Measure and the Truth

CHAPTER TWELVE

General Dayr and his son accompanied their army on the southward march back to Thelgaard. It was a grim, businesslike procession, with none of the celebratory chatter and cheering that inevitably accompanied the return from a victorious campaign. Men and officers alike seemed subdued and introspective.

They had about the same distance to march as Jaymes and his Freemen, but they moved without the emperor’s urgency. As a consequence-even though they marched across the plains instead of over a mountain pass-it took a few days longer for the Crown Army to reach Thelgaard than it did for the emperor to reach Palanthas.

Finally the long column of troops drew up to the ancestral home and castle. Despite being sacked by Ankhar less than five years earlier, Thelgaard had been restored as an impressive edifice. The outer wall and gates had been fully rebuilt, and several new towers added to the mighty keep.

“I’m going to spend one night at home and then go on to New Compound on a mission for the emperor,” General Dayr said to his son as they approached the castle gate. “Would you care to come along with me?”

“Certainly, Father,” replied Captain Franz.

“Good,” said the older man, invigorated as they rode into the cool shade of the great courtyard.

On arriving home the general signed the orders dismissing his levied troops, allowing them to return to their farms and shops for the summer. He took some time to set up a training schedule and duty rotations for his permanent garrisons. He and his wife hosted a homecoming banquet that evening for his knights and their ladies.

The next morning he and his son ate a quick breakfast while their horses were saddled and their traveling kits were freshened by servants. Lady Dayr made no complaint-she had seen darker days-and merely kissed her husband and son good-bye.

They departed for the valley of New Compound, in the northern Garnet Mountains, only an hour after dawn. The two men had decided to travel alone, partly to make the trip almost a vacation, but partly knowing they had private matters to discuss.

The older man had been watching his son, noting the darkness that seemed to envelop him whenever the emperor’s name was mentioned. After their first day traveling, with the responsibilities of army management and home behind them, General Dayr decided to broach the subject of what had transpired at Vingaard Keep.

“I picture the siege of Vingaard, even in my dreams,” he said frankly. “As clear as if I’m standing there, the smoke of the gun still swirling around me.”

The two men rode their horses at an easy walk, the flat expanse of the Vingaard Plains making for easy traveling. The ragged crest of the Garnet Range was visible on the horizon but still several days ahead.

“How can we ever forget?” Franz replied, the bitterness tightening his voice. “A year ago those knights were our friends, our allies. Blayne Kerrigan was a mate of mine when we were apprentices in the order of Crowns! How could it have come to this?” He turned in his saddle to regard the general with an almost pleading expression. “Father, we helped the emperor earn his place. At the time, it seemed like we were clearly doing what was best for the knighthood… and for our realm. Now I fear just the opposite.”

“Don’t rush to such a harsh conclusion. Keep in mind all that Solamnia has suffered over my-even your-lifetime: the Dragon Overlords, the Dark Knights, the sacrifice of our great god Paladine. One by one we fought through these challenges-and we survived!

“Then came the invasion of Ankhar’s horde. Remember what it was like to see our home sacked, my son? To watch the death of the duke I had served all of my adult life?”

“The duke was venal and corrupt, Father-you know that! And he was weak. He wouldn’t even fight, in the end.”

“All true, but he was my lord, and I grieved when he died. And think of what you are saying because Jaymes Markham may be many things, but he is not venal, he is not corrupt, and he is not weak! And he is the lord of our united lands now! We have lived through dark and trying times, and perhaps such times call for a powerful, even ruthless, leader.”

“But I thought the point of our striving was to lead us to a brighter future,” Franz protested. “And yet it seems as though we have ushered in a new era of darkness. After all, the great towers of Vingaard survived all of the scourges you listed-only to be brought down by the one who set himself up as our protector.”

“I don’t have an easy answer,” the general admitted. “But I plead with you: don’t give up on Jaymes Markham yet. I remember how he led us, when the dukes of the noble knighthood were allowing the country to crumble around them. Without him, we-and our women and children-would be Ankhar’s slaves, or dead.”

