Lord of the Rose

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The lone knight spurred his horse, urging the animal to greater speed. Mud sucked at the hooves, and the animal staggered but found the strength to plunge ahead, raggedly cantering across the flat ground. Eyes bulging, nostrils flaring, the war-horse persevered, carrying the weary rider through the graying twilight. Finally the army camp materialized in the dusk, a scattering of smoky fires, sodden tents, and apprehensive troops.

The big horse slowed as it stumbled past the outer pickets. The knight guided it between the aisles of tents toward the largest canvas shelter in the encampment. The banner of Thelgaard, a white crown on a black field, hung limply from the tall staff, dripping water that pooled unnoticed among the soaked expanse.

Guardsmen made way for the rider. One, taking note of the rose emblazoned on the man’s breastplate, turned and shouted, “A messenger from Caergoth arrives!”

Duke Jarrod emerged from the tent, shrugging an oilskin cape over his broad shoulders, looming above the attendants and nobles clustered around him. His beard bristled, and his huge hands were clenched, as if he sought already to strike a blow against some new foe.

“What word from your lord, man?” Jarrod demanded, his voice booming out as the horseman reined in.

“Duke Walker’s vanguard is eight miles away-the bulk of his army no more than twelve, Excellency,” reported the rider, slipping from the saddle and kneeling on the muddy ground before Jarrod. “He is making camp for the night but expects to cross the river first thing in the morning. He will arrive here by mid-day.”

“Ah, you bring good news, at last,” the huge lord said, his bearded face breaking into a broad grin, fists unclenching as he clapped his hands in relief. “With Caergoth beside us, we will bring this rabble to heel for good!” He turned to one of his officers. “Captain Dayr-send word to Duke Rathskell. We will count on him to hold the left and let Caergoth fill the middle as soon as he crosses the river. My own force shall stand here on the left, anchored on the bank of the Upper Vingaard.”

“Very good, Excellency,” Dayr said with a nod. He was a smaller version of his lord, bearded and swarthy, with well-muscled forearms outlined by the black silk of his soaking sleeves. He hastened away, calling for a scribe to ready pen and parchment.

More shouts came from guards at the eastern edge of the encampment, and before Dayr had even finished the flowery introduction-he was still reciting “Lord of the Sword, Master of the Garnet Spur”-the intended recipient came riding up to the headquarters tent with an entourage of a dozen officers and nobles.

“My lord!” exclaimed Thelgaard in genuine surprise, as Duke Nathias Rathskell of Solanthus slid from his saddle with a dancer’s grace. His thin rapier was, as usual, balanced at his side, but he looked down in distaste as his feet sank a couple of inches into the muddy ground of his rival’s camp. “I had just ordered word sent to you-we hear that Caergoth is but a half day’s march away.”

Rathskell’s thin face brightened a bit at this news, but his familiar scowl returned. “That is indeed encouraging,” Rathskell allowed, “but we must needs address the gap between our forces. I stand east of the river, in line and ready to meet the foe coming up from the south. I had expected that you would draw out your own force to meet me. We now have a gap of some two miles between our forces.”

Thelgaard waved away the complaint. “That gap is Caergoth’s. He will have five thousand men across the river in the morning. They will secure our center.”

The Duke of Solanthus peered to the west. “How do you know he will come?” he asked.

Jarrod gestured to the recently arrived messenger, who hurried forward and repeated his lord’s declaration. Still, Solanthus remained unconvinced. “My own outriders report that the horde is but a day’s march south of us. If Caergoth is delayed, we leave ourselves open to defeat in detail. The gap is a danger.

“Bring your forces up to mine, then,” Thelgaard said with an indifferent shrug. “I have my own right anchored on the Upper Vingaard, and I do not care to relinquish that security. If you are too timid to await developments on the plain, all you need do is march into the gap on your right, joining me here. You should have nothing to fear, then.”

