Measure and the Truth

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

It was only natural that, after the great victory on the border, the ogres of Lemish would want to celebrate for a few days. After all, they had destroyed a great army camp and a dozen frontier outposts with very few losses among their own forces and almost total annihilation of the enemy troops. Indeed, if any of the knightly forces had escaped, they had done so without attracting the ogres’ notice. The victorious army gathered at the site of their original triumph. In a nod to hygiene, Ankhar the Truth ordered the troops to haul the bodies of the slain knights more than a mile away onto the plains, downwind of their encampment.

After that task was completed, Ankhar turned them loose. He had learned quite a bit about managing an army during his first campaign against the knighthood. As a result, he let the ogres and their lesser allies gorge themselves on captured food rations and drink themselves silly on the many expropriated casks of rum, dwarf spirits, and ales. He participated in the guzzling, the wild dances, and the general feasting. He was grateful that he had brought Pond-Lily from Lemish so she could share his triumph, admire his prowess, and warm his bed at night.

But after two days of merrymaking he remembered he had more important matters to concern him. As the conquerors began to exhaust the captured stocks of liquor, the half-giant ordered his troops to assemble on the morning of the third day. Those captains who were slow to rise-which included all of them except Bloodgutter-were roused with heavy kicks of the half-giant’s own hobnailed boots. Those captains, in turn, were hastily scattered to administer the same persuasion to their men. Sounds of groaning and thumping, retching and grousing, echoed through the messy camp.

Within a few short hours, the whole force had been roused and prodded into some semblance of an assembly-that is, they all stood in a great circle, while Ankhar mounted a flat-topped boulder in the center. Already the tallest warrior in his army, he strutted and puffed atop the rock, relishing his power and glory.

“You ogres! You gobs and hobs! You are part of a great army!” he bellowed, his voice roaring across the plains. Even so, the army was too large for those in the back to hear, so Ankhar paused to allow his captains to repeat his words, relaying the message to all.

“We killed many knights and footmen here on the border. But this is just the beginning!” His words were met with great shouts of approval, and he bared his tusks in a grin, letting the admiration of his army wash over him like a warm wind.

“Today we march! We take war to the knights wherever we find them! We kill, and we take booty. We will be rich, my warriors!”

Again his words provoked cheers. Ankhar raised the Shaft of Hiddukel over his head, and the green light emanating from the massive wedge of emerald seemed to cast all the plains in that same hue.

“I am Ankhar! I am the Truth! The Prince of Lies is my only master! And you, my warriors, are the Swords of Truth!”

The half-giant turned slowly through a complete circle, brandishing his mighty weapon, showing the glowing spearhead to all his troops. They cheered and shouted and bellowed as he grinned broadly.

“Now! Today! We march!” he shouted finally, gesturing to the west with the shaft. Immediately the ogres surged in that direction, hobs and gobs scattering to get out of the way of their massive comrades.

There was no strict formation to the march, though the veteran wargmaster Rib Chewer managed to gather his thousand wolves and their goblin riders together at the fore of the army. The fleet, savage mounts loped ahead of the mass, scouting for enemy resistance, making sure no devious ambush lurked hidden in a ravine, along a riverbank, or was masked by the tall grass.

Guilder the aurak probed into the future with his spells and peered into distances ahead of even the fast-riding warg riders. The sivaks flew overhead, returning to report there were no knights, no companies of human warriors, anywhere in their path.

“On all the plains,” crowed Laka to her son, proudly. “There is none who dares to stand against you!”

The old shaman held her rattle high then, with startling abruptness, swept up into the air. She cackled gleefully, clutching the wooden handle, allowing the brightly glowing talisman to bear her back and forth in the skies over the army. She was flying!

“Come down here this instant!” Ankhar barked.

She only laughed, flying higher. “See the power of Hiddukel!” Laka shouted. “Behold the might of the Prince of Lies! He bears his humble servant in his mighty fist!”

She swept higher, so all the warriors could see her and be impressed. They all gaped in awe as she finally swooped down to land breathlessly before the astonished figure of her stepson, Ankhar the Truth.

“How did you do that?’ he demanded.

“I watched the dracos. I prayed to my Prince. And he bade me fly!” she replied, gloating.

There was a new swagger about her as she strutted up to the company of sivak draconians and their captain, Guilder. They greeted her warmly, as one who had demonstrated a power they thought only they themselves possessed, and Ankhar was amazed.

But it was time to resume the march. Heart Eater, Bullhorn, and Bloodgutter pushed through the mass of ogres, coming to march close beside the army commander. They thundered along, each captain burly and powerful, master of a whole tribe of ogres. They stood only shoulder height beside Ankhar, though each of the trio seemed to bask in their master’s glow, puffing up in his shadow. They competed with each other over who would stand closest to Ankhar, elbowing and jostling, snarling and snapping their jaws.

Even so, none of them barked so much as a protest when the withered old hob-wench pushed between them next to her stepson. The bull ogres meekly deferred to Laka. As always, she clutched her death’s-head rattle, and she regarded the half-giant seriously as she fell into step beside him.

“This way is Solanthus,” she declared, pointing in the general direction of the front. “You go to make war on that city again?” The tone of warning in her voice was unmistakable.

And the warning was well warranted, Ankhar knew. After the initial victories of his first war, the entire campaign had come down to a long, tedious siege of that city at the northern terminus of the Garnet Mountains. For more than a year, he and his troops had surrounded the place, camping within view of the walls. One attack had even breached the walls, and for a few glorious hours, the attackers had charged into the city, running amok, burning, looting, and killing.

But in the end, Ankhar’s army had been repulsed and the lord of the knighthood had brought his own troops to the relief of the city. Ankhar had withdrawn to another battlefield, where, a few weeks later, his army had been broken, his dreams shattered. His mother was clearly worried he intended to repeat that pattern.

The half-giant chuckled, pleased at his own cleverness, before he replied. “No,” he said. “We don’t go there. But I want the knights to think we will attack Solanthus!”

“Ah, clever, my son. Where do we really go, then?”

“That,” he said, his chuckle growing into a hearty guffaw, “is a surprise!”

Waiting frustrated men of action, and the gray wizard Hoarst and Captain Blackgaard, their preparations completed, chafed and stewed in the secret valley north of the High Clerist’s Pass. The Black Army, some three thousand well-trained and well-disciplined troops, equipped with the best weapons and armor steel could buy-and magic could conjure-also detested the delay. They had been drilled to the point of exhaustion, and the captain wisely released them from training for a few days, and still they waited.

They would not risk everything by a premature attack, and so they bided their time until they received the message they awaited.

That message inevitably came at night, borne by a black-cloaked, whispering figure who arrived with suddenness at headquarters. The Nightmaster was not unexpected, but even so, his teleported arrival caused a cook to drop a tureen of soup and sent a half dozen guards lunging for their weapons.

“Hold, men!” Blackgaard ordered as his own heart skipped a beat. He glared at the cleric, who had materialized without warning in the anteroom of the captain’s manor, just as he and his staff were sitting down to a late dinner. A sharp reproach rose to his tongue, but a moment’s thought-not to mention the cool, unreadable expanse of black gauze covering the high priest’s face-caused him to draw a slow breath instead of complaining aloud.

“Greetings, priest,” he said. “You’re just in time to join us for dinner.”

“I have no need of such sustenance,” the Nightmaster replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I need to speak with you. I come with news.”

“The wizard will be here shortly-ah, here he is now. Hoarst, come in,” Blackgaard said as the Gray Robe entered through the front door. His white-skinned woman, the concubine he called Sirene, glided silently at his side.

A kitchen orderly mopped up the spilled soup, while the dozen or so officers at the table waited expectantly for whatever would happen next. “You men, go ahead and eat,” Blackgaard said, glancing at them. He nodded at the Nightmaster and the Thorn Knight. “We can talk in my office.”

“Wait for me here,” said Hoarst, disengaging Sirene from his arm. She went over to the dining table, where the officers quickly shifted to give her plenty of space on one of the benches. Her eyes never left the tall, gray-haired figure of her wizard as the three men departed through another door.

“What news from the city?” asked Blackgaard as soon as the door closed behind them.

“Events progress as we planned. The Legion of Steel seethes against the emperor’s new laws and stands ready to rise against him. All that is required is the provocation, the catalyst-and the archer tells me that he has already arrived in the city.”

“Good,” Hoarst said, nodding. “His rage burns within, unabated. It is a spark that shall serve as splendid kindling.”

“We watched the emperor and his Freemen ride through the pass several days ago,” Blackgaard said. “I have no word directly, but I think he must be out on the plains by now.”

The Nightmaster nodded. “My auguries have shown him to me. He gathers his troops on the plains and moves toward Solanthus.”

“And the half-giant?” asked Hoarst, raising an eyebrow.

The masked priest chuckled dryly. “He has erupted from Lemish with all the thunder and storm we could wish. The whole of Solamnia-at least, Solamnia east of the mountains-is in an uproar. All their attention, all their fear, is fixed upon our erstwhile ally.”

“Good!” declared Hoarst. “It seems the great oaf still has value to us.”

“But my men die of boredom here,” Blackgaard noted. “They must have action soon, or they will lose their edge. Discipline is good for the time being, but idleness is the enemy of discipline. My soldiers will need every advantage when they attack. Even coming by surprise, and outnumbering the tower garrison by ten to one, it will not be easy to breach those ancient walls.”

“Soon,” counseled the Nightmaster. The masked face turned to Hoarst. “You have one more task to perform, do you not?”

Hoarst nodded as Blackgaard glanced at the Gray Robe. “What’s that?” Blackgaard asked, startled.

“I must return to my fortress to work,” said the wizard. “It will take me three or four days, but when I return, those ancient walls will no longer be much of an obstacle.”

Jaymes had reined in his horse, stopping to look up as he rode past the Stonebridge that crossed Apple Creek at the bank of the Vingaard River. He saw that the wall around Vingaard Keep was almost completely repaired. The scarred stubs of the fallen towers, on the other hand, were still there, proof of the violence that had transpired.

For a moment the emperor wondered about Marrinys Kerrigan, how she was faring with the rebuilding. For some odd reason, he wondered if she would ever forgive him for the devastation he had wrought. With a grimace of irritation, he dismissed the thought: such concerns were a weakness he could not afford. In another few moments, he had turned south along the Vingaard road, and the damaged fortress was relegated to memory.

Often during the long days of riding, he thought of his wife. It was only a week ago that he had received the sudden news of Ankhar’s invasion and departed Palanthas before dawn. Yet he couldn’t forget that before leaving, Jaymes had called on Selinda in her chambers and learned she had not yet returned from wherever it was she had gone on the previous night. Worry, fear, and anger vied within him whenever he thought of his wife. He wasn’t accustomed to a problem that was out of his control. He couldn’t stop thinking about her, about home and impending fatherhood.

At last, following the great river as it swept into the plains, Jaymes and his Freemen drew near to the camp of his most steadfast troops.

The Palanthian Legion had received orders by courier, and the men were mustering for the new campaign. Even before Jaymes and his Freemen rode down from the High Clerist’s Pass, the five thousand troops had broken down their permanent camp, organized their weapons, horses, and equipment, and made ready to march.

“Secure those tarps!” Jaymes barked, passing a wagon where the waterproof cover had begun to slip. “Pick up the pace,” he shouted to the captain of a company of lancers. “We need to move-I want thirty miles behind us by nightfall!”

With Sergeant Ian at his side, Jaymes rode at a canter at the front of the vast column of his legion. The troops, who had lived in their camp beside the Vingaard for more than a month, started southward. With many a marching song rising from their ranks, they trekked all day, starting an hour before dawn and not making camp until an hour after sunset. At that pace, it was only three days before they arrived at the great Middle Ford, where the wide river flowed across a smooth, hard bed. Given the dry weather of the past season, the water was no more than three feet deep in midstream, and the troops didn’t hesitate to march right through.

General Dayr, with six thousand men of the Crown Army, awaited the emperor on the east bank of the river. Jaymes and Dayr rode their horses off to the side and watched as the huge, ox-drawn wagon supporting his single bombard rumbled up and out of the river. The stolid creatures pulled the wagon easily over the bank, and it trundled off toward Solanthus. A hundred other wagons, none of them quite as large, trailed after, while the file of the legion’s column snaked into the distance to the front and the rear.

“What’s the latest word from the border country?” Jaymes asked, removing his helmet to mop at the clammy sweat on his head.

“My son is scouting the invaders,” Dayr reported. “After overrunning the frontier outposts, Ankhar spent a few days camped on the ruins. But now he’s on the march and seems to be heading for Solanthus. He travels in strength and is moving quickly.”

“He always was a fast marcher,” Jaymes replied, nodding. “That as much as anything was how he was able to outmaneuver the dukes.”

“Well, he won’t steal a march on us,” Dayr replied. “The Sword Army is fully mustered, gathered in and around Solanthus. Add them to your legion and my Crowns, and we should be able to field a force greater than the half-giant’s by a few thousand men.”

“Cavalry?”

“He’s got those same warg riders. Franz tells me they’re doing a pretty effective job of screening the main force. My son is on the trail, but the wolves keep him from getting close enough to get a real look at the horde.”

Jaymes nodded. “The old brute has learned a thing or two about making war, it seems. Well, we’ll have to assume he’s moving on Solanthus. But be prepared for any tricks. I would be surprised if he laid siege to the city again-it didn’t work out so well for him last time. But I can’t figure out what else he could be doing.”

“Yes. I’ve been wondering about his movements.” Dayr removed his helm and scratched his head. “We defeated him pretty certainly last time. Why would he attack Solanthus again?”

“Arrogance? Vengeance? No, I’ve been asking myself the same questions,” the emperor admitted. “He does not strike me as one who has a death wish.”

“No, certainly not. He’s a wily old brute and, above all, a survivor.”

Jaymes nodded in agreement. “We’d better be ready for a surprise. Remember the old maxim: don’t try to imagine what your enemy will do; instead, think about what he is capable of doing.”

“He could come around north of the city,” Dayr acknowledged. “General Rankin is deploying his cavalry up there. They wouldn’t be strong enough to stop him, but at least we’d get a warning if he shifted that way. And the Garnet Range stands in his path if Ankhar tries to go south of the city. I don’t think he would try to take his whole army through there.”

The emperor stared in that direction. The Garnet Mountains were not visible from that distance, but he knew those heights were just over the horizon. “Maybe. Maybe not,” he allowed. “Those mountains were once his home, after all. And he’s used them as a hiding place before.”

Suddenly he thought again of his old companion, the dwarf who had refused his direct orders to manufacture additional bombards-and who lived in a valley high up in those very mountains.

What was Dram doing?

“Where is that damned steel?” Dram demanded of no one in particular. He stood at the top of the watchtower his dwarves had just completed, a sturdy stone structure dominating the road that led into New Compound from the heart of the Garnet Range. The tower, of necessity, had been hastily constructed, but dwarven skill insured the stones were tightly meshed.

Dram had learned of Ankhar’s resurgence barely a fortnight earlier, when three bedraggled survivors of one of the border outposts had staggered into New Compound. Exhausted, battered, and half-starved, the three men had made their way through the mountains, barely avoiding the patrols of wolf-riding goblins that seemed to be everywhere. After reporting their news and getting some solid food and a hot bath, their leader-a grizzled sergeant who had seen fifty years-had voiced the opinion that a major war was under way.

The mountain dwarf had reacted with decisiveness. He had immediately sent to Kayolin an order for all the spring steel that could be scrounged up. His legion of dwarf workers, more than a thousand strong, had been pulled off mundane duties and assigned to quickly create defensive obstacles around the town. The watchtower was one such installation. Others included a fortified wall at each of the two passes leading into the valley, as well as a walled compound in the center of the town. The splendid bridge with its three arches had been mined with casks of powder, so it could be destroyed with only a few moments’ warning. Dram had supervised every aspect of the defenses-issuing orders, coordinating workers and tasks, and allocating personnel and materials.

Only one member of the community had proved resistant to the mountain dwarf’s instructions.

“You’ve got to leave now!” he had barked to Sally, barely an hour after absorbing the news of the invasion. “Take Mikey and get back across the plains to the Vingaard range. I’ll call you back here when the danger has passed.”

“I will do no such thing!” she retorted predictably.

“But-the baby-”

“The baby belongs with his mum and pap,” Sally shot back. Her voice softened and she touched Dram on the shoulder, a gesture that never failed to soothe his deepest agitation. But he shook her off.

“Look. You heard the man. That damned half-giant has thousands of ogres, and he’s just fifty or sixty miles away from here.”

“He’s on the other side of the mountains,” Sally replied calmly. “And I think Jaymes and his knights will have something to say about it if he tries to march around Solanthus.”

Jaymes! Dram felt a twinge of guilt. No doubt his old friend had received word about the dwarf’s refusal to build him additional bombards. Of course, that refusal had been overtaken by events-Dram would gladly build more cannons as fast as he could-but he found himself thinking he had betrayed his greatest friend.

Just as he couldn’t do anything about getting Sally to leave, there was nothing to do about that at the moment. Like every other dwarf in New Compound, she had thrown herself into the defensive preparations, supervising teams of leatherworkers who were busily turning out stiff, arrow-resistant tunics for the defenders of the town. She, like Dram, hoped battles would be fought elsewhere, that their peaceful valley was in no danger. But they would be prepared.

Dram stiffened abruptly, spotting a small caravan of mule-hauled carts coming into view down the mountain road. Rogard Smashfinger had come through! Each of the carts was loaded with the steel bands he needed to make the new bombards. He counted a dozen of the little wagons and guessed that there would be enough of the strong metal to make an equal number of the big guns. He glanced back to the lakeshore, where the ironwood planks were already assembled and a score of massive wagons had been prepared.

Now he had the last of his necessary ingredients. But would he have enough time to do the work?

There was no way to know.