Measure and the Truth Read online

  The road connecting Palanthas to the rest of Solamnia—and all the continent beyond—had been dramatically improved during the past two years. It was wider, paved with smooth stones in the places where wear and erosion had worn it away, and graded out over some of the steeper climbs. Nothing could change the fact that the road had to climb high through the steep Vingaard Rrange—the High Clerist’s Pass was nearly two miles above sea level—but the emperor’s dwarf engineers had done a magnificent job of making the highway as efficient and passable as could be.

  With the aid of the explosive devices they were still mastering, the road crew had chiseled away at overhangs and ledges, broadened the shoulders, even carved deep notches out of some of the rolling ridges. One result of the improvements had been a dramatic increase in overland trade. Although the great city of Palanthas was first and foremost a seaport, the amount of goods leaving and arriving along the mountain road had increased threefold in the past year.

  As the legion marched southward from Palanthas, they came upon more than a dozen trade caravans during the four days it took to reach the summit of the pass. Those mercantile processions pulled off to the side to allow the soldiers to pass. Some enterprising traders hastily established roadside markets, and the soldiers quickly purchased food, drink, and trinkets. The emperor was a strict disciplinarian, but he instructed his officers to allow these transactions to continue—so long as the men quickly resumed the march and maintained a double-time pace for an hour to make up for the delay.

  Finally, the crest of the pass was before them. Despite the best efforts of the dwarf road builders, the highway passed through a series of sharp switchbacks during the final ascent, so the soldiers in the front looked down onto the heads of the men in the middle and tail end of the column. Even with the steep climb, the pace of the march continued unabated, and the men sang marching songs as they at last reached the high point of the long climb.

  The fortress called the High Clerist’s Tower commanded the only gap through the rugged sawblade that was the crest of the Vingaard Range. Most of the army column simply marched past the place, the men staring up at the lofty towers silhouetted against the stark blue sky, then continuing on with the relief of travelers who have completed a long ascent. As there was precious little level ground in the vicinity of the mighty keep, most of the troops headed down toward bivouacs five or six miles below the crest, on the flatland known as the Wings of Habbakuk.

  But some of the army did stop at the tower, including the command party. Jaymes Markham rode into the small, deep courtyard and examined the high stone buttresses. This place had been savagely mauled in several wars, but—by his order—the damage had been repaired, and in fact the stout defenses of the ancient bastion had been strengthened by the addition of a curtain wall across the southern approach. A quartet of exterior towers had also been erected, with one pair overlooking the approach to the fortress from the canyon to the north and another pair commanding the road as it fell between the narrow gorge approaching the south gate.

  The commander of the tower’s garrison, General Markus, waited in the courtyard for the emperor’s party. The Rose Knight, who had been one of the first to serve Jaymes, saluted him crisply. Markus was hailed by Jaymes as he dismounted and whisked the dust of the mountain road off of his cape.

  “You’ve arranged for the feeding of the army in bivouac?” Jaymes asked immediately.

  “Yes, my lord. My kitchen staff has set up camp between the Wings, and the men will get a hot meal tonight, and tomorrow morning.”

  The emperor nodded. “Good. Hold the second courtyard for the bombards; I’ll want to inspect them when they arrive, and they need to be secured behind the walls for the time being.”

  “Here they come now, my lord,” reported Sergeant Ian of the Freemen, as the first of the big wagons rumbled beneath the portcullis and entered the courtyard.

  A team of eight oxen hauled the mammoth conveyance, which was built more sturdily than a heavy freight wagon. The axles were steel, the rims of the huge wheels banded with the same hard metal, while no less than thirty stout spokes supported each wheel on its hub. The bombard rested in the wagon bed, the barrel—its gaping mouth more than a foot wide—slightly elevated and extending to the rear beyond the body of the wagon. Dark steel bands ringed the heavy beams that formed the long tube, while an iron screw supported the bombard midway down its length. The screw could be adjusted to raise the barrel. Shifting the weapon’s aim to the left or the right could be accomplished only by turning the wagon itself.

  Markus was busy issuing orders as the second bombard rumbled into the fortress and an adjacent portcullis rattled upward, opening passage to another, similarly small courtyard nearby.

