Lord of the Rose (27 page)

Horns blared through the darkness, shrill alarms ringing across Duke Rathskell’s camp. The lord burst out of his tent, buckling on his rapier, dismayed to see it was still raining. There was no shred of daylight to break the impenetrable murk of the night.

“Curse this blackness,” he snapped. “What’s going on? Are we being attacked?”

“Excellency!” A torch-bearing guard ran up to him to report. In the garishly flaring light the man’s eyes were wild with fear. “The pickets on the left flank report a fierce assault. Goblins on worgs, striking hard. And sounds in the night, a drumbeat of marching footsteps! It seems as though the monsters are indeed stealing a march on us, coming around the east flank!”

“Damn the enemy’s cunning!” gasped the duke. “It is as I feared! The horde seeks to pass us by, to close upon Luinstat, perhaps even Solanthus itself, while all of our troops are here in the open.”

Captain Rankin, the leader of the infantry, came running from the darkness, anxiously buckling his sword. “What are your orders, Excellency?” he asked breathlessly.

“Pull in the pickets from the right,” Rathskell ordered. “Reinforce the left with everyone we have. Get the knights mounted, prepared for a countercharge! I will be boiled in oil before I let these wolf-riders get the best of veteran knights on good horses. We’ll show them how a
real
army does battle!”

He frowned as he gave the last order, remembering how the heavy war-horses had bogged down the previous night when they had tried to chase off a few worg-riding goblin scouts riding close. Still, there was nothing for it—without his knights mounted, he would be going to battle like a fighter with his feet nailed to the ground.

“What about Thelgaard?” asked Rankin. “Should we send to him for aid?”

Rathskell spat on the ground. “No. The stubborn fool will only cling to his trenches. Let him rot where he sits—if he cannot hear the sounds of our trumpets, let him slumber away like a baby while we do the man’s work of killing!”

A footman brought Rathskell’s charger up. The duke was making ready to mount when he thought of something else. “Even so,” Rathskell declared, “this Ankhar has displayed some wiles. I think we had best send a message to Caergoth and beseech his lordship to cross the river at the earliest light, to come up to the front with whatever haste he can muster,”

“Aye, lord—I will send two riders, at once! They will take separate paths to ensure that at least one of them gets through.”

“Good,” Rathskell said, swinging his lithe body into the saddle. In truth, he had faint hopes for Caergoth’s help.

The Duke of Thelgaard awakened to a gray dawn. A steady patter on his tent had kept him awake through most of the night, and his bulky frame stubbornly resisted his initial movements. Finally he was obliged to shout for his footman, and the
long-suffering servant immediately entered, helped the lord to sit up on his creaking cot, and fetched his boots, cloak, and chest-armor.

His aide entered and bowed as the lord was wrestling with his heavy, brass-buckled belt.

“Any reports from the night?” asked Thelgaard, who—as usual—had left instructions he not be disturbed except in the event of an emergency.

“There were sounds of disturbance off to the east, from Rathskell’s camp. Trumpets, some riders, but he sent no message.”

“Bah. The old woman is chasing shadows, no doubt,” grumbled the huge duke, giving his underarm a good scratching. “Our lines report no trouble?”

“No, lord. It has been a quiet night on all sides of the square.”

As the duke was buckling on his heavy steel breastplate—a family heirloom pre-dating the War of the Lance—sounds reached him. Not a sentry’s trumpet but the clash of steel against steel. A human voice shrieked in unmistakable agony.

“Impossible!” spat the duke. “There must be some fool making a mistake he will regret!” Thelgaard glared at his alarmed aide, who had the presence of mind to keep his mouth shut.

The huge lord snatched up his crown-emblazoned shield and lumbered from his tent, gaping in astonishment as he saw men dashing every which way. The noise of battle came from the south, along the flank of his square facing the expected goblin horde, but in the space of a few seconds the sounds had spread to the east. Torches flared, and screams rang out quite clearly from that direction.

He was under attack from two sides! Even as he tried to grasp this complicated circumstance—his mind flashed, unwillingly, to Solanthus’ warning about the gap between their two armies—a trumpet blared, signaling more enemy troops had been sighted.

This trumpet warning came from the north.

“Excellency! They’re striking us from three sides!” cried
Captain Dayr, racing up on his mount. “Goblins are coming against us in ranks. They’ve already rolled in the pickets, are hitting our main lines hard. They’ve got us trapped against the river and have started to penetrate the boundaries of the square!”

“Impossible!” snarled Thelgaard again, knowing it was all too possible. “How can they do that?” he asked lamely.

“They streamed through the gap in the darkness. The attacks were timed to start at first light. They strike with discipline and order, my lord, and seemed to have pinpointed the weakest links in our line. They stole a march on us!”

“What of Caergoth? Is he coming up fast?” the duke asked, feeling, almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth, that it was a vain hope. Duke Walker was a methodical man—his camp would barely be stirring at this hour, much less have completed the fording of the river, and the several-mile march needed to reach his allies.

Dayr shook his head impatiently.

“We
must
hold the lines—do you hear me?” demanded the duke.

“Aye, Excellency. We must indeed, or all will be lost!” Dayr put spurs to his horse, thundering toward the north as the sounds of battle rose to a crescendo.

“Where’s my sword?” demanded the duke, as another manservant stepped forward to offer him the great blade. Thelgaard felt better as he grasped the familiar hilt. Breaking into a lumbering run, he headed toward the entrenchments that marked the fortified boundary of his camp.