“I acknowledge the important role he has played,” Franz replied, “but I will not promise to follow him into the future.”

From that position the young captain could not be swayed, and his father was wrapped in gloom and worry as they finally made their way onto rising ground, following the paved, well-graded road-of dwarven craftsmanship-that led them up a verdant valley to the thriving mountain town of New Compound. The two men had not been there since the early days of the settlement, and they couldn’t help but be impressed by the many white stone buildings, the neat timber structures. A farmers’ market bustled in the main square, which they could easily observe from afar since no wall surrounded the town.

“I’ve never seen so many well-fed dwarves,” Franz remarked in some astonishment.

“Ahem, a tribute to their prosperity,” his father replied.

They were warmly greeted by Dram and his wife, and the veteran general was moved to chuck little Mikey under the chin, a gesture that provoked an explosion of giggles. Ever hospitable, Sally Feldspar set about preparing a dinner while her husband and the two soldiers retired to the sitting room. There, the general presented a letter of instructions from the emperor, and the two men sat quietly while the dwarf slowly read the missive. When he finished-it took Dram several moments, though there was but a short page of writing-he sat quietly, his expression blank.

“Do you understand his… requests?” Dayr prodded gently after some time of silence.

“Of course I understand,” Dram said impatiently. His irritation, Dayr sensed, was not with the messenger, but with the message. Abruptly, the dwarf looked directly at him. “So he has three bombards, but he wants a dozen more? And all this powder and shot?”

“Actually, two of the bombards were destroyed in the march on Vingaard Keep.” Dayr went on to describe, briefly, that encounter, realizing that Dram had heard nothing of the developments on the great river. Throughout his report of the events, Franz sat mute, staring out the front window at the pastoral town, the green, encircling mountains.

“I remember Vingaard Keep,” Dram said idly after the general had finished the explanation. “Quite a landmark it was. You don’t see too many places like that, not built by humans anyway. It’s a shame to think that it’s gone.”

“Well, not entirely gone,” Dayr said awkwardly.

“Scarred beyond recognition!” Franz spat, drawing a sharp look from his father.

“Well, I understand what he wants me to do. It wouldn’t be easy, mind you-my operations have slowed down quite a bit, and it would take some gearing up to build more of those bombards. I’m going to have to think it over. In the meantime, why don’t we go into the dining room? If my nose is as good as I think it is, Sally has got something special coming out of the oven.”

“Very well,” said the general.

His son, staring at the dwarf intently, rose to his feet immediately, and the older man followed more slowly. Together, they trailed Dram into his dining room, knowing that the matter of the emperor’s orders would not be settled the first night.

Blayne Kerrigan had no idea how he survived through that night, exhausted, numb, soaked to the skin, shivering uncontrollably, clinging to the root on the edge of the ravine wall as the raging flood cascaded and thundered below him.

When next he awoke, gray dawn permeated the ravine. The rain had ceased, and the flood had abated. There was enough ground for Blayne to slide down and brace himself on a couple of rocks, keeping out of the cold stream. He spared a few moments of regret for the loss of his horse, a loyal animal that the young noble had personally broken and trained some six years earlier.

But he had no more time for reflection. The road before him was steep and difficult, even more so since he would be traveling on foot and without supplies. But there could be no turning back: Vingaard was in the hands of the emperor, and Blayne was certain his patrols would be combing the countryside, looking for the enemy soldier who had become a fugitive outlaw.

Resolutely, he started upward, slogging along in his wet clothes. The exertion began to warm him, and by the time the first rays of the sun poked into the deep valley, he was dry, sweating, gasping, and dead tired. He followed the narrow path with stumbling footsteps, always ascending. He took note of familiar landmarks-a waterfall that had bemused him for a whole day, once, when his life was peaceful; a grove where he had stalked a mighty stag just a few years earlier; a steep side valley where he and his faithful hounds had once chased, trapped, and killed a cattle-eating bear. But he didn’t linger at any of those places.