Rathskell glowered but managed to suppress his anger and reply. “A simple march, at night, in the rain, leaving my tents and baggage train exposed? I think not. Besides, I am stretched thin as it is, and if I pull too far this way I leave our whole force open to a flanking maneuver, if this Ankhar takes his troops on a wide circuit away from the river.”

“You give this scoundrel, this half-giant leading the ogre horde, credit for cleverness he does not possess,” said Thelgaard.

“He was clever enough to overwhelm Garnet in one afternoon,” Solanthus responded. “I would have a care not to underestimate him, if I were you.”

“You worry about your concerns, and I will worry about mine. Did you not hear about Mason’s Ford? Five days ago, a few knights and a rabble of peasants were enough to give these wretches pause. Do not inflate your fears, my good duke.”

Rathskell’s face flushed at the insult, but he grimaced and once again maintained his poise. “Yes, I heard about that fight-and a noble stand it was. Perhaps this barbarian, this Ankhar, will learn from his mistakes. He has crossed the North Garnet and comes toward us swiftly enough. He may not repeat his blunt tactics again.”

“You jabber like an old woman! He is a monster, an illiterate subhuman!” Thelgaard proclaimed, to the approving nods of his own entourage. Let his men see how a real lord infused his men with confidence!

“Surely you can spare a screening force, at least? Horsemen who could cover the gap and report on any developments?” Though Rathskell was making an effort to be reasonable, his mustache was quivering with indignation. “You have yourself in a square formation here, covering a mere quarter mile of frontage, with half your force arranged solidly on the riverbank. I have the same amount of men spread out in a line two miles long!”

“Your deployments are your own concern, of course,” Jarrod of Thelgaard replied. “I have simply taken wise precautions to see that I cannot be outflanked. I do not intend to place the safety of my army in the hands of anyone other than myself.”

“Suit yourself, then,” Solanthus replied through clenched teeth. “You well know that I cannot close the gap, since I would place both of our forces open to a flanking run across the plains-and it would cut me off from my own city, if Ankhar moves east. We must count on Caergoth to uphold his promise. But if they come through that gap, Excellency”-he sneered at the honorific-“you understand that you will be on your own.”

“That,” said Thelgaard, a broad grin cracking the bristle of his great beard, “is a risk that I am well prepared to take.”

He was still grinning as his noble counterpart mounted and led his party of officers back into the rainy night.

Ankhar raised his hand, thrusting the glowing speartip high over his head in the rain-soaked night. The green light, Hiddukel’s blessing, stabbed through the murk and mist, a beacon to all his vast legions. The half-giant howled as he waved that enchanted weapon back and forth, feeeling the rush of power surge through his veins.

The great horde numbered more than six thousand now, with several more tribes of gobs having come down from the mountains, drawn like bees to honey as word of the sacking of Garnet spread. From the high valleys they had joined the ranks, eager and willing to obey his orders, with the promise of more pillage and plunder just ahead.

The trading center of Luinstat was to be his next target, and he knew the markets and warehouses there were stuffed with goods from across Solamnia. Three armies of knights had emerged from their cities to defend the place, but at last report the human forces remained scattered, with the largest still on the other side of the river. The two smaller armies stood nearly astride Ankhar’s northward path.

“Halt!” roared the hulking commander, and the thousands of troops around him immediately came to a standstill upon that command. The half giant nodded, pleased at the increased discipline, the steadiness of march and unity of purpose that his followers had developed, improving with every passing day.

“You learn!” he crowed. “You march together now, like veteran soldiers. You attack together! Attack when Ankhar gives the order, not when you see foe. Sometimes Ankhar tell you to retreat. Sometimes retreat can turn enemy into fools!

“These my words. They are Truth!”

“Truth! Ankhar! Truth!” The cry was echoed from six thousand throats, the deep sound booming across the plains. Again and again the goblins and hobgoblins echoed the words.

“We make camp here for the night, brave ones,” Ankhar roared. “Prince of Lies tells me that tomorrow we feast on blood!”

