Lord of the Rose (50 page)

The men were deft, however, dodging his deadly blade—until Jaymes sidestepped. A backhand cut sliced right through the blade of the nearest captain, and a twisting forehand blow gashed the man’s forearm. Dropping the hilt of his sword, gasping in pain, the wounded knight sank to his knees, moaning.

Dayr and the other one angled away from the determined Jaymes. They stayed close together until they came up against a heavy banquet table. With a brazen rush, Jaymes drove his weapon against both their swords, shattering the blades and knocking the men to the floor. They glared up at him as he raised his sword.

“Take your companion!” Jaymes snapped, gesturing with his head toward the man with the wounded arm. “Leave here—now! I intend to have a private conference with your duke.”

“No—don’t leave me with him!” cried Thelgaard, aghast.

Unable to challenge Giantsmiter, the two officers, averting their eyes from their pleading lord, helped their wounded comrade to his feet, and bore him to the great doors. Jaymes followed, pushing them out then latching the door tightly again.

The warrior closed in on the duke, who stumbled backward until he was almost crouching in the fireplace. “Please—don’t kill me!” he begged, dropping to his knees.

The warrior squeezed the hilt of the sword, waiting until the flames died away. “I could kill you,” he said calmly. “Just like
that.”
He brought the blade down upon a nearby bench, splintering the heavy oak planks. Kicking the shards of wood aside he stood over the blubbering Thelgaard.

“I know!” cried the duke. “Please—don’t!”

“I’ll spare you if you tell me the truth,” Jaymes said, his voice low and level.

“I will—ask me anything!”

“Where are the green diamonds and the Compact of Freedom?”
the warrior demanded, holding the tip of his mighty weapon close to the huge duke. “Where did you hide them?”

The look of utter confusion on Thelgaard’s face was almost convincing. Tears welled in his eyes, and he shook his head wildly. “I know of no such diamonds!” he gasped, his voice a craven whisper. “I haven’t seen the Compact since I signed it—two years ago! Please—I swear, I am telling you the truth!”

The warrior smashed the sword again into the stout table, hacking off the end of it. “Your wife, the duchess, just passed away mysteriously, didn’t she?” he said coldly, taking a step closer.

Thelgaard, for a moment, seemed to recover his composure. He stopped his wailing and looked at the Assassin with an expression of genuine grief. “I loved my dear wife, as is well known,” the duke said. “She perished in her sleep last night—Joli was merciful to spare her the sight of her city’s fall.”

“I don’t care about your city. I care about those green diamonds and that Compact. And about the men who took them when they killed Lord Lorimar. The men
you
sent to kill him,” Jaymes said.

“No! That’s a lie!” blubbered the huge duke.

Jaymes lifted Giantsmiter threateningly. “Tell me what you did with the stones and why you ordered Lorimar killed!”

“I don’t know anything about green diamonds—I’ve never seen them. And I don’t know why Lorimar was murdered! By Joli, I thought
you
killed him! That’s the truth!”

“Liar!” spat the swordsman. “Tell me! Those were your men who killed Lorimar, weren’t they? Did you send the badgeless knights to Lord Lorimar’s house, to steal the document, and the gemstones?”

“No!” cried Thelgaard. “I swear it upon a thousand gods!”

“The
truth!”
snarled Jaymes, bringing the blade down on the floor, shattering the flagstones in front of the cringing, kneeling duke.

That sudden violence seemed to help Thelgaard recover some of his composure. Still on his knees, he drew his bulky
body upward and glared at Jaymes. His expression was calm, even peaceful.

“I swear upon upon the tomb of my wife that it wasn’t me.”

Jaymes was taken back. He had expected the man to lie, was fully prepared to kill him, but all his instincts told him that the terrified lord was telling the truth.

With a sudden retch, the duke toppled forward, vomiting violently, gasping and spewing until he was a sweating, shivering mess.

Jaymes turned and left him like that, a broken lord, kneeling in his own spew.

Lady Selinda found life in Palanthas as boring as ever. She spent a lot of time on the upper parapets of her father’s great palace, gazing at the mountains, the bay, the sky, and the clouds. Almost with fondness she thought of the desolate plains, the long ride that had brought her back home. No longer did she fear sea voyages—indeed, the notion of salt air and an ocean wind struck a romantic chord in her breast, as never it had done before.

Her father was more irascible than ever. His fury at the escape of the Assassin had remained at a fever pitch, and neither Captain Powell nor the regent’s daughter had been inclined to seek his company. Even his treasure room didn’t seem to soothe him. He ordered shades pulled over all the great glass windows, so the Golden Spire no longer gleamed over Palanthas. He was far too unpleasant about the whole topic for his daughter even to think about asking him why he rarely visited that once favorite refuge.

In her heart, she blamed the escape of Jaymes Markham for casting a vile spell on her father and the whole castle, and she knew that she had only herself to blame for that episode.

It was early in the evening, and Selinda was looking forward unenthusiastically to dining alone, when she was startled by a knock on the door of her private chambers.

“Who is it?” she asked.

“The one called the White Witch,” came the answer.

“Coryn!” Selinda threw open the door and embraced the enchantress, then quickly pulled her into the room and closed the door. “I have been hoping you would turn up sooner or later—though my father tells me you have been terribly busy this summer.”

“So, I understand, have you,” said the black-haired wizard, looking at her.

“Oh, Coryn—you know everything! So you know I captured the Assassin, and we were bringing him here, but he escaped.”