Most of his thoughts were of his father, and they were fond remembrances of the man who had taught him to hunt, camp, ride, and fight. Once, when he paused beside the becalmed stream to catch his breath, he looked into an eddy and imagined Lord Kerrigan’s presence-not so much in the water, but inhabiting the whole place, in the stream and the mountains and the very wind.

“I will make you proud, my father,” he whispered aloud.

Invigorated by the thought, he pushed himself to his feet and continued on, higher into the Vingaard Mountains.

There was a reason only the one road traversed the mountains-through the High Clerist’s Pass-crossing by land from east to west side of the long, narrow range. Most of the valleys leading into the Vingaard Mountains eventually came up against sheer cliffs, dead-end canyons that presented the traveler with impassable rock faces, looming glaciers, and forbidding peaks. In a few-a very few-places, the grade was shallow enough for a narrow path to snake its way into the heights. But those trails were mainly fit for goats and mountain cats.

Blayne knew from his past experience that he had found such a path. By late afternoon, the grade had increased substantially, and he frequently had to use his hands to grab bushes, roots, or rocky knobs to propel himself up and forward. If his horse had survived, he would have had to abandon the animal because the ground was simply too steep, the trail too narrow. Before sunset he was treated to a respite when he stumbled upon a narrow valley. There a pair of waterfalls trilled down from the heights, and a crystalline pond showed proof of trout in its rippling surface.

Wearily he slumped onto a patch of grass beside the pond. His stomach growled, and for the first time he felt his hunger as an acute craving. Fortunately, his father had prepared him for that type of situation. Rolling up his sleeve, Blayne lay face down on the ground next to the place where the stream flowed out of the pond. Many fish were visible, swimming in both directions. He let his arm dangle in the water, motionless, until a fat rainbow trout swam by. With a quick gesture, he thrust his hand under the fish, hoisted it up, and flipped it, wriggling, onto the bank. With a single sharp move he cracked the fat fish on a rock and killed it.

He had no fire, nor any means to make one, but two slashes of his sharp knife cut tender fillets from the fish, and he simply ate them raw, carefully pulling out the tiny bits of bone. Before sunset, he had pulled four more fish from the water, eating two and wrapping the others in moist leaves. Stars sparkled in the sky as he finally stumbled away from the stream, seeking a place to sleep.

He found, instead, a man dressed in a gray robe, regarding him coldly with black, expressionless eyes. The stranger stood under a tree, and the young nobleman got the feeling that he might have been watching him for some time.

Blayne gasped aloud when he spied the man, immediately reaching for his knife. But that weapon fell from his suddenly cold fingers when the gray man waved a hand and muttered a soft word. The world began to spin, dizziness and disorientation drowning out the young noble’s awareness.

“Sleep now,” said the man in gray. “Rest tonight. Tomorrow, you will come with me.”

The Nightmaster again visited Ankhar when he and Laka had gathered his new horde into a great encampment, filling a broad stretch of fields and meadows near the northern edge of Lemish’s vast woodland. The band had grown to number many thousands of warriors.

Perhaps it was not quite so numerous as the half-giant’s first army, the one that had terrorized Solamnia for more than two years, but in several important respects the force was even more impressive: for one thing, about half the warriors in the new horde were ogre bulls, averaging nearly eight feet tall, each as heavy as two strong men. For another, he had the company of nearly fifty flying sivak draconians commanded by the spell-casting aurak called Guilder.

The rest of the troops were lackeys: many hobgoblins and goblins, together with a few ancient, battered draconians, that inevitably trailed in the wake of their mighty masters.

But they were the descendents of fierce warriors who had fought under the Dark Queen’s banners in the War of the Lance, who had waged war against, and in the service of, the Dragon Overlords. A fraction had served under Ankhar in his previous campaign, and they were as thirsty for revenge as they were for plunder.

Some of his old captains, too, had returned to the ranks. The grizzled ogre chieftain Bloodgutter had come at the head of a company of nearly a thousand axe-wielding bulls and proclaimed he, himself, would batter down the walls of any fortress standing in the army’s path. Impressed by his loyalty, and tusk-foaming ferocity, Ankhar had promoted him to General Bloodgutter on the spot.

The fierce warg rider Rib Chewer had also returned to serve the half-giant again. Rib Chewer brought with him hundreds of his clan, each mounted on a snarling, fanged wolf the size of a pony. Those warriors, riding fast across the plains and seemingly tireless, would be the fleet advance guard of his army, Ankhar decided. The flying sivaks would be his scouts and his eyes.

The ogres would be his fists.

“You have done well, son of the mountains,” declared the Nightmaster, appearing-as ever-only after the last glow of the sunset had faded from the western sky. He materialized near the great fire where Ankhar sat with his captains, and his arrival provoked a great stirring and growling among the restive ogres. One, the captain called Heart Eater, leaped to his feet and took a step toward the small, masked human, only to halt in shock when the visitor raised a black-gloved hand.

“What witchery is this?” demanded Heart Eater, struggling and flailing as he tried to free his feet, which seemed to have become suddenly planted in the ground.

“Merely a precaution, to see you do not try and harm one of your master’s greatest allies,” replied the Nightmaster with a shrug. He gestured and Heart Eater twisted free. Off balance, the ogre smashed to the ground and bounced, growling, back to his feet. The others muttered warily but did not intervene.

“Or, perhaps, to see that your master’s greatest ally is not forced to do harm to one of his loyal captains,” continued the black priest, his tone casual. Still, there was power and menace in those words, and the bristling, growling Heart Eater saw the wisdom of returning sullenly to his seat by the fire. Pond-Lily, seated beside her lord and master, watched the exchange wide-eyed, while Laka-on Ankhar’s other side-cackled in wry amusement.

“I have done as you… requested,” Ankhar said, choosing his words carefully. His stepmother sat rigidly, her bright eyes shifting from him to the visitor. The emerald gems in the eye sockets of her skull talisman glowed, and she lifted the ghastly rattle above her head and shook it wildly. “I have an army, and my warriors are ready to march against the knights.”

“Very good,” said the Nightmaster. “Know that you do not march alone, that even as you move to attack, other armies-as well as smaller, more secretive factions-will move against the emperor and Solamnia. His fall is all but assured.”

“Other armies? Will they claim his treasures before I reach them?” demanded the half-giant suspiciously.

The Nightmaster waved a hand, and Ankhar’s worries seemed to evaporate. Even as the man was explaining that all the booty in the southern plains would be the property of the half-giant and his men, the horde’s commander was no longer concerned with such questions.

Instead, he felt impatient. He wanted to go to war.

Jaymes asked Sir Donald to take his horse back to the palace, announcing that he intended to walk. Before the knight rode off on the silver-saddled steed, the emperor lashed his cloak and helmet to the saddlebags. Instead he made do with a plain black cape. Pulling the hood up over his head, he walked down from Nobles’ Hill with his head low, though his eyes and ears stayed alert. His mood was black; his anger felt like a burning coal in his chest. Two women had thwarted him, and he could strike at neither of them directly. Sooner or later they would regret their actions.

But that afternoon he would find an easier target.

Unrecognized, he passed through the gate into the Old City. No strong urge propelled him home-he had no stomach to deal with his wife right then-so he took a roundabout path, determined to see for himself what the mood in Palanthas was like. His footsteps soon carried him near the bustling waterfront, where a number of wide plazas served as day markets, with vendors offering everything from fish to sharp steel knives for sale. About the only commercial item prohibited from sale was slaves-that foul trade had been banned since the restoration of Solamnic rule under Lord Regent du Chagne-but Jaymes suspected that if he looked closely at some of the brothels or mercenary companies in the city even humans could be purchased.

However, he was not concerned with such matters of morality. Instead, his mind was on practical problems, and Coryn’s words had warned him that there might exist dangers in the very city about which the emperor suspected little. Was the population rebellious? Was Vingaard Keep just the tip of a dangerous iceberg?

If so, Jaymes Markham would not remain in the dark for long.

The first place he stopped was a fish market right at the docks. He ignored the busy scenes of commerce, the nets full of glistening salmon being hoisted from holds, the icemen hauling their wagons of frozen water to the stalls, the merchants trying to sell their goods to the teeming throngs. Instead, Jaymes listened to the people who were not there to sell or buy, but merely to gab.

He heard one of the official heralds, proclaiming the relatively old news of Vingaard’s capitulation. Jaymes had written the announcement himself, and-hearing it-regretted his choice of words.

“The recalcitrant Kerrigan clan has rejoined the law-abiding ranks of the Solamnic peoples!” cried the herald. “The daughter of the lord, Lady Kerrigan, has been appointed mistress of the keep. Her brother is declared an outlaw, and a reward of a thousand steel pieces is offered for his capture, alive. Alternately, if proof of his death can be produced, the reward is five hundred steel.”

Jaymes heard people muttering about the announcement, some hearing the news for the first time, others reacting as though the herald’s report was familiar. The emperor had intentionally left out any mention of the damage to the keep’s legendary towers, as well as the fate of Lord Kerrigan. But the sad truth was spreading.

“Did you hear that Old Sandy-that’s Lord Kerrigan the elder-was killed by the emperor when he came to his camp under a flag of truce?” whispered an old man, speaking to several young ruffians. He was a vendor of wine, who leaned on the counter of his tiny stall as he held the attention of a small group of onlookers. A hand-scratched sign hung crookedly on a post, announcing it as “Norgaard Eric’s Prime Wine Shop.” Though the fellow was speaking softly, his words carried to Jaymes’s ears as the emperor, still cloaked, mingled with the crowd.

“Not only that, but his guns knocked the whole keep down!” a woman hissed, looking up to make sure the herald wasn’t listening. She didn’t show any concern about the strangers clustered around her and kept speaking. “Next thing you know, he’ll be blasting down our own houses if he don’t like the way we looks at ’im!”

“They say his own troops was on the point o’ mutiny!” the old man interjected, trying to recapture his audience. “That he held a sword to his captain’s own throat, ere the men would follow orders.”

“How’d it come to this?” heatedly asked one of the young men. He was a furtive, swarthy type that Jaymes immediately pegged for a thief. There was the shape of a short blade under the hip of his tunic, though for the moment he seemed more interested in gossiping than in working his trade.

“We let ’im do it!” the woman replied tartly. “Just gave ’im the keys to the city, we did.”

“Eh, it’s the lord regent’s fault. Givin’ up his daughter like that to a hick warrior from the backcountry! Why, there’s them say that he really did kill old Lord Lorimar, and ’e threatened to do the same to the regent, less he gave up his daughter.”

“And the poor princess,” said the woman, shaking her head and clucking her tongue. “Locked up in that castle like a prisoner, she is.”

“Huh! Really? How d’you know that?” demanded the old man, obviously jealous of that fresh tidbit of information.

“Why, my son’s a sergeant in the palace guard, ’e is,” the woman insisted in a low voice. “Was him that looked in on her every day while the emperor was off makin’ war.”

Jaymes had been determined to listen in silence, but that remark upset him. Muffling his voice, he spoke from the edge of the group. “A sergeant, you say? Sure he ain’t just a reg’lar ranker?”

“Sergeant Withers!” she shot back, offended. “Maxim Withers. You can see his name on the roster, you don’t believe me!”

She suddenly squinted, trying to get a clean look at Jaymes, but he shifted slightly, using the shoulder of a burly dock worker so she couldn’t see him. “Yes,” she repeated firmly. “Our beloved princess wept and she wailed, I’m told! They were barely allowed to feed her-on the emperor’s orders it was!”

“No!” gasped one of the listeners.

“That tain’t the worst of it,” the old woman said, her voice dropping low again.

“What? Tell us!” demanded the listeners.

“She’s with child!” she proclaimed triumphantly. “The Princess of Palanthas is going to be giving the emperor an heir!”

“Ah, I ain’t heard that!” said Norgaard Eric skeptically, trying to take charge of the gossiping again. He switched the subject, grousing about the city patrols that had apparently required him to close his wine-vending stall at sundown. The new rule had been one of Jaymes’s innovations, and the emperor knew it had considerably reduced the drunkenness on the streets in the waterfront district.