The answering roar washed across the great leader’s shoulders. He didn’t feel the rain, and even the thick shroud of the night was naught but a filmy barrier to his keen, dark-sensitive eyes. Now those eyes made out Laka coming towards him. The old crone grinned, making a display of her sharp teeth, shaking the rattle she had made from the skull of a human slain in the sacking of Garnet.

“Portents favorable, mighty lord,” the crone cackled. “Humans have doubts. They fear Ankar’s might, cunning, and courage.”

“That what I hoped,” he replied evenly. “Will Hiddukel aid us?”

“No doubt, son. He whisper doubts in lordly ears, shake courage of men when they sleep. He sew confusion and hesitation so you, chosen one, may reap harvest in blood.”

Ankhar raised his broad nostrils, sniffed the moist air, and nodded in pleasure. “I smell wolf. Outriders approach.”

His warriors were making their crude beds on the open plain-no tents and bedrolls necessary for these hearties! — as the first of the worg-riders loped into camp. The massive wolves seemed to grin with their long tongues hanging down from their fanged jaws. Several of the goblin riders slipped from their saddles and hastened to approach the hulking war-leader.

“What word of foes?” demanded Ankhar.

The captain of the scouts, the lean and wiry goblin known as Rib Chewer, knelt in the mud at the half-giant’s feet. “My lord, they appear confused. There is one force solid upon the riverbank, no more than two leagues south of here. Compact like a hedgehog it is, a camp bristling with spears. But blind and stupid as a hedgehog too-with no outriders or pickets more than an arrow’s flight from the main body.”

“Which troops are these?”

“They fly the banner of the White Crown, lord. The other group of knights, they who flaunt the sigil of the silver sword, is a league away from the crowns, away from the river. They are poised in line on the plain, facing to the south, and very well-entrenched it seems.”

“There a league of space between them?”

“Aye, lord,” the goblin replied. “There is nary a picket nor a watchman in all that gap. The Sword Knights have a line at least as long, with outriders even farther toward the mountains. They gave us a merry chase, but their great steeds could not perform on the muddy ground.”

“No.” The half-giant nodded in satisfaction. He knew that the wolves were light and lean, steady of endurance and quick and savage in attacking. They made perfect light cavalry, especially when they were guided by the most intelligent and articulate of his scouts.

“What about other great army, Rose Lord’s troops? They look so splendid and move like drunken snails.” Ankhar scowled into the night. That was the force that worried him most, those gleaming knights on horseback and in chariots, the catapults and ranks of deadly crossbows. He had been dismayed to learn, from his oracle, Laka, that the mighty Rose Lord’s army had marched from Caergoth, but they had approached the river at a very lackluster pace, and he hoped that his own rapid advance would bring him to battle before the Rose Lord was on the field.

“They are nearby, lord,” reported the goblin scout, “but they have yet to cross the river. They are gathered just beyond the nearest ford but made camp early, with great tentings and tarpings to hold off the rain, and fires to warm chilly human flesh. They cook and boast, even as they shiver and stare into the darkness. They are blind as moles and did not even see us as we skulked through the night.

“Good. This as I hoped. You think they stay there for long time?”

“I cannot be sure, great lord. They were not digging, as humans do when they wish to make a dirt-fort. So they may be planning to cross the river in the morning.”

“We not give them time,” Ankhar decided. “Rib Chewer, gather worg riders. Strike mountain flank of Sword army before dawn. Your wolves make the attack. Hold back a dozen. They beat drums. Sound like marching troops.”

“Marching, O great lord? Not riding?” Rib Chewer narrowed his eyes, trying to imagine the half-giant’s strategy.

“Aye. They sound like army marching around their flank, at foot of mountains. Make lord believe you there in great numbers, that we try to go around his left and make for city. Strike quickly, then dance away. Do not let them unite strength against your fleet riders.”

The goblin scout grinned, a wicked slash of sharpened teeth gleaming across his leathery face. “It shall be as you wish, my lord. They will chase and harry, but not catch us.”

