The Crown and the Sword Read online

  “Tell me the cause of your worry,” she urged him, laying a clawlike hand upon his wrist. She squeezed with a grip like iron.

  “It stands on the plains east of here; it taunts me with thick walls and high towers.”

  “It is the city that the humans call Solanthus,” she replied evenly. “And it vexes you like a thorn in the paw of a mighty lion. It cripples you, so that you cannot march away from here, and yet it is shelled like a turtle so you cannot reach the soft meat within.”

  Ankhar had not thought about it in exactly those terms, but he nodded in agreement. “Now the knights reclaim lands west of the river. My army needs a great victory, a triumph to give my warriors hope and show to the humans my power—my Truth.”

  “Yes! You must take the city—destroy those walls, and slay all the humans who cower within. This is the victory you deserve. It is inevitable.”

  “But—how?” he asked. “Every one of our attacks have been driven back. We cannot strike at men inside parapets. My warriors die by the hundreds in trying.”

  “This is the question I will put forth in my dream,” Laka declared in a tone that bolstered Ankhar’s confidence considerably. “You go forth now, and make your army ready for a great battle. I will consult Hiddukel, and the Prince of Lies will show me the Truth.”

  “We have captured three deserters. I suggest you summon the rest of your troops to witness their executions. It will be a valuable lesson to other cowardly souls.” The speaker wore dark armor and a metal helm of the same color, with a breastplate that barely showed the faded outline of a black rose. He spoke to the half-giant with supreme confidence.

  Captain Blackgaard, as usual, was making a lot of sense. Ankhar thought about the proposed executions for just a moment and nodded. “Do this. Are these deserters goblins?”

  “Two are gobs. I regret to inform you that one is a human, a former Dark Knight who has disgraced the legacy of his company and his officers. All of my men will be punished for his transgression. And I request, my lord, that the manner of these executions be such that it will create a vivid impression in the minds of those who view the punishment.”

  “Yes, they should leave an impression,” the half-giant admitted. “How will you kill them?”

  “I would like to have each deserter, in turn, rent by four powerful ogres, one pulling upon each of the wretch’s limbs. The victim will be crippled beyond recovery and then will be left to lie in the sun until he succumbs to his shame … and his pain.”

  Blackgaard and Ankhar were meeting on a low hill that lay on the outer fringe of the horde’s vast encampment. From here they could see a column of troops marching toward them from the north, the last detachment of the ogre brigade that had guarded the crossings of the Vingaard on the northern plains. They had been two hundred miles away when Ankhar gave the orders for the grand assembly, and thus, it had taken them nearly a week to reach the main force.

  The half-giant commander stood on the hilltop, holding his mighty spear in one hand. With the butt resting on the ground, the spearhead rose as high as his head, and it cast a light that, in shadow or darkness, could be seen for miles around. The tip of Ankhar’s spear was not steel, nor any other metal. Instead, it was a massive emerald, chiseled to a razor sharp edge on both sides, and enchanted with the mystical power of Hiddukel, Prince of Lies. When he held it thus, and it caught the sun, the spearhead cast a brilliant iridescent light visible for vast distances. Whenever his warriors saw that enchanted light, they took heart from it, and roared their approval of their mighty commander.

  “We have warg riders posted in a picket line some fifty miles away,” Blackgaard explained, confirming that the half-giant’s orders had been carried out. “If the Solamnics make any move in our direction, we shall be certain to hear of it long before they become a threat. The river is defended for more than a hundred miles to the north and south. The bridges and fords are fortified; the Solamnics won’t easily cross the Vingaard.”

  “Good.” Ankhar turned from the empty plains to the west, casting his eyes upon the great square block that rose from the foothills to the east. The city, a massif of stone, high walls, parapets, towers, and gates, filled the horizon. At this distance, Solanthus seemed like a range of mountains—only with spiked towers and flat stretches of wall.