“Yes, I know you’ve met him. I have too.” Coryn looked closely at the princess. “Do you really think he killed Dara and her father?”

“He’s certainly capable of murder,” Selinda said, a little defensively. “He killed a brave knight of my escort, Sir Dupuy. Dragged him right over the edge of a cliff.”

“Well, then you would be interested to know they claim he has struck again. Another murder.”

“The Assassin has murdered someone else?” The princess felt a twinge of confusion and dismay. “Whom did he kill?”

Coryn shrugged, strangely noncommittal. “I didn’t say he murdered someone. I said, people claim that he did.”

“Who is claiming?” Selinda pressed? “Who was killed?”

“The Duchess Martha of Caergoth. Duke Crawford claims that the Assassin, identified by his burning sword Giantsmiter, came into his chambers and struck down his wife in her bed.”

“Lady Martha!” Selinda gasped. “But she was … harmless!” Only after a moment did she shake her head. “Wait, that doesn’t sound like him, not at all. He’s a dangerous killer, but why would he kill the wife of Duke Crawford? Was the duke hurt, also?”

“Strangely enough, no,” answered the mage. “He was present and witnessed the killing, but the Assassin did him no harm.”

“That makes no sense,” Selinda said.

“No, it doesn’t,” Coryn agreed. “But that’s what they are claiming. They’re tearing about Caergoth in a frenzy, looking for him.”

“It seems a bizarre mystery,” the princess admitted. “Why would the Assassin kill harmless Martha?”

“Why, indeed,” Coryn said, turning to leave. “I wanted to warn you. Be careful.”

“You too. Good bye,” said the noblewoman.

It was only an hour after the white wizard had gone, that Selinda found Captain Powell at the waterfront. The Palanthian flagship,
Pride of Paladine
, was tied to the wharf and was being provisioned and made ready to sail. She told the veteran knight what Coryn had told her.

“The duchess? Killed in her bed, in the palace?” Powell said, frowning.

“The duke was there, but unhurt.”

“It seems … it seems very unlikely indeed, my lady,” the captain observed cautiously.

“I think so also.
Too
strange.” In that instant, Selinda made up her mind. “Captain. I have a mind to return to Caergoth. Leaving as soon as possible and going by ship. Will you accompany me?”

“My lady princess, I would be delighted.”

“Good. I’ll tell my father.” She realized as she said it that she meant
tell
, not
ask
. It was a good feeling. “We can sail on the morning tide.”

Ankhar raised the mighty spear over his head. The green tip glowed ever more brightly, despite the sun that was just beginning to poke above the eastern horizon, casting the tall keep of Thelgaard into long shadows across the plain. The horde covered a vast ring of plains, the landscape dark with their numbers.

All awaited his command.

He knew that much of the population of the city had fled even before his army had arrived on the scene. Long files of refugees made their way south, toward Caergoth, and Ankhar had let them go—he and his army no longer killed for killing’s sake.

Now the half-giant stood for a long while and admired the
ranks of horses and wolves and their riders, of broad-backed ogres and wing-stiff draconians, the legions of gobs and hobs extending to the far horizon in orderly lines. It was dawn, and the light of the sun glinted on the brass roof of the keep.

“Charge!” cried the Ankhar. His ordinary shout was loud as thunder, but the power of the Prince of Lies amplified its volume. As the green light pulsed from the spearhead in his hand, the commander’s words were not just heard by every single one of his soldiers, no matter how far away they stood—each word was felt as a visceral impulse to work the will of their leader and his god.

The goblins surged toward the low walls of Thelgaard. Archers filled the sky with arrows that rained down upon the few men who dared to defend the city. Ogres marched forward to the beat of heavy drums that echoed through the ground and the city walls. Teams of humans rushed to the walls, scrambling up crude ladders. Brandishing swords, they swept along the battlements and dropped down the inside walls to spread out through the tangled slums.

The brigade of ogres from Lemish carried a heavy trunk as a ram and battered down the weakly manned city gates. Thousands of attackers followed them, swarming into the main avenues. Draconians scrambled up the walls and launched themselves from the heights, gliding on their wings to outflank the small bands of defenders who tried to make valiant stands.

Hoarst and the other two Thorn Knight spellcasters concentrated on the army barracks and armory, igniting the wooden structures with fireballs, blasting with lightning and ice the panicked soldiers who stampeded for safety. The killing would have been greater except Thelgaard’s army was so depleted that the strongholds were already largely abandoned.

Gobs and hobs and all the other invaders rushed through the streets of Thelgaard, right up to the great keep, the castle that had stood for more than a thousand years. Its walls were high, but flying draconians seized key towers, quickly dropping ropes to their comrades swarming through the moats. Within an hour
the curtain wall had been cleared, and the attack swept through the courtyards, penetrating into each barracks and stable, every corner.

The army of Ankhar was an unstoppable tide. They plundered and killed, burned and looted. Pockets of knights fought to the death, while those citizens who had lingered tried to escape and mostly died. Fierce battles raged here and there, while other parts of the city, bereft of defenders, were, gleefully looted.

Finally the attackers arrived at the great hall of Thelgaard Keep. Here the mass halted, parting ranks so that the commander could have the honor of the ultimate moment. Ankhar strode forward, stopping before the stout entry to the keep.

“Est Sudanus oth Nikkas!”
he roared.

The half-giant bashed open the doors to the hall with one mighty blow of his own fist. He charged in with his gleaming green spearhead poised, ready to drive death through the heart of the lord.