Lord of the Rose (26 page)

Guardsmen made way for the rider. One, taking note of the rose emblazoned on the man’s breastplate, turned and shouted, “A messenger from Caergoth arrives!”

Duke Jarrod emerged from the tent, shrugging an oilskin cape over his broad shoulders, looming above the attendants and nobles clustered around him. His beard bristled, and his huge hands were clenched, as if he sought already to strike a blow against some new foe.

“What word from your lord, man?” Jarrod demanded, his voice booming out as the horseman reined in.

“Duke Walker’s vanguard is eight miles away—the bulk of his army no more than twelve, Excellency,” reported the rider, slipping from the saddle and kneeling on the muddy ground before Jarrod. “He is making camp for the night but expects to cross the river first thing in the morning. He will arrive here by mid-day.”

“Ah, you bring good news, at last,” the huge lord said, his bearded face breaking into a broad grin, fists unclenching as he clapped his hands in relief. “With Caergoth beside us, we will bring this rabble to heel for good!” He turned to one of his officers. “Captain Dayr—send word to Duke Rathskell. We will count on him to hold the left and let Caergoth fill the middle as soon as he crosses the river. My own force shall stand here on the left, anchored on the bank of the Upper Vingaard.”

“Very good, Excellency,” Dayr said with a nod. He was a smaller version of his lord, bearded and swarthy, with well-muscled forearms outlined by the black silk of his soaking sleeves. He hastened away, calling for a scribe to ready pen and parchment.

More shouts came from guards at the eastern edge of the encampment, and before Dayr had even finished the flowery introduction—he was still reciting “Lord of the Sword, Master of the Garnet Spur”—the intended recipient came riding up to the headquarters tent with an entourage of a dozen officers and nobles.

“My lord!” exclaimed Thelgaard in genuine surprise, as Duke Nathias Rathskell of Solanthus slid from his saddle with a dancer’s grace. His thin rapier was, as usual, balanced at his side, but he looked down in distaste as his feet sank a couple of inches into the muddy ground of his rival’s camp. “I had just ordered word sent to you—we hear that Caergoth is but a half day’s march away.”

Rathskell’s thin face brightened a bit at this news, but his familiar scowl returned. “That is indeed encouraging,” Rathskell
allowed, “but we must needs address the gap between our forces. I stand east of the river, in line and ready to meet the foe coming up from the south. I had expected that you would draw out your own force to meet me. We now have a gap of some two miles between our forces.”

Thelgaard waved away the complaint. “That gap is Caergoth’s. He will have five thousand men across the river in the morning. They will secure our center.”

The Duke of Solanthus peered to the west. “How do you know he will come?” he asked.

Jarrod gestured to the recently arrived messenger, who hurried forward and repeated his lord’s declaration. Still, Solanthus remained unconvinced. “My own outriders report that the horde is but a day’s march south of us. If Caergoth is delayed, we leave ourselves open to defeat in detail. The gap is a danger.

“Bring your forces up to mine, then,” Thelgaard said with an indifferent shrug. “I have my own right anchored on the Upper Vingaard, and I do not care to relinquish that security. If you are too timid to await developments on the plain, all you need do is march into the gap on your right, joining me here. You should have nothing to fear, then.”

Rathskell glowered but managed to suppress his anger and reply. “A
simple
march, at night, in the rain, leaving my tents and baggage train exposed? I think not. Besides, I am stretched thin as it is, and if I pull too far this way I leave our whole force open to a flanking maneuver, if this Ankhar takes his troops on a wide circuit away from the river.”

“You give this scoundrel, this half-giant leading the ogre horde, credit for cleverness he does not possess,” said Thelgaard.

“He was clever enough to overwhelm Garnet in one afternoon,” Solanthus responded. “I would have a care not to underestimate him, if I were you.”

“You worry about your concerns, and I will worry about mine. Did you not hear about Mason’s Ford? Five days ago, a few knights and a rabble of peasants were enough to give these wretches pause. Do not inflate your fears, my good duke.”