  Ankhar was a trifle unsettled when Hoarst, the Thorn Knight, materialized several dozen paces away from him and came walking up to join the human and half-giant on the hillside. The man’s teleportation magic was admirable, but Ankhar had taught him long ago not to blink himself into existence too close to his easily startled commander.

  The trio stood in silence for a time, each gazing at Solanthus, each considering in his own way the problems of taking that great bastion. The entire place was surrounded by a lofty stone wall, more than thirty feet thick at the base. Numerous battle towers jutted above the main parapets; the humans could shower attackers with arrows, great rocks, and burning oil from these lofty vantages. Three massive gatehouses, each the size of a castle, provided access to the city at the west, north, and eastern walls.

  To the south, Solanthus merged into the craggy foothills of the Garnet Mountains and was protected by an outcrop of rock that was separated from the rest of the range by a deep, almost impassable canyon. One road descended the north wall and climbed the southern face of this canyon, but it was easily covered by archers from the city’s parapets—any attacking force trying to advance in that direction would likely be decimated before it could reach within a half mile of the small south gate.

  Inside the city walls could be glimpsed a double pillar of rock, the Cleft Spires. It stood as though it were a monolith of bedrock left over from some long-petrified and colossal forest and as though, at some point, a god had taken a great, immortal axe and cloven the thing in two. Now the two slabs of rock stood side by side with a narrow gap between them. Aligned to the east and west, the sun was channeled refulgently through the gap during the spring and fall equinoxes. It was rumored that any tasks performed under the light of this narrow sunbeam, between the massive shadows of the opposing spires, was destined to draw the attention of the gods. Of course, this attention could be manifested as good or ill, such caprice being ever the purview of the deities.

  Now the spring equinox was past, of course, and the long, hot summer loomed. If the city could not be taken during the upcoming season, Ankhar feared that the Solamnics would finally catch up to him, their great forces breaking the death grip of his army and relieving the starving city from its long siege.

  “Do you see weakness there?” the half-giant asked. He had formed his own opinion—favoring the West Gate—but he was interested in what these humans thought.

  “The gate to the west of the walls is where we should muster our main attack,” Blackgaard declared. “See how it juts forth from the nearest angles of the main walls. It is not protected as thoroughly as the gates to the north and east. A large attack, with diversions to draw the attention away from the main effort, stands a fair chance of success.”

  “I agree,” Hoarst said, “though it will be costly, in any event. Those gates are ancient, hewn from Vallenwood trunks that date back to the Age of Dreams. Even my most potent spells will be feeble against them; your army will have to storm the place with brute force, and there will be much shedding of blood.”

  “I have seen the way you and your Thorns flit about with this teleport magic. Can you not magick yourself into the city and work some mischief there? Perhaps even assassinate this duchess who has rallied her people so well?”

  Hoarst shrugged noncommittally. “You have asked me that before. If I could do so, I would not hesitate. But there remains an aura around the place—I believe it is keyed somehow to the godly power in those two great spires. For some reason, teleport magic—my teleport magic, in any event—cannot penetrate that barrier. My men and I have tried this many times, and always the spell is cast to no effect; that is, the caster remains outside the walls. We canno
t use magic spells to penetrate the defenses.”

  “Then it becomes a matter of smashing down a gate, probably the gate in the west,” Ankhar said, trying to sound hopeful. But in truth he did not feel very optimistic. Somehow the plan lacked imagination, flair.

  “Do not despair, my son.” Laka spoke to Ankhar quietly, having shuffled up to the hilltop while the attention of the others was directed toward the city walls.

  “Do you bring a message of hope?” he asked eagerly.

  “I have lain with the Prince of Lies in my sleep, and he has given me a dream,” she said. “You cannot breach those walls by yourself, but with the aid of an unusual ally, the attack has a better chance of succeeding.”

  “And what ally is this?” Ankhar inquired skeptically.

  Laka grinned, and chanted in a sing-song voice.

  “Flaming fist—ablaze of gaze,

  Lord of fire, these walls will raze!”

  Hoarst and Blackgaard exchanged a look.

