Lord of the Rose (48 page)

“In this mountain air? What could be better?”

They passed the mouths of numerous mineshafts on their way out of the village. Jaymes was impressed to see the mountainous piles of yellow stone that Swig Frostmead’s miners had been able to excavate in the weeks since they had made their deal.

For a long while they climbed through an open forest on a gentle ascent, heading companionably upward on a smooth, wide trail. They crossed the crest of the ridge by midmorning and about two hours later reached the base of the next valley. After spending another hour walking back and forth, pacing off the dimensions of a clearing, studying the flowage of water in the stream, the dwarf and the warrior agreed that this area would suit their agreement.

They worked out the terms of the lease with a handshake and another few gems. “Ten years,” Swig said, clearly pleased with the deal. “Don’t worry—we’ll keep the Salamis off your back.”

Jaymes narrowed his eyes. “I don’t recall mentioning the knighthood.”

Swig chortled. “You didn’t have to. We’ll keep everyone else off your back, too—you can count on it!”

In truth, Jaymes knew the hill dwarves had no legal property rights to this valley. He could have built his operation here and hired dwarf laborers without paying Swig so much as one steel.
Now, however, he had made the greedy hill dwarf a vested partner in his plans, and Swig and his doughty fighters would help guard this place against outsiders.

The very next morning Jaymes paid a score of newly hired dwarves to clear the trees away from a flat stretch of ground. The tall, straight trunks they would trim and stack to use as building timbers; everything else would go into a massive firewood pile that would provide the raw material for charcoal. A few extra gems sprinkled among the workers proved an invaluable recruiting tool, and by the next day he had all the workers he could possibly use—that was not even counting the dozens of dwarves who were busy hauling sulfir over the ridge and down into the place Jaymes decided to call, simply, Compound.

He knew it would take Dram, Sulfie, and Salty Pete a good long time yet to reach the Vingaard Mountains, since they were coming on foot, but there was plenty Jaymes could do to get the place ready. Within another few days, hill dwarves were busily erecting timber-walled buildings to serve as a factory, storage sheds, and outbuildings. The water from the fresh stream was diverted into a holding pond. After a week the reservoir was full, and they allowed the stream to resume its plainsward course.

By the time the dwarf and the gnomes arrived, a fortnight after Jaymes, the area was transformed. A score of hill dwarves were busy making charcoal. Others were busy grinding the sulfir into a fine powder, using cauldrons and large rocks in lieu of the mortar and pestle Sulfie had demonstrated in Sheedra’s lair.

After Jaymes brought Dram up to date on everything, the dwarf took over as foreman, supervising the preparation of the sulfir and charcoal while Sulfie and Pete made saltpeter. Within a matter of days they had stores of all three materials, and soon the black powder was being produced and collected in stout kegs.

When, one day, Swig Frostmead’s lovely daughter, Pilsy, came over the mountain to inspect the work, Dram strutted with pride and showed her all their progress. Jaymes watched, amused. Even the gruff Frostmead himself finally seemed to
approve of the match—anyone who consorted with a man of such wealth could not, in the hill dwarf’s eyes, be all rotten

Jaymes stayed until he was certain all aspects of the work were proceeding well. Casks were being filled with the black powder every day, safely stored in an underground bunker that was well insulated against fire as well as wetness. After the first six days of full production, the warrior went to find Dram overseeing the great charcoal fires. The dwarf was sooty and unkempt, but he flashed a fierce grin when Jaymes asked him how things were going.

“We’ll have all the charcoal we can use—for the rest of the year—within the next week,” the dwarf proclaimed. “Sulfie is doing a good job overseeing those fires—says it’s for her brother.”

“Good,” said the warrior. “I must leave this in your hands.”

“You’re off again?” Dram asked, raising his eyebrows. “Let me guess: Thelgaard?”

“I have an important rendezvous with the duke,” said the warrior. “It has to be him—if Solanthus was telling the truth about the green diamonds. I told you, he said had never heard of them.”

“You can’t be sure he was telling the truth,” the dwarf said.

Jaymes shrugged. “The treasure—and the Compact of Freedom—were taken by the agents of one of the lords. Lorimar was a lord of the Rose, so that tends to cast suspicion upon the lords of the Crown and the Sword. The Sword Duke is dead …”

“So you’ll be seeing the Crown,” Dram agreed. “Good luck, and be careful.”

“Always,” Jaymes replied. He flexed his finger on which he wore the golden ring, and in a glimmer he disappeared.

“My Lord?”

Duke Crawford spoke to the mirror in a hush and looked over his shoulder. Though Lady Martha was elsewhere, he could not get over the impression someone was sneaking up on him.

He had a bad feeling that time was running out.

After a seemingly interminable delay, the mirror glimmered to life, and Lord Regent Bakkard du Chagne glared at him. “What is it?” he demanded

“Duke Rathskell of Solanthus is dead. His treasure was stolen before he could bring it to Caergoth.”

“Damn that fool! He lost the Stones of Garnet?” cursed the regent. “Did the goblins take him? That villain Ankhar?”