Rathskell’s face flushed at the insult, but he grimaced and once again maintained his poise. “Yes, I heard about that fight—and a noble stand it was. Perhaps this barbarian, this Ankhar, will learn from his mistakes. He has crossed the North Garnet and comes toward us swiftly enough. He may not repeat his blunt tactics again.”

“You jabber like an old woman! He is a monster, an illiterate subhuman!” Thelgaard proclaimed, to the approving nods of his own entourage. Let his men see how a
real
lord infused his men with confidence!

“Surely you can spare a screening force, at least? Horsemen who could cover the gap and report on any developments?” Though Rathskell was making an effort to be reasonable, his mustache was quivering with indignation. “You have yourself in a square formation here, covering a mere quarter mile of frontage, with half your force arranged solidly on the riverbank. I have the same amount of men spread out in a line two miles long!”

“Your deployments are your own concern, of course,” Jarrod of Thelgaard replied. “I have simply taken wise precautions to see that I cannot be outflanked. I do not intend to place the safety of my army in the hands of anyone other than myself.”

“Suit yourself, then,” Solanthus replied through clenched teeth. “You well know that I cannot close the gap, since I would place both of our forces open to a flanking run across the plains—and it would cut me off from my own city, if Ankhar moves east. We must count on Caergoth to uphold his promise. But if they come through that gap, Excellency”—he sneered at the honorific—“you understand that you will be on your own.”

“That,” said Thelgaard, a broad grin cracking the bristle of his great beard, “is a risk that I am well prepared to take.”

He was still grinning as his noble counterpart mounted and led his party of officers back into the rainy night.

Ankhar raised his hand, thrusting the glowing speartip high over his head in the rain-soaked night. The green light,
Hiddukel’s blessing, stabbed through the murk and mist, a beacon to all his vast legions. The half-giant howled as he waved that enchanted weapon back and forth, feeeling the rush of power surge through his veins.

The great horde numbered more than six thousand now, with several more tribes of gobs having come down from the mountains, drawn like bees to honey as word of the sacking of Garnet spread. From the high valleys they had joined the ranks, eager and willing to obey his orders, with the promise of more pillage and plunder just ahead.

The trading center of Luinstat was to be his next target, and he knew the markets and warehouses there were stuffed with goods from across Solamnia. Three armies of knights had emerged from their cities to defend the place, but at last report the human forces remained scattered, with the largest still on the other side of the river. The two smaller armies stood nearly astride Ankhar’s northward path.

“Halt!” roared the hulking commander, and the thousands of troops around him immediately came to a standstill upon that command. The half giant nodded, pleased at the increased discipline, the steadiness of march and unity of purpose that his followers had developed, improving with every passing day.

“You learn!” he crowed. “You march together now, like veteran soldiers. You attack together! Attack when Ankhar gives the order, not when you see foe. Sometimes Ankhar tell you to retreat. Sometimes retreat can turn enemy into fools!

“These my words. They are Truth!”

“Truth! Ankhar! Truth!” The cry was echoed from six thousand throats, the deep sound booming across the plains. Again and again the goblins and hobgoblins echoed the words.

“We make camp here for the night, brave ones,” Ankhar roared. “Prince of Lies tells me that tomorrow we feast on blood!”

The answering roar washed across the great leader’s shoulders. He didn’t feel the rain, and even the thick shroud of the night was naught but a filmy barrier to his keen, dark-sensitive
eyes. Now those eyes made out Laka coming towards him. The old crone grinned, making a display of her sharp teeth, shaking the rattle she had made from the skull of a human slain in the sacking of Garnet.

“Portents favorable, mighty lord,” the crone cackled. “Humans have doubts. They fear Ankar’s might, cunning, and courage.”

“That what I hoped,” he replied evenly. “Will Hiddukel aid us?”