  “All three of them will fit in there,” the general said. “And there’s a stable just beyond, so that the oxen can be tended.”

  Jaymes nodded, his mind already moving on to other matters. He leaned back and stared up at the lofty tower that was the centerpiece of the keep. The parapets once damaged by Chaos Armies and dragon overlords were newly intact and gleaming. A banner flew from the highest pinnacle, snapping straight in the high mountain wind, proudly bearing proof that it was a citadel of the Solamnic Knighthood. Three symbols in black—the Crown, Rose, and Sword—were etched against a background of snowy white. Each side tower—and they were numerous—held another flagpole with images showing the company heraldry, clerical affiliation, or other symbolic indications of tradition and authority.

  “I have the maps arranged as you requested,” Markus explained as he accompanied the emperor into the lower hall of the multilevel keep. “I’ve taken the liberty of placing them in the dining hall so that we can have dinner as you make your plan.”

  “Refine my plan,” corrected Jaymes. “But the hall should work nicely.”

  Markus lowered his voice as the two men passed through an anteroom, and the press of aides and guards discreetly fell in behind them. “I have received a letter just this morning, Excellency. From Lord Kerrigan, in Vingaard. He has enclosed a message for you with the request that I deliver it, when possible.”

  Jaymes nodded, and the general passed over a small scroll, a fine skin rolled into a tight tube no fatter than his little finger. The wax seal, bearing the imprint of an eagle, was unbroken.

  The general waited for a moment, but the emperor made no move to open the parchment in his presence. Rather, Jaymes followed Markus into a vaulted dining room, where, as promised, a series of maps were laid across several tables. The chamber was deep within the interior of the fortress, but several chandeliers blazed brightly enough to simulate full daylight. Jaymes looked up at the crystal objects and observed that the light was magical in nature.

  “Better, and cheaper, to have the Clerists do it than to invest in a hundred candles,” Markus commented, as Jaymes nodded approvingly. He approached the maps and studied the terrain that he already knew by heart.

  “Now, we will emerge from the mountains here and approach Vingaard from the west. Dayr and the Crown army are coming up from the south.”

  It wasn’t until several hours later, when the emperor was alone in his room, that he took out the scroll from the rebel leader at Vingaard Keep. The time was late, since the planning session had run long into the night, but he needed only a few hours of sleep before rising with the dawn. He allowed himself a flicker of satisfaction; he was as hale as he had been as a young man; four hours of slumber always made him feel rested and invigorated.

  Jaymes ignited a few extra candles; his eyes, alas, were not as keen as they had been even a few years before. He broke the wax seal on the scroll, unrolled it, and read the message.

  My Dear Emperor, Uniter of Solamnia,

  I beg you to hear my words, and to grant me the privilege of a parley. We in Vingaard are more than willing to give the nation, and yourself, the due fruits of our prosperity. The benefits we have already gained—simply with the increase of trade over the pass that you yourself traverse
at this moment—have dramatically improved the quality of life in our humble river town.

  I also beg Your Excellency’s forgiveness for the fact that our misunderstanding has progressed to this distressing state. I assure you that it was never my intention to challenge the authority of the State, or of the Emperor.

  I will present myself to you on the road before my city. I will bear no weapon, nor bring more than a small party of loyal attendants to meet with you. I merely seek a means to resolve this issue that allows me to salvage an element of pride.

  In Greater Solamnia, there is certainly treasure for all!

  Your Devoted Servant,

  Kerrigan

  No expression marked the emperor’s face as he finished the short, polite missive. But he frowned slightly before touching the corner of the scroll to the flame of one of the candles.

  The dry material caught immediately, flared into bright light, and burned very quickly. Jaymes dropped it on the stone floor and went to bed. He was sound asleep before it had stopped smoldering.