“Yes. Go now. Ride through the night,” Ankhar said, pleased with all he had heard. “Strike before first dawn. In the darkness, humans easy to confuse.”

“What of the rest of great army? Thousands of gobs and hobs, all thirsting for blood?” Laka asked, as she sidled up behind the great war leader, giving him a momentary start-he whom she had suckled at her breast when he was an orphaned babe. “You not make us wait here in the darkness, my lord?”

“No,” Ankhar said, shaking his great, shaggy head in annoyance. “Important work at riverbank. Test this hedgehog. See how sharp are his quills.”

Horns blared through the darkness, shrill alarms ringing across Duke Rathskell’s camp. The lord burst out of his tent, buckling on his rapier, dismayed to see it was still raining. There was no shred of daylight to break the impenetrable murk of the night.

“Curse this blackness,” he snapped. “What’s going on? Are we being attacked?”

“Excellency!” A torch-bearing guard ran up to him to report. In the garishly flaring light the man’s eyes were wild with fear. “The pickets on the left flank report a fierce assault. Goblins on worgs, striking hard. And sounds in the night, a drumbeat of marching footsteps! It seems as though the monsters are indeed stealing a march on us, coming around the east flank!”

“Damn the enemy’s cunning!” gasped the duke. “It is as I feared! The horde seeks to pass us by, to close upon Luinstat, perhaps even Solanthus itself, while all of our troops are here in the open.”

Captain Rankin, the leader of the infantry, came running from the darkness, anxiously buckling his sword. “What are your orders, Excellency?” he asked breathlessly.

“Pull in the pickets from the right,” Rathskell ordered. “Reinforce the left with everyone we have. Get the knights mounted, prepared for a countercharge! I will be boiled in oil before I let these wolf-riders get the best of veteran knights on good horses. We’ll show them how a real army does battle!”

He frowned as he gave the last order, remembering how the heavy war-horses had bogged down the previous night when they had tried to chase off a few worg-riding goblin scouts riding close. Still, there was nothing for it-without his knights mounted, he would be going to battle like a fighter with his feet nailed to the ground.

“What about Thelgaard?” asked Rankin. “Should we send to him for aid?”

Rathskell spat on the ground. “No. The stubborn fool will only cling to his trenches. Let him rot where he sits-if he cannot hear the sounds of our trumpets, let him slumber away like a baby while we do the man’s work of killing!”

A footman brought Rathskell’s charger up. The duke was making ready to mount when he thought of something else. “Even so,” Rathskell declared, “this Ankhar has displayed some wiles. I think we had best send a message to Caergoth and beseech his lordship to cross the river at the earliest light, to come up to the front with whatever haste he can muster,”

“Aye, lord-I will send two riders, at once! They will take separate paths to ensure that at least one of them gets through.”

“Good,” Rathskell said, swinging his lithe body into the saddle. In truth, he had faint hopes for Caergoth’s help.

The Duke of Thelgaard awakened to a gray dawn. A steady patter on his tent had kept him awake through most of the night, and his bulky frame stubbornly resisted his initial movements. Finally he was obliged to shout for his footman, and the long-suffering servant immediately entered, helped the lord to sit up on his creaking cot, and fetched his boots, cloak, and chest-armor.

His aide entered and bowed as the lord was wrestling with his heavy, brass-buckled belt.

“Any reports from the night?” asked Thelgaard, who-as usual-had left instructions he not be disturbed except in the event of an emergency.

“There were sounds of disturbance off to the east, from Rathskell’s camp. Trumpets, some riders, but he sent no message.”

“Bah. The old woman is chasing shadows, no doubt,” grumbled the huge duke, giving his underarm a good scratching. “Our lines report no trouble?”

“No, lord. It has been a quiet night on all sides of the square.”

As the duke was buckling on his heavy steel breastplate-a family heirloom pre-dating the War of the Lance-sounds reached him. Not a sentry’s trumpet but the clash of steel against steel. A human voice shrieked in unmistakable agony.