“No, lord. I am afraid the news is even worse. Solanthus departed his city with his treasure loaded into a wagon, as you had ordered. He was pursued by goblins, but they didn’t catch him. Instead, he was ambushed by the Assassin himself—with some kind of blasting magic. The Assassin tore the roadway up, killed the duke, took his treasure, and vanished just as miraculously as he appeared. Those knights of his escort who survived rode on to Caergoth and just yesterday informed me of these facts.”

“The Assassin? I tell you, the man is the greatest menace we face. He must be destroyed!”

“I understand, lord!” Indeed, Duke Crawford
did
understand. What he did not understand was how he could possibly catch a man who never seemed to be where he was supposed to be, who appeared at the most inconvenient locales then simply disappeared, and who was now, apparently, capable of some kind of new and destructive brand of magic.

“Enough of that wretch—talking about him gives me a headache,” growled the regent. He stared into Crawford’s eyes, and it seemed as though his vision bored right into the duke’s skull. “You will need to join your army in the field, you know.”

“But … my lord. They are doing quite well, guarding the Kingsbridge. I am needed here in the city.”

“You have important work to do, my good duke—and it is time that you take matters into your own hands!”

Crawford’s blood turned cold at the threatening tone. The Lord Regent adopted a more genial look, almost avuncular.

“You know, my daughter says that she was rather struck by
you during her recent visit. She carried on quite a bit about your city, your banquet, your grace and manners. Too bad you’re married—else you’d have the prospect of a splendid match there!”

Crawford nodded, not trusting himself to reply. He remembered the words of the Nightmaster, commanding just such a union. The words had seemed mad at the time. Du Chagne was speaking again, once more stern and commanding.

“Take care that our Assassin is found! Beware that he does not strike at the very heart of your stronghold!”

“Er, yes, lord. I shall!” The duke all but quivered at the prospect of such an occurrence. The Assassin, striking right in Castle Caergoth?

“My lord.” Crawford bowed his head, humbly. “I shall do everything in my power to see that events remain under control.”

“So this head of famous Rathskell?” asked Ankhar, admiring the grisly trophy that was proudly proffered by Dirtborn, the hobgoblin sub-chief who had led the pursuit of the duke’s wagon that had tried to slip out the back gates of Solanthus.

“Yep!” declared the tusked warrior, beaming. “We kilt a bunch of his knights too, but we thought you’d want th’ duke’s head.”

“Treasure it,” declared the half-giant. “See head of duke!” he roared to his fighters, holding it up and showing it around. “This fate of enemies of Ankhar!”

Dirtborn bowed deeply, shivering in delight.

“What about duke’s treasure? Spy told me it on that wagon. You got it for me?”

For the first time, the hob looked crestfallen, even a little fearful. “Sad to say, lord, there was no treasure when we reached the duke. It was taken by another man—we saw him pour it into a magic bag.”

“Who this man?” demanded Ankhar, glowering.

“I do not know, lord. He had a sword that blazed with a blue
flame.” The sub-chieftain was about to say more but abruptly looked down, clearing his throat with a low growl. “And … well …”

“Speak truth to me! You bring me head. Now tell me what happened!”

“Lord, it was this man with the fire sword who first struck the duke, not us. He did not kill the duke but crippled him so that we could take him after we slew all the knights of his guard.”

“Very well. I glad you tell me this Truth.”

Ankhar hefted the head, which fit easily into his palm. The duke’s thin mustache was frozen in a curl that might have been disdain or amusement. The half-giant was about to call for his foster mother to admire this trophy when he heard her dry cackle close behind him. He turned and offered the head, which she snatched up eagerly and mounted on the stick rattle—she must have been expecting this prize, for she had already discarded the skull she had carried since the sacking of Garnet.

Still cackling, Laka shook the head on its stick. Ankhar watched, saw the green glow come into those eyes. He was not surprised when the jaw started to move, the words a croak and hiss.

“Walls too tall and gates too thick
,

“Will break an army’s will
,

“Seek the softer target hence
,

“In greener pastures kill.”

The half-giant looked toward the stout, tall walls of Solanthus. The city was still defended by many knights, he knew—and now there was little treasure and no lord, within those walls. Certainly an attack against that place would entail considerable risk, and there was little to be gained by wasting his army.

Nodding to himself, Ankhar made his decision.

“Rib-Chewer!” He summoned his reliable goblin scout.

“Yes, lord?”

“We will leave Solanthus. Great treasure no longer here.”

“What are your orders, lord?”

“Riders charge walls—make great charge. Humans cower, scared of you and your wars. Rest of army march away.”

“It shall be as you command, lord. What, then, after the army has marched away?”

“You follow me. We go to Thelgaard. Remember:
Est Sudanus oth Nikkas.”

“Aye, lord,” said the goblin with a cackling laugh. “Your power is your Truth!”

“Guards! Come quickly!” shrieked Duke Crawford, bursting from his bedroom wearing only his dressing gown. Dawn was a pale fluff in the eastern sky. Most of the castle was dark and quiet.