  CHAPTER THREE

  TO THE SPIRES OF VINGAARD

  The three great towers of Vingaard Keep rose above the plain like a triple-peaked summit standing alone on a small island. The great Vingaard River, nearly a mile wide there, curled and meandered to the east of the ancient fortress. A smaller tributary, Apple Creek, guarded the southern approach to the castle and surrounding town. Apple Creek was a raging torrent as it rose in the heights near the crest of the Vingaard Mountains, but where it meandered across the plain to join the mighty river, it was merely a wide, sluggish stream with a muddy bottom and swampy, reed-choked banks. The waterway was not deep, though the soft bed made it a major impediment to the maneuvering of an army.

  The Palanthian Legion marched out of the mountains and approached the keep along a road that followed the south bank of the creek. Soon after they had started across the plains, a message from General Dayr arrived, reporting the reasonable progress of the Crown Army. A day later, and ten miles short of Vingaard, Jaymes called a halt, putting his army into a fortified camp.

  There was a sturdy span called the Stonebridge over the Apple, well downstream from where the legion camped, but none of the emperor’s officers questioned his decision. The bridge and its approaches were within catapult range of the fortress, and if in fact this looming confrontation came to be, that was not a location for any sensible soldier. Besides, there was a ford near their camp, where the banks were dry and the bottom of the creek was lined with a bed of boulders and gravel—the only such crossing until they reached the mouth of the stream and the ancient bridge.

  General Weaver, the legion’s tactical leader under Jaymes’s overall command, joined the emperor on a low hill overlooking Apple Creek. In the distance they could see the elegant trio of spires of the keep. “Any word from General Dayr?” asked Weaver.

  “The Crown Army is only a day’s march south of the keep,” Jaymes replied. “As I expected, they are making good time. He’s crossed over to the west bank of the river. What have you learned about the situation in our immediate neighborhood?”

  The emperor gestured to a nearby grove of apple trees, and beyond it the vast stretch of airy woodland that extended for miles along the other side of the creek.

  “The scouts have returned. They report a full regiment of pikemen in that grove, ready to block any attempt at fording. They have archers and heavy infantry to back them.”

  “We’d certainly outnumber them,” Jaymes noted.

  “Oh, of course,” Weaver replied. “But it would be a bloody crossing.”

  “Well, maybe we won’t have to shed blood. Any word from Lord Kerrigan regarding the parley?”

  “I dispatched the message to the keep as you requested, Excellency, but there hasn’t been—oh, wait. Here comes my man, Baylor—the one I sent with the message.”

  The two commanders rested easily in their saddles as the lone rider urged his horse to a gallop and up the gentle slope to the hilltop. He saluted briskly; Weaver returned the formal gesture, while Jaymes nodded.

  “Lord Kerrigan accepts your offer of parley, Excellency,” Baylor said, addressing the emperor. “He questioned me strictly on the guarantee of safe passage to your headquarters, and naturally I pledged to him that you gave your word he and his party would be allowed to come and go in safety.”

  “Go on,” Jaymes said.

  “He will arrive an hour before sunset, and wishes to discuss the possibility of ending this dispute in an amicable fashion. He sends assurances that he does not wish to challenge your ultimate dominion of the empire, and merely wants to negotiate some of the fine points of governance.”

  “Very well,” replied the new emperor of Solamnia. He looked at the sky, squinting at the western sun. “We’ll see him in a few hours, then. And then we shall see what we shall see.”

  Lord Kerrigan was a tall, hearty duke with an ursine aspect and, under most circumstances, a hearty, infectious laugh. His red hair fanned across his shoulders in a cascade of curls, and his cheeks and nose flushed, either from exposure to the air as he rode the few miles out to the army’s camp or—more likely—from an excessive fondness of strong drink and rich food.

  He was accompanied by a knight in a black tunic adorned with the red rose, an elderly priest of Kiri-Jolith, and a younger man in a silk shirt and elegant riding boots. A quick search, supervised by Sergeant Ian of the Freemen, ascertained that none of the three was armed, and the pickets stood aside to let their horses advance, at a walk, toward the table and chairs set up outside the emperor’s headquarters tent.

  “The young fellow—that’s his son, Sir Blayne,” Weaver said quietly, standing next to Jaymes as they awaited the truce party’s approach. “A good knight—served five years in the legion. Smarter than his father, I’d say. Back then he was a bit hotheaded, though.”