“Impossible!” spat the duke. “There must be some fool making a mistake he will regret!” Thelgaard glared at his alarmed aide, who had the presence of mind to keep his mouth shut.

The huge lord snatched up his crown-emblazoned shield and lumbered from his tent, gaping in astonishment as he saw men dashing every which way. The noise of battle came from the south, along the flank of his square facing the expected goblin horde, but in the space of a few seconds the sounds had spread to the east. Torches flared, and screams rang out quite clearly from that direction.

He was under attack from two sides! Even as he tried to grasp this complicated circumstance-his mind flashed, unwillingly, to Solanthus’ warning about the gap between their two armies-a trumpet blared, signaling more enemy troops had been sighted.

This trumpet warning came from the north.

“Excellency! They’re striking us from three sides!” cried Captain Dayr, racing up on his mount. “Goblins are coming against us in ranks. They’ve already rolled in the pickets, are hitting our main lines hard. They’ve got us trapped against the river and have started to penetrate the boundaries of the square!”

“Impossible!” snarled Thelgaard again, knowing it was all too possible. “How can they do that?” he asked lamely.

“They streamed through the gap in the darkness. The attacks were timed to start at first light. They strike with discipline and order, my lord, and seemed to have pinpointed the weakest links in our line. They stole a march on us!”

“What of Caergoth? Is he coming up fast?” the duke asked, feeling, almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth, that it was a vain hope. Duke Walker was a methodical man-his camp would barely be stirring at this hour, much less have completed the fording of the river, and the several-mile march needed to reach his allies.

Dayr shook his head impatiently.

“We must hold the lines-do you hear me?” demanded the duke.

“Aye, Excellency. We must indeed, or all will be lost!” Dayr put spurs to his horse, thundering toward the north as the sounds of battle rose to a crescendo.

“Where’s my sword?” demanded the duke, as another manservant stepped forward to offer him the great blade. Thelgaard felt better as he grasped the familiar hilt. Breaking into a lumbering run, he headed toward the entrenchments that marked the fortified boundary of his camp.

The situation that greeted his eyes was worse than he could have imagined. Over a hundred shrieking goblins, many waving blood-stained blades over their heads, were already through the line! Knights of the Crown were reacting with seasoned competence, a score of brave men forming a makeshift rank and standing against the assault, but the goblins were hurling themselves at the knights, and swords met in a din.

The surge of battle sent men staggering back, groaning, then returning to the fight with shouts. Dozens of the attackers fell in the initial clash, but still more of their fellows poured through the breach that had been torn in the line, washing over the knights.

Thelgaard himself joined the defenders, now numbering only half of the initial twenty knights. His blade came down and hacked a gob in two, scattering several more on the back-stroke. More knights rushed into position, and standing shoulder to shoulder they finally stemmed the breach. Led by their roaring duke, the human fighters inched forward, driving the goblins back through the line of stakes that marked the camp boundary.

“Take that, you scum!” bellowed Jarrod of Thelgaard, laying about with his mighty sword. This was more like it-battling a savage foe toe to toe, smiting all about him, battle-blood pulsing through his veins!

A rank of archers came up beside him, crossbows snapping, silver darts plunging into the enemy. Many goblins fell, pierced by the deadly bolts that slammed their targets with more force than any arrow shot from a mere bow. The savage monsters fell back. They were surprisingly disciplined amidst the chaos. Now they halted, forming a solid line. Again and again the crossbows fired their lethal volleys, but for every goblin who fell it seemed two or three rushed to take his place.

The enemy’s archers were also at work, loosing crude wooden sticks that lacked the deadly killing power of the crossbow-launched, steel-headed missiles of the knights. But they vexed the knights, these lesser arrows, puncturing exposed necks and arms, here and there striking a knight in the eye. And there were so many of them! In the face of that deadly rain the Solamnics closed ranks, raised their shields, and edged forward to try and reclaim their ruptured northern line.

