Douglas Niles - Lord of the Rose

Go along bank! Swim! Get after them! Kill them!”

Spittle flew from Ankhar’s jaw as he roared commands at the mass of his troops milling around on the north bank of the Garnet River. His frustration was so great he was trembling. Pacing in agitation, he kicked more than one slow-moving goblin so hard he broke its bones.

The smoke had drifted away by now, revealing huge gaps in the bridge that had stood for more than a dozen centuries. At least four of the vast support pillars were smoking wrecks. He didn’t know how many of his troops had perished in the hellish eruptions, but certainly many hundreds. What kind of terrible magic had these cursed knights used against him? He looked around, wanting to shake an explanation out of Hoarst, but the Thorn Knight was missing.

“Move!” he bellowed, waving his spear at a group of hobgoblins hesitantly probing the marshy bank. Three of them leaped into the water and were carried downstream by the current. Flailing and splashing, they tried to return to the shore, but only one-aided by the clasping hands of his comrades-was able to reach safety. The other two went under and didn’t come up.

“Wait!” The voice came to him as though from a distance, familiar, but irritating him like a bug that wouldn’t go away. “My son-wait!”

Ankhar heard the cry only after Laka had repeated it many times. He ordered his units to spread out along the bank, to seek a crossing of the Garnet River so he could continue the campaign against the shattered Solamnic Army. Finally the half giant turned to glare down at his foster mother.

“See-bridge gone!” he roared. He gestured to the long, ragged files of weary soldiers on the far bank, shuffling in the direction of Caergoth. “That army beaten-but it getting away! I must destroy!”

His frenzied anger would have driven any other member of his army into panicked retreat, but not his wizened foster-mother. Laka put a frail hand on the half-giant’s great paw, and-though he wanted to brush her away-he could not ignore her insistent touch.

“Listen to prince!” the old she-hob said, shaking the rattle she had made from Duke Rathskell’s head.

The eyes glowed, and the jaw spoke. Ankhar scowled at the talisman but knew that he must listen-he had to listen.

“Enough of blood,” came the hissing commands.

“For now did fall,

“The river stands

“A fortress wall.”

“But…” He waved his hand at the escaping Solamnic formations.

“Listen to Prince of Lies,” Laka repeated. “To you, he speaks Truth. Remember: Truth!”

The half-giant rubbed his fingers across his eyes, trying to hold back the headache that was starting to throb. He hated this Truth, but he knew that his mother and their dark god must be right.

“One time before you make war without prince’s blessing,” Laka reminded him unnecessarily.

Indeed, Mason’s Ford stuck in his memory like a thorn. On that occasion he had attacked merely because he felt the impulse to do so. He had ignored his own warriors’ disorganization and fatigue and hurled his troops against a feeble defense that had, nonetheless, inflicted the only defeat Ankhar had suffered. It was a defeat that would have been avoided if he had taken the counsel of Hiddukel and Laka.

“You win so much!” his foster mother reminded him in a whisper, her eyes glowing with pride. “You shatter cities of knighthood! You break their armies. You have surrounded city of Cleft Spires-now you lay siege to it! You not need to drown army in river.”

Ankhar nodded. His agitation melted away.

“You right,” he said. He raised his voice, shouting to his captains-Bloodgutter, Rib Chewer, Dirtborn, Blackgaard, and the rest-who stood nervously nearby, waiting for his orders.

“Stop attack. Camp here. We rest. Enjoy spoils.”

And those spoils, he admitted with some pride, were great. Not just the treasures and provisions they had gained in sacking Garnet, Thelgaard, Luinstat. No… his gains were greater than all that.

“Est Sudanus oth Nikkas.” He murmured the phrase quietly, looking to the north and relishing the great Truth:

All that vast plain belonged to him.

The city gates stood open, and the few knights still on duty actually flinched away from Jaymes as he rode into Caergoth at full gallop. Everywhere he saw signs of the defeat-wounded men on porches, in alleys, even stableyards. Sergeants-major shouted and cajoled. Shamefaced men-many lacking the weapons they had dropped on the long retreat-took positions on the walls, in the gatehouse. Others marched with lackluster gait but with some semblance of discipline toward the castle or other defense points.

The exhausted men were fearful of pursuit, but Jaymes knew they were safe, for now. Following the destruction of the bridge, the army of Ankhar would be stopped at the Garnet River for a long time. Dram, Sulfie, and Salty Pete were not far behind him, making their way to the city as fast as their legs could carry them. Coryn had flown to destinations of her own, riding the wings of magic.

Within the city, Jaymes paid little attention to the disorganized army as he guided the horse along the city’s wide central avenue. A great plaza that had been the site of a teeming marketplace was now so empty he could cross it at full speed. The hooves of his horse clattered across the flagstones as, finally, he rode past the Temple of Shinare, with the great golden scales on the doors, and drew up before the gate of Castle Caergoth itself.

The great drawbridge was down, but several guards hurried into position to block his path. Two of them carried long halberds while the third drew his sword and stood firmly in the middle of the wooden span. Jaymes pulled his own weapon and waved it high.

“Get out of my way!” he snarled, sweeping the great weapon in a circle. “I have business with your duke!”

This proved persuasive, and the men cleared out of his path. One shouted a warning across the courtyard as Jaymes continued toward the keep, his horse stumbling and only gradually slowing.

“Guards! It’s the Assassin! Take him!”

The cry came from Captain Reynaud, who stood with drawn sword before the door of the keep. His black, curling mustache quivered as he glared at the rider. Several knights emerged from a door at the side of the courtyard, but like the guards at the drawbridge they displayed a marked lack of enthusiasm.

“You men-stand fast!” barked the officer. “See that he doesn’t get out of here!”

More men came running, blocking off the drawbridge. Others dropped a portcullis, closing access to the courtyards deeper in the castle complex. After a quick glance to make sure no archers were drawing a bead on his back, Jaymes dismounted smoothly.

“You returned quickly from the battle,” he drawled to Reynaud, still holding the sword in one hand. “You and your boss should have stayed around for the real fighting.”

The captain came forward, holding a great sword in both his hands. “Drop your weapon or die!” he challenged.

Jaymes merely laughed.

“Murderous bastard! How dare you!” spat the captain, dropping into a fighting crouch.

The man called the Assassin took the hilt of his own weapon in both hands. He twisted, and Giantsmiter flared brightly in the castle courtyard. Reynaud put up his left hand to shield his eyes, but he didn’t retreat one step. He waited, his sword extended.

Jaymes advanced and took a swing. The flaming blade hissed and crackled through the air, and there was no mistaking the fear that flashed in Reynaud’s eyes. Jaymes stepped closer, slashed again and again, each blow forcing his opponent back.

“Attack him, you fools!” cried the officer, gesturing to the half dozen men standing before the portcullis. They started forward cautiously, as Jaymes attacked Reynaud.