Lord of the Rose Read online

  IN THE WAKE OF THE WAR OF SOULS …

  The power of the Dark Knights in

  northern Ansalon is broken.

  The Solamnic order is in disarray.

  And in a shrouded mountain valley,

  an army of evil gathers.

  Against them stand a mysterious

  outlawed warrior, a dwarf, and a

  beautiful enchantress. With the aid

  of two fugitive gnomes, they will

  hold the banner of Good against

  the forces of darkness. And from the

  ashes of war, a new Solamnia will rise.

  THE RISE OF SOLAMNIA

  Lord of the Rose

  The Crown and the Sword

  The Last Measure

  LORD OF THE ROSE

  ©2005 Wizards of the Coast LLC

  All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  Published by Wizards of the Coast LLC. Hasbro SA, represented by Hasbro Europe, Stockley Park, UB11 1AZ. UK.

  DRAGONLANCE, Wizards of the Coast, D&D, and their respective logos are trademarks of Wizards of the Coast LLC in the U.S.A. and other countries.

  All Wizards of the Coast characters and their distinctive likenesses are property of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  Cover art by: J.P. Targete

  eISBN: 978-0-7869-6271-6

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  Visit our websites at www.wizards.com

  www.DungeonsandDragons.com

  v3.1

  TO MARGARET WEIS

  For your leadership, inspiration,

  and friendship through all the

  ages of Krynn.

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books in the Series

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map

  Prologue: 39 SC

  Chapter One: Two Riders: 42 SC, The Age of Mortals

  Chapter Two: The Stronghold of Cornellus

  Chapter Three: A Bandit Lord

  Chapter Four: Lords and Ladies

  Chapter Five: The Free City

  Chapter Six: Lord of the Gobs

  Chapter Seven: City Knights

  Chapter Eight: A Great Hall and a Dungeon

  Chapter Nine: A Detour

  Chapter Ten: The Caergoth Conference

  Chapter Eleven: A House of Gnomes

  Chapter Twelve: Pledges of War

  Chapter Thirteen: The Ruin

  Chapter Fourteen: The Battle of Mason’s Ford

  Chapter Fifteen: Encounters Around a River

  Chapter Sixteen: The Vingaard Range

  Chapter Seventeen: Apples in the Trees

  Chapter Eighteen: Confrontation in the Cellar

  Chapter Nineteen: The Prisoner

  Chapter Twenty: Profit and Loss

  Chapter Twenty-One: Tracker and Trapper

  Chapter Twenty-Two: The Torge

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Royal Rage

  Chapter Twenty-Four: The Brackens

  Chapter Twenty-Five: Sheedra

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Solanthus

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Treasure Road

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Commerce and a Compound

  Chapter Twenty-Nine: Thelgaard Unclothed

  Chapter Thirty: The Immaculate Army

  Chapter Thirty-One: Shattered Ranks

  Chapter Thirty-Two: A New Age of War

  Chapter Thirty-Three: The Rose Has Thorns

  Chapter Thirty-Four: The Game Room

  Chapter Thirty-Five: Lord of the Rose Room

  PROLOGUE

  39 SC

  The War of Souls is over.…

  The “One God,” revealed as treacherous Takhisis, was slain by the misdirected fury of the elf heir, Silvanoshei—thanks to the great sacrifice of Paladine, patriarch of the gods. Giving up his own immortality so the Dark Queen could be destroyed, Paladine now wanders the world in mortal flesh, destined to live and die as any mundane creature.

  The prophet of Takhisis was Mina. After vengefully killing Silvanoshei, she vanished, and it is said that she has removed herself to self-imposed exile. Even the whisper of her name can still bring a shiver of fear to the spine of a brave man.

  With their god slain and their commander departed, the order of Dark Knights has struggled against disarray. Bereft of both leadership and faith, individual officers and companies have formed bands of brigands, or become mercenaries following the highest bidder.

  In Solamnia, former Dark Knight comrades vied for control of the Palanthian docks, the rich Solanthian treasury, the grain exchange in Caergoth, and the wool markets in Garnet.

  Even without Mina to guide them, the Dark Knights were able to preserve pockets of power. Only in Solanthus were they quickly expelled, overthrown by a popular rebellion of the city’s merchants. In Thelgaard, Garnet, and Caergoth, the knightly brigades served brutal warlords. The cities became private fiefdoms, the strong lording over the weak. The ancient Solmanic Code and Measure, the notion of Est Sularus oth Mithas—“My honor is my life”—seemed to most a quaint saying from ancient history.

  But the Knights of Solamnia, moving swiftly to follow up their victory in the War of Souls, began to establish new bases of power. The city of Sanction, site of a legendary siege and the setting for the eventual defeat of the Dark Queen, became a bastion of the knighthood. Lord Tasgall, Chairman of the Whitestone Council, maintained his headquarters there, and the three orders—Crown, Rose, and Sword—began to accept squires and apprentices, schooling them in the traditions of the Solamnic Code.

  The knights worshiped Kiri-Jolith the Just as their patron god. Mishakal the Merciful was also honored, and—in a signal of the evolving nature of Solamnic power—the merchant god Shinare was feted in many new temples and market rituals. In Sanction, business boomed.

  But the traditional heartlands of the knighthood lay far from that city. In the aftermath of war, chaos and disorder still prevailed in many places. Historic Solamnia included the fortress-cities of Caergoth, Thelgaard, and Solanthus, as well as the great port of Palanthas. None of these yet came under the control of the knighthood.

  The most strategically important of these city-states was Palanthas. Located to the north of the vast plains, secure on the shore of its deep bay behind the mountain barrier of the Vingaard Range, Palanthas had always been a beacon of culture and civilization. Even after decades of war, after conquest by the Dark Knights and subjugation by the mighty dragon overlord Khellendros, the city not only survived but thrived. During the course of one long night and bloody day in the autumn of 37 SC, Solamnic knights moved to arrest or kill the warlords and all remnants of the Dark Knight dynasty. The guilds, the docks, the garrisons and the gates were quickly seized, opposition quickly, ruthlessly suppressed.

  In this swift reclamation, the knights were aided by a powerful wizard, a young woman named Coryn the White. She had come only recently to Palanthas, and was believed to be a protégé of Jenna, Mistress of th
e Red Robe. Coryn’s spells duped the Dark Knights into slumber before the coordinated attacks, opened the gates to sealed towers, and brightened the path for the Knights of Solamnia’s midnight forays. Only reluctantly did the white robed mage shed the blood of those who resisted, but she was resolute, and her efforts facilitated success with a minimum of destruction and violence.

  In a gesture of true wisdom, Lord Tasgall did not choose a war leader to govern Palanthas after the knighthood regained control. Instead, he appointed a merchant prince. Lord Regent Bakkard du Chagne became, by decree of Lord Tasgall and the New Whitestone Council, the Ruling Mayor and Lord Regent of Palanthas. It was du Chagne who had organized and ordered the swift coup that reclaimed the city, and Tasgall recognized the new knighthood, at this point, needed not so much steel swords as steel coins.

  Bakkard du Chagne was a man who knew steel coins, understood how to wield them. Aided by a loyal cadre of enforcers, du Chagne taxed the resurgent commerce at unprecedented levels, amassing a huge personal fortune, which he kept as gold bars locked atop the loftiest tower of his palace. The merchants didn’t complain—much—because du Chagne dealt forcibly with all pirates and brigands. Trade thrived, and it seemed as though everyone in Palanthas was making money again.

  The knighthood itself, meanwhile, grappled with a crisis of leadership. Many of the highest ranking nobles were tainted by alliances or outright collaboration with the Dark Knights and were thus deemed unacceptable to the new order. Most knights fervently wished to see a return to the days when the Oath and the Measure provided the norm for governance.

  The first order of business was the securing of the vital sea lanes between Sanction, Palanthas, and Sancrist. Key to this area was the great port and fortress of Caergoth, which the knights assaulted with a great army commanded by Lord Hubert, a Captain of the Rose. Lord Hubert expelled the warlords in a winter campaign, and by spring of 39 SC that mighty fortress was once again a bastion of the Knights of Solamnia. Hubert perished amidst his victory, but Crawford, his son, was appointed Duke of Caergoth, even though some whispered he was not cut from the same cloth.

  Duke Crawford spearheaded subsequent campaigns, which removed the Dark Lords from power in Garnet, Thelgaard, and their other remaining centers. Even the merchant cabal in Solanthus was replaced by a duke appointed by the Lord Regent. By the autumn of 40 SC, Bakkard du Chagne had secured his realm. To the acclaim of the general public, the Solamnic Order—and the justice of the Code and the Measure—was restored.

  For a brief time, the people allowed themselves to hope for a restoration of the ancient empire, even for a king who would once again unite the lands. The favorite of the people was a noble lord, Lorimar—he bore a mighty flaming sword, an ancient artifact of the knighthood. Lorimar’s daughter, prophecies claimed, would be the new queen.

  Instead, trouble disrupted the new prosperity. Growing numbers of goblins roamed the wilderness of the Garnet Range and the lands of Lemish. Lord Lorimar and his daughter were murdered by a mysterious killer, and the lord’s great manor was burned in the attack. Lorimar’s ancient sword, Giantsmiter, went missing—no one doubted that it had been stolen by the assassin.

  And the people of the land could only dream of the future that was lost.

  CHAPTER ONE

  TWO RIDERS

  42 SC, The Age of Mortals

  There’s a couple of ’em in the bushes, off to the right.”

  The dwarf announced his observation with no visible movement of his lips, the sound resembling a harsh cough hacking from the tangle of his gray-black beard. Lurching in the saddle even at the easy gait of his walking mare, he cursed and shifted, working the kinks out of his back. Riding made him even more irascible than usual. He glared at the cover to either side of the road ascending from the forested valley toward the crest of a rounded ridge.

  “Knowin’ Cornellus,” he muttered, “I expect there’s at least a half dozen others hiding somewheres we haven’t spotted yet.”

  The dwarf’s companion, a lanky human with a coarse bristle of unshaven whiskers, leaned over and spat ostentatiously, using the moment to conceal a glance to the left. A fringe of the pine forest extended close to the trail, providing perfect concealment. The man’s eyes narrowed as if squinting against the afternoon sunlight as he studied the underbrush.