  “What does that mean?” pressed the half-giant, unfamiliar with the murky phrases.

  “We must seek him on a quest—you and me, and the wizard should come too. It will not be easy, but if we succeed, you will gain the means to win this fight.”

  “But how do you know that this mysterious ally will join forces with my horde?”

  Laka produced a pair of metal rings from her pouch. They were steel bracelets, small enough to encircle her wrists, too small even to be worn by a normal-sized man such as Hoarst. To Ankhar, they would have made loose rings on his largest fingers.

  “These will bind him to your service. They have been blessed by the Prince of Lies, and the magic-user will make them especially potent with a spell of mastery. When we put them on this being that we seek, the being will become your slave.”

  “I know such a spell of mastery,” Hoarst said, his voice low. “But these bracers are so small—how can one who wears them be an ally of such incredible power?”

  “Leave that to me … and to the Prince,” Laka said. “Cast your spell, and then we go seeking.”

  “I’ll need to make some preparations. But I can begin tonight, and I might be finished in eight or ten hours.”

  “Very well,” agreed the half-giant. “So let us start this quest in the morning.”

  Ankhar’s optimism waned considerably as his mother led the trio on an arduous climb up a rocky ravine, ascending into the wilds of the Garnet range. Finally she halted, gesturing in triumph toward a shadowy cleft in the precipitous wall rising before them.

  The mouth of the cave looked too small to accommodate Ankhar’s bulk, and he growled his disappointment. “This is the way we must go?” he asked.

  “This is the cave that was shown to me in my dream,” Laka confirmed.

  “Who or what is this ally?” he demanded to know, not for the first time.

  Laka shook her head. “You will see when you see. Now come; we must make haste.”

  “But how will I fit inside?” demanded Ankhar, leaning forward to peer into the cleft. The interior was lost in shadow.

  “You will fit. But the wizard should go first,” Laka replied.

  Hoarst stood beside the half-giant, his expression unreadable. He had consented to join the commander and the witch doctor on this quest—of course, he really had had no choice—though he had his doubts. Now he merely shrugged and started into the dark, stone-walled passage. He drew his rapier and murmured a word of magic, causing a glare of bright light to burst from the blade. Holding this metallic glow over his head, he led the way forward.

  “You go next,” Laka said. “I’ll follow.”

  Mutely, Ankhar lowered his head—not quite enough because almost immediately he bumped his noggin against a sharp stalactite—and followed. He had to edge sideways to move his bulky form through the tight passageway, and with a subsequent turn to the side, the pale daylight of the cave’s mouth was utterly screened from his view. But then the cavern widened, and the ceiling arched to a more comfortable height overhead. Hoarst and the light were moving a few paces in front of him, and the half-giant hurried unconsciously, reluctant to find himself isolated in the encompassing darkness. Laka, her dark eyes gleaming like sparks, traipsed after him with her short, nimble steps. She held her death’s-head talisman aloft, and the emerald stones glinted wickedly.

  The green glow added to the light from Hoarst’s blade, and gradually Ankhar’s eyes adjusted to the darkness.

  The cavern floor descended through a series of winding turns, not unlike the creek bed in a narrow canyon. Indeed, there were stones and boulders jumbled together as if they had been washed here by torrents of water. The half-giant shivered as he pictured a subterranean flood, a deluge sweeping through here that could drown him in the eternal depths of the world.

  But the stones on the floor seemed dry, and any flood of old seemed long gone. The trio made their way deeper and deeper below the surface of Krynn. For a long time they walked. Ankhar had a hard time estimating the hours they had been underground. Nevertheless, he felt certain that they had walked many miles and gradually became convinced that those hours had stretched through the night and into the following day.

  Of course, there was no way to tell by the absent sun. The chill of the subterranean shadow land penetrated his clothes and his skin, made his sweat clammy and acrid. The place was utterly soundless except for the faint sounds of their passage: the scuff of the Thorn Knight’s leather moccasins on the rocks, the clinking crunch of Ankhar’s hobnails. Laka’s breaths came from behind, sharp pants that indicated her exertion or perhaps her taut excitement.