The situation that greeted his eyes was worse than he could have imagined. Over a hundred shrieking goblins, many waving blood-stained blades over their heads, were already
through
the line! Knights of the Crown were reacting with seasoned competence, a score of brave men forming a makeshift rank and standing against the assault, but the goblins were hurling themselves at the knights, and swords met in a din.

The surge of battle sent men staggering back, groaning, then returning to the fight with shouts. Dozens of the attackers fell in
the initial clash, but still more of their fellows poured through the breach that had been torn in the line, washing over the knights.

Thelgaard himself joined the defenders, now numbering only half of the initial twenty knights. His blade came down and hacked a gob in two, scattering several more on the back-stroke. More knights rushed into position, and standing shoulder to shoulder they finally stemmed the breach. Led by their roaring duke, the human fighters inched forward, driving the goblins back through the line of stakes that marked the camp boundary.

“Take that, you scum!” bellowed Jarrod of Thelgaard, laying about with his mighty sword.
This
was more like it—battling a savage foe toe to toe, smiting all about him, battle-blood pulsing through his veins!

A rank of archers came up beside him, crossbows snapping, silver darts plunging into the enemy. Many goblins fell, pierced by the deadly bolts that slammed their targets with more force than any arrow shot from a mere bow. The savage monsters fell back. They were surprisingly disciplined amidst the chaos. Now they halted, forming a solid line. Again and again the crossbows fired their lethal volleys, but for every goblin who fell it seemed two or three rushed to take his place.

The enemy’s archers were also at work, loosing crude wooden sticks that lacked the deadly killing power of the crossbow-launched, steel-headed missiles of the knights. But they vexed the knights, these lesser arrows, puncturing exposed necks and arms, here and there striking a knight in the eye. And there were so many of them! In the face of that deadly rain the Solamnics closed ranks, raised their shields, and edged forward to try and reclaim their ruptured northern line.

Then disaster from behind. In disbelief the duke spun around, saw similar breaches on the two other fronts of his camp. Goblins were running amok through the nobles’ tents, slashing through the canvas structures, knocking down poles. A few brave men stood against the onslaught but were ruthlessly cut down. Thelgaard shouted in anguish as he saw his young nephew, his sister’s eldest son, run through by a goblin spear.
The vile attacker, in the frenzied rapture of his kill, stopped to dance upon the bleeding corpse, stabbing the beardless youth again and again.

With an inarticulate cry, the lord turned back toward camp, but he never even got close. The collapse on the inland front—on that cursed gap Solanthus had tried to warn him about!—was by now catastrophic. Men streamed away from the attackers, exposing both the north and south lines. With a precision that astounded Thelgaard, this rabble of savages had broken a formed defense of trained knights! A horse, trailing guts from a long gash in its belly, lumbered past. A huge hobgoblin loped after it, and Thelgaard struck the brute down with a single blow.

Arrows were flying all around. One of them struck the duke in the shoulder, drawing a cry of pain. He plucked the missile out and threw it aside but found that his left arm was nearly paralyzed. Dropping his shield, wielding his sword in his right hand, he bellowed, trying to rally his faltering army.

There were so many goblins—a dozen rushed at him in the next instant, scores more charging behind. Some of these were huge hobgoblins with fanged muzzles, snapping and growling like berserk beasts. One slashed at him with a studded sword, and the duke was barely able to parry the blow, before pulling his own weapon back and stabbing the brute through the chest. Even as the hob died, several of his comrades swarmed around, slashing at Thelgaard with an array of wicked weapons. The duke had no choice but to stumble back with the rest of his army.

At least such of his army as still survived. There were dead humans everywhere, and others who had been wounded badly crawling or limping or piteously moaning. The attackers swept past the injured for now, concentrating their efforts on knights who still wielded their weapons. Thelgaard hacked right and left, cleaved hobgoblin after hobgoblin right through their leering muzzles, but the knights couldn’t stem the tide.

A flash of greenish light caught his eye, and he saw a monstrous barbarian striding among the enemy. The creature looked to be a giant, and he wielded a spear the size of a small tree trunk.
The tip of that weapon was the source of the eerie glow, and when the monster waved it above his head it seemed to inspire his brutal warriors into even greater depths of savagery.

This was Ankhar, the duke understood. Ankhar who had beaten him, humiliated him, destroying his prized army on the field of battle.

Thelgaard’s crossbowmen made a last stand at the end of the tents, firing volley after volley into the horde, driving back the foe for a few precious minutes so their comrades could slip past, try to form a last line, a semicircle in the rear of the camp, adjoining the riverbank. The duke roared at the archers to retreat, but before his orders could be heeded the valiant arrow-men were taken in both flanks, goblins chopping and hacking, even biting, as they swarmed from the sides and behind. Of a hundred brave men, barely a score staggered away from the gruesome massacre.

Now the whole horde of the attackers swept against the tenuous line of ultimate defense, and in seconds the position was breached all along its front. Knights fought and died to allow a few of their comrades to escape, until there was no front, no position any more. There was only madness, a welter of bloodletting presided over by frenzied goblins and hobgoblins.

The handful of desperate men who survived had fled to the riverbank, many of them skidding down the steep dirt slope into the muddy shallows. They were pushed into the waters of the Vingaard that had become a churning mass of blood, flesh, and fear. The Duke of Thelgaard lost his sword as he skidded down the bank. He was almost trampled by a fear-maddened horse as the steed lunged past him, knocking him face down in the brown water.