Then disaster from behind. In disbelief the duke spun around, saw similar breaches on the two other fronts of his camp. Goblins were running amok through the nobles’ tents, slashing through the canvas structures, knocking down poles. A few brave men stood against the onslaught but were ruthlessly cut down. Thelgaard shouted in anguish as he saw his young nephew, his sister’s eldest son, run through by a goblin spear. The vile attacker, in the frenzied rapture of his kill, stopped to dance upon the bleeding corpse, stabbing the beardless youth again and again.

With an inarticulate cry, the lord turned back toward camp, but he never even got close. The collapse on the inland front-on that cursed gap Solanthus had tried to warn him about! — was by now catastrophic. Men streamed away from the attackers, exposing both the north and south lines. With a precision that astounded Thelgaard, this rabble of savages had broken a formed defense of trained knights! A horse, trailing guts from a long gash in its belly, lumbered past. A huge hobgoblin loped after it, and Thelgaard struck the brute down with a single blow.

Arrows were flying all around. One of them struck the duke in the shoulder, drawing a cry of pain. He plucked the missile out and threw it aside but found that his left arm was nearly paralyzed. Dropping his shield, wielding his sword in his right hand, he bellowed, trying to rally his faltering army.

There were so many goblins-a dozen rushed at him in the next instant, scores more charging behind. Some of these were huge hobgoblins with fanged muzzles, snapping and growling like berserk beasts. One slashed at him with a studded sword, and the duke was barely able to parry the blow, before pulling his own weapon back and stabbing the brute through the chest. Even as the hob died, several of his comrades swarmed around, slashing at Thelgaard with an array of wicked weapons. The duke had no choice but to stumble back with the rest of his army.

At least such of his army as still survived. There were dead humans everywhere, and others who had been wounded badly crawling or limping or piteously moaning. The attackers swept past the injured for now, concentrating their efforts on knights who still wielded their weapons. Thelgaard hacked right and left, cleaved hobgoblin after hobgoblin right through their leering muzzles, but the knights couldn’t stem the tide.

A flash of greenish light caught his eye, and he saw a monstrous barbarian striding among the enemy. The creature looked to be a giant, and he wielded a spear the size of a small tree trunk. The tip of that weapon was the source of the eerie glow, and when the monster waved it above his head it seemed to inspire his brutal warriors into even greater depths of savagery.

This was Ankhar, the duke understood. Ankhar who had beaten him, humiliated him, destroying his prized army on the field of battle.

Thelgaard’s crossbowmen made a last stand at the end of the tents, firing volley after volley into the horde, driving back the foe for a few precious minutes so their comrades could slip past, try to form a last line, a semicircle in the rear of the camp, adjoining the riverbank. The duke roared at the archers to retreat, but before his orders could be heeded the valiant arrow-men were taken in both flanks, goblins chopping and hacking, even biting, as they swarmed from the sides and behind. Of a hundred brave men, barely a score staggered away from the gruesome massacre.

Now the whole horde of the attackers swept against the tenuous line of ultimate defense, and in seconds the position was breached all along its front. Knights fought and died to allow a few of their comrades to escape, until there was no front, no position any more. There was only madness, a welter of bloodletting presided over by frenzied goblins and hobgoblins.

The handful of desperate men who survived had fled to the riverbank, many of them skidding down the steep dirt slope into the muddy shallows. They were pushed into the waters of the Vingaard that had become a churning mass of blood, flesh, and fear. The Duke of Thelgaard lost his sword as he skidded down the bank. He was almost trampled by a fear-maddened horse as the steed lunged past him, knocking him face down in the brown water.

The duke came up gasping, heading for deeper water. Men were casting aside their armor, seizing the manes and tails of fleeing horses, starting to swim. Those who couldn’t swim, couldn’t grasp some form of support, soon drowned.

Sobbing in fury and dismay, Thelgaard wriggled his way out of his heavy breastplate, the crown-emblazