campfires, and wondering if the morning would bring a dawn of bloodshed and death, or victory.

Jaymes traveled south from Thelgaard, avoiding the patrols of goblins and draconions that roamed everywhere. He wended his way through the separated camps of Ankhar’s army. The next morning he saw the black ranks surge forward and knew the city would fall under the onslaught of Ankhar’s army.