“No doubt, son. He whisper doubts in lordly ears, shake courage of men when they sleep. He sew confusion and hesitation so you, chosen one, may reap harvest in blood.”

Ankhar raised his broad nostrils, sniffed the moist air, and nodded in pleasure. “I smell wolf. Outriders approach.”

His warriors were making their crude beds on the open plain—no tents and bedrolls necessary for these hearties!—as the first of the worg-riders loped into camp. The massive wolves seemed to grin with their long tongues hanging down from their fanged jaws. Several of the goblin riders slipped from their saddles and hastened to approach the hulking war-leader.

“What word of foes?” demanded Ankhar.

The captain of the scouts, the lean and wiry goblin known as Rib Chewer, knelt in the mud at the half-giant’s feet. “My lord, they appear confused. There is one force solid upon the riverbank, no more than two leagues south of here. Compact like a hedgehog it is, a camp bristling with spears. But blind and stupid as a hedgehog too—with no outriders or pickets more than an arrow’s flight from the main body.”

“Which troops are these?”

“They fly the banner of the White Crown, lord. The other group of knights, they who flaunt the sigil of the silver sword, is a league away from the crowns, away from the river. They are poised in line on the plain, facing to the south, and very well-entrenched it seems.”

“There a league of space between them?”

“Aye, lord,” the goblin replied. “There is nary a picket nor a watchman in all that gap. The Sword Knights have a line at least
as long, with outriders even farther toward the mountains. They gave us a merry chase, but their great steeds could not perform on the muddy ground.”

“No.” The half-giant nodded in satisfaction. He knew that the wolves were light and lean, steady of endurance and quick and savage in attacking. They made perfect light cavalry, especially when they were guided by the most intelligent and articulate of his scouts.

“What about other great army, Rose Lord’s troops? They look so splendid and move like drunken snails.” Ankhar scowled into the night. That was the force that worried him most, those gleaming knights on horseback and in chariots, the catapults and ranks of deadly crossbows. He had been dismayed to learn, from his oracle, Laka, that the mighty Rose Lord’s army had marched from Caergoth, but they had approached the river at a very lackluster pace, and he hoped that his own rapid advance would bring him to battle before the Rose Lord was on the field.

“They are nearby, lord,” reported the goblin scout, “but they have yet to cross the river. They are gathered just beyond the nearest ford but made camp early, with great tentings and tarpings to hold off the rain, and fires to warm chilly human flesh. They cook and boast, even as they shiver and stare into the darkness. They are blind as moles and did not even see us as we skulked through the night.

“Good. This as I hoped. You think they stay there for long time?”

“I cannot be sure, great lord. They were not digging, as humans do when they wish to make a dirt-fort. So they may be planning to cross the river in the morning.”

“We not give them time,” Ankhar decided. “Rib Chewer, gather worg riders. Strike mountain flank of Sword army before dawn. Your wolves make the attack. Hold back a dozen. They beat drums. Sound like marching troops.”

“Marching, O great lord? Not riding?” Rib Chewer narrowed his eyes, trying to imagine the half-giant’s strategy.

“Aye. They sound like army marching around their flank, at
foot of mountains. Make lord believe you there in great numbers, that we try to go around his left and make for city. Strike quickly, then dance away. Do not let them unite strength against your fleet riders.”

The goblin scout grinned, a wicked slash of sharpened teeth gleaming across his leathery face. “It shall be as you wish, my lord. They will chase and harry, but not catch us.”

“Yes. Go now. Ride through the night,” Ankhar said, pleased with all he had heard. “Strike before first dawn. In the darkness, humans easy to confuse.”

“What of the rest of great army? Thousands of gobs and hobs, all thirsting for blood?” Laka asked, as she sidled up behind the great war leader, giving him a momentary start—he whom she had suckled at her breast when he was an orphaned babe. “You not make us wait here in the darkness, my lord?”

“No,” Ankhar said, shaking his great, shaggy head in annoyance. “Important work at riverbank. Test this hedgehog. See how sharp are his quills.”