  The half-giant grunted as he pulled his bulky frame around a large boulder. He cursed under his breath every time his head knocked into an unseen overhead obstacle.

  “Hold that damned light higher!” he hissed, irritated at the panic in his voice. Hoarst seemed to be pulling farther away from him. The magic-user obligingly halted and held his blade so the path at Ankhar’s feet was clearly revealed. The cavern floor continued to descend, growing steeper with every footstep until they were almost skidding down a narrow chute.

  Abruptly Hoarst halted and raised a cautioning hand. Ankhar came up slowly behind him, straining to see. He saw exactly nothing, only a void of cold air. The magic-user waved his illuminated sword around, revealing that the cavern walls to the right, the left, and above them all abruptly terminated; so did the floor.

  They appeared to stand at the edge of a vault of space.

  “I saw this place in the dream!” Laka declared excitedly, her breath hot at Ankhar’s side. Her flashing eyes fixed upon the magic-user. “We must leave this cliff and get down to the bottom!”

  Hoarst’s eyes narrowed, but he bit his tongue.

  “How?” demanded Ankhar.

  “You tell us!” Laka cackled, still staring at the Thorn Knight. “You must get us down from here. To the bottom! And then our quest will go on.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE WHITE WITCH

  ‘Hey, I thought we were going right to Coryn’s!” Moptop protested as the two travelers materialized on the highway about a mile south of the great city of Palanthas. The towers, walls, gates, and palaces of the place stood outlined by the morning sun, gleaming against a clear blue sky. “I’m the pathfinder, remember? What did you do to screw up my path?”

  “We’ll be there in an hour or two,” Jaymes replied, starting forward with measured strides. “But first I’d like the people in the city to know that I’ve arrived.”

  Ignoring the dozen additional questions and objections lodged by the kender, the lord marshal turned into a reputable livery stable. He purchased a fine white gelding with a saddle and tack to match the splendid animal. Thus mounted, he proceeded toward the city gate with the sulking kender perched on the saddle before him.

  Palanthas sprawled along the southern shore of the Bay of Branchala, white and glittering and prosperous looking. The whole of the place was visible from the mountain road, and Jaymes foun
d the sight both energizing and oddly sinister. He liked the commerce of the great city, the throngs of people, the wealth of goods and services unmatched anywhere else on Ansalon. But he distrusted the lords and nobles who ruled here, who jealously amassed then guarded their fortunes with such miserly greed.

  The richest, and probably most miserly, of these was the lord regent of the city, Bakkard du Chagne. His palace was clearly visible from the road, for it stood not within the city walls, but upon the slopes of one of the mountains that rose over Palanthas. The Golden Spire, the regent’s lofty tower where his great treasure of gold was secured, rose from the midst of his residential compound, the highest point for miles around. It was a fitting location, Jaymes reflected, for Bakkard du Chagne to live, as the lord regent considered himself not of this place, but above it in all ways. He had cheated, stolen, deceived and—though only a few knew this—committed murder to achieve his station.

  Jaymes was one who knew the full extent of the regent’s crimes. It was quite possible that he could have brought the arrogant nobleman tumbling down from his high pedestal by publicizing all that he knew. But such a destructive act would not serve any useful purpose, Jaymes had decided some time ago. So instead he had bit his tongue, taking some comfort from the fact that the regent knew he knew … and hated and feared him.

  But Jaymes had not teleported to Palanthas to visit Bakkard du Chagne. He had other things in mind.

  Moptop Bristlebrow brightened as the prancing gelding moved down the wide highway toward the city’s main gate. “Let’s go to the docks, first, all right?” the kender suggested, pointing excitedly. “They were bringing some huge crabs in from the north shore just before I left. Maybe there’s still a few claws left. They were giving them away!”

  “Giving them away?” Jaymes mused. “I thought they were a delicacy—a few claws can pay the wages of a fisher for two tendays.”