  The four men rode nearly to the circle before reining in. Stewards took their bridles as they dismounted in unison. Kerrigan stepped forward, his eyes frank and inquiring as he advanced toward the emperor. He began to extend his hand until something in Jaymes’s face caused him to halt. Instead, he straightened.

  “Excellency. Thank you for hearing my parley.” His voice was friendly, though his expression had grown watchful and guarded.

  Jaymes nodded and indicated the chairs that had been arrayed for them. The four men of Vingaard sat, and the emperor took his seat. General Weaver occupied the chair at his right hand, Captain Powell to his left. Lord Templar, the clerist, was the fourth member of the emperor’s party.

  “It is impossible not to notice you have disregarded the government’s lawful requests for tax payments, as well as refusing to send recruits for the empire’s army,” Jaymes began. His tone was dry, almost bored, but his eyes bore a different intensity and never wavered from Kerrigan’s face. “My agents have addressed this lapse by letter and emissary for nearly twelve months, now. I regret that it became necessary for me to bring my army into the field. Now you find us before your gates, after a march of no little expense and inconvenience.”

  “You’re not at our gates yet,” muttered Sir Blayne, drawing a sharp look from his father. Kerrigan cleared his throat gruffly, and returned the emperor’s even gaze.

  “Wait,” Jaymes said, holding up his hand before the duke could speak. He glanced at the young knight, an almost-smile creasing his lips. “The only reason we are not at your gates, young sir, is that I do not want to kill your men unless I have to. Your regiment of pikes—and the hidden archers and swordsmen—in the grove across the stream wouldn’t stand for ten minutes under a concerted assault from my battle-hardened men. But we are here to talk because we hope such an attack won’t be necessary.”

  The young knight flushed. His hand brushed the curl of his mustache, and his eyes attempted to bore holes in the emperor’s face. But he held his tongue.

  “And, I trust, no attack will be necessary,” said Kerrigan smoothly. “Naturally, I anticipated that your s
couting would be thorough; my men were there for you to discover them.

  “But, Excellency,” he continued, “as I tried to explain to your emissaries—the burden you place on Vingaard is too heavy. Our economy is on weak footing, and our population is too small. To pay half the tribute you demand would be a hardship—to contribute half the recruits you require would be a terrible burden. To fully comply with your numbers would be to destroy all I have worked to build here. So I beseech you, Excellency, lower the numbers. Let us begin to work together.”

  “It seems to me you have been rather fortunate, here in Vingaard.” The emperor gestured to the keep. Even ten miles away, it dominated their view with its lofty towers, the spires so slender they almost seemed to sway in the sky, defying gravity. “In the past few years, Garnet and Thelgaard have been captured and sacked by barbarian forces. Solanthus endured a siege of two years’ duration and a destructive battle of liberation. Caergoth has been transformed into an army and naval base of unprecedented proportion. Palanthas has filled the coffers of the empire with the steel of commerce, and at the same time it has contributed countless men to the ranks of the legion and the knighthood.”

  He continued speaking, his eyes daring anyone to interrupt the emperor. “This magnificent road—the highway that runs almost past your fortress gate, that has opened trade routes to Kalaman and places as faraway as Neraka—is a tangible benefit of the new Solamnia. There are inns and wayhouses every mile, smiths working hard for the benefit of travelers—and all of them paying taxes into your treasury. While you, here in Vingaard, have farmed your farms, fished your river, and harvested your apples.”

  Sir Blayne clenched his jaw with visible anger, while the flush spread upward from Kerrigan’s cheeks to fully encompass his brows and forehead. Even General Weaver, beside Jaymes, looked at his leader, who had adopted a sharp tone, askance.

  The duke took a long moment to draw a breath and calm himself before responding. “Surely you are aware, Excellency, of the contributions made by the men of Vingaard during the campaign against the barbarian Ankhar! Our knights rode with the regiments of Crown and Sword and Rose—a hundred of my men fell in the crossing of the Vingaard, the very river that is our namesake! We were there when the siege of Solanthus was broken—we, too, bravely faced the fire giant in the Battle of the Foothills!”