  With an air of casual unconcern the two riders moved slowly past the bit of woods. A scaly claw touched a bristling green pine branch in that thicket, pulling it back to permit yellow slitted eyes a better view of the road. The man and dwarf both ignored the rustle of foliage, allowing their horses to amble along as each took note of the taloned hand.

  “They’ve spotted us,” the dwarf declared, after another two dozen steps. “No turning back from here.” He twitched in his saddle again but resisted the urge to glance again over his shoulder. Instead, he whirled first one arm, then the other, through a series of loose, limbering circles.

  “My gut is a bundle of knots!” he barked in disgust, very loudly. “Must have been that stanky bacon last night.”

  They looked like they had come a long way, these two. Tanned faces and untrimmed whiskers were grimy with dust. Despite their clear racial differences—the man was long and lean, while the dwarf’s frame was a stocky square, slightly broader at the shoulders than at his keg-sized waist—they had the look of comfortable old companions.

  A woolen cape as dirty and travel-stained as his face concealed the man’s torso, covering his legs to his knees and even his arms except for the one gloved hand that emerged to grasp the reins. A leather cap covered his head, a stiff brim dropping down to protect his nape, forehead, and ears. His boots were plain and worn, the heels nearly scuffed away. A face that might have been handsome was rendered rough, even threatening, by the scruff of bristling whiskers. His eyes were narrowed, always moving. He sat straight in his saddle, the hilt of a tall sword jutting over his left shoulder and extending upward through the neck of his cape.

  The dwarf was clad in a brown bearskin, a cloak with a stiff collar higher than his ears forming a cowl encircling his head. A stout battle-axe was strapped to his left side, and several scabbards suggested daggers of differing types hung from the right side of his belt, though the hilts of the weapons were concealed by his heavy cloak. He glowered and huffed as he made a show of looking from side to side.

  Before the two riders the crest of the Garnet Range rose into the sky, a snowy palisade across the horizon beyond the ridge. That vista of glaciers and peaks gleamed now in the late afternoon sun. The near horizon was formed by the ridge, which was no more than a long bowshot away now, much closer than the high summits.

  “Over this next hill,” the dwarf whispered, concealing the movement of his lips with the back of his hands. “Then we’ll be in sight of the place.”

  “As long as we have a clear road out of here,” the human replied softly. His head remained immobile, as his eyes flicked back and forth from one side of the rutted road to the other. He leaned on the front of his saddle, seeming the very picture of trail-weary fatigue.

  “I’ll get the ball rolling,” the dwarf muttered. “You take care of the loose ends.”

  “Yeah,” said the human in a low voice. “Same as ever.”

  The man reined in as his stocky companion angrily pulled his own horse to a stop. “I’ll be right back. I’m in desperate need of a little privacy!” he snorted, once again speaking more loudly than was necessary. “I can’t ride another step with my insides all riled up. Wait for me here.”

  The human shrugged, resting easily astride his gelding while the dwarf dismounted and stomped off into the brush beside the road. He was muttering and cursing loudly, mingling remarks about foul bacon and saddles designed by torture-masters as he pushed through the underbrush, his voice growing fainter and fainter, until the noise faded all together.

  After several minutes of waiting with his arms crossed on the pommel of his own saddle, the man grimaced and shook his head, sliding down fr
om the saddle, twisting this way and that as if he, too, needed to work the kinks out of his back. Uncorking a battered canteen, he tilted back his head for a deep drink, watching the woods from the corner of his eye. He saw the pine branch rustle again, pulled back by the same clawed hand. Strapping the canteen to his saddle, he turned so that his back was toward the hidden observer. Both of his hands were concealed under his flowing cape.

  The breeze died away completely, as if the woods, the whole mountain range, held its breath. The sun slipped behind a cloud, and suddenly the mountain air felt much colder.

  The stillness was broken by an ear-splitting scream, a cry of terrible anguish that immediately faded into a bubbling gurgle. The sound came from the far side of the road, near where the dwarf had disappeared. Shouts followed, intermingled with the unmistakable clash of steel blades ringing together.

  The man spun, turning his back to the commotion, his narrowed eyes studying the woods where he had seen the hand of the concealed watcher. At that very moment three figures burst from that grove and charged toward him with short swords drawn. Two were humans, while the third was a kapak draconian. The latter, sword clenched in its teeth, had dropped to all fours and was sprinting like a cat, two flapping wings adding speed to its charge. Its reptilian body was slick, and wiry with taut sinew.

  The dwarf’s companion grimaced, as if faintly disappointed by this development. Both of his hands emerged from beneath the cape, each holding a small, cocked crossbow. He raised both weapons but first sighted carefully along the bolt in his right hand. When he pulled the trigger, the missile was released with a powerful, snapping clank. The deceptively small dart flew truly, the razor-sharp steel head lodging in the throat of one of the human attackers. Even as that fellow sprawled onto his face the man loosed the other crossbow, dropping the second human with a dart that punctured the leather tunic over his chest.