Disgusted, the emperor moved on, though not without making a few mental notes.

He spent the rest of the day making his way through the city. In some neighborhoods the official heralds were actually jeered by people in the crowds, and everywhere the mood was touchy. The people were foolish cattle, he realized, who were distracted by any kind of gossip or provocation. By the time he approached the gates of his palace, throwing back his hood so he was immediately recognized, the emperor had made several decisions. Many of them would take a little more thought, but at least two of them he could act on at once.

“Find Sergeant Maxim Withers of the palace guard,” he ordered the captain on duty. “Have him report to me at once. Oh, and send a detail to the waterfront district. There’s a wine merchant there, calls himself Norgaard Eric.”

“Yes, my lord,” the captain replied, his eyebrows raised in mute question.

“I want his stock destroyed, and I think it would do him good to spend a few nights in the city gaol. See that it’s done.”

Knowing he would be obeyed-it was a good feeling, that knowledge-Jaymes stalked through the door of his palace. He was hungry but would have a meal delivered to his office.

He had a lot of work to do.

Dram couldn’t sleep. He didn’t want to disturb Sally with his tossing and turning, so he got out of bed, threw a fur robe over his stocky, muscular body, and went out to the front porch of the great house. The valley’s crystalline lake shimmered before him, bright with the reflected light of a million stars and the setting of the silver crescent moon in the west.

He settled himself into his favorite chair and only then realized he wasn’t alone. There was a man leaning against the railing at the end of the porch. He had been staring at the waters but turned silently to regard the dwarf. Dram’s eyes were naturally keen in the dark, and he recognized the fellow immediately.

“Captain Franz,” he greeted the son of General Dayr. “You’re keeping late hours.”

The young knight sighed and came over to take a seat next to the dwarf. “Well, I’ve had a lot of trouble sleeping lately. Ever since…”

“Since Vingaard Keep?” asked Dram shrewdly.

“Yes. I’m loyal to the knighthood, sir. I really am. But it felt like, what we were doing, marching on, firing on a keep of our own people, was a great injustice.”

The dwarf fell silent for a moment. “Sounds like the Vingaard knights made a pretty good attack on Jaymes’s army, if they burned up two of his bombards.”

“What choice did they have?” shot back the young captain.

Dram merely shrugged. “I’m not saying they had choices, not good ones, anyway. But I can’t think of anything more likely to arouse the emperor’s ire. He couldn’t let an affront like that go unpunished.”

“Is he willing to punish the whole of this nation?” demanded Franz.

The dwarf shook his head. “I don’t know what he’s willing to do. I never did. But I have to admit I don’t like the sound of his plans, if his letter to me is any indication.”

“Is that why you’re down here in the middle of the night?” asked the knight. “Because you can’t sleep either?”

“Something like that,” Dram replied. “It helps me to think, out here with the stars and the lake and the mountains. I come down here more nights than I’d care to admit to Sally.”

“So you admit that you, too, are troubled by the emperor.”

Dram didn’t answer, and after a while Franz rose to his feet. Stretching, he looked at the vista in the valley then turned back to the dwarf. “I appreciate your hospitality, putting us up in your own house. And I appreciate you listening to me. I try talking to my father, but he doesn’t want to listen. I think he’s afraid to listen, sometimes.”

“Well, your father is a very wise man. And a courageous one, as well. I wouldn’t expect to hear that he’s afraid of anything. But he might have the wisdom to be cautious.”

“Yes, I know. And I’m sure you’re right. Good night,” Franz said, going back into the house.

Dram sat out there until dawn started to color the sky. He went back in and snuggled next to his wife as the day grew brighter, and still he couldn’t sleep. When Mikey, in the next room, started to stir, he got up to get the boy so his wife could have another hour of rest.

And when he met General Dayr and his son for breakfast, as they had planned, he had finally decided what to say.

“Tell Jaymes I got his orders. I read his letter. I understand all his needs and wants,” the dwarf said gruffly.

“And?” prodded the commander, sensing there was more.

“Tell him if he wants more bombards, he’ll have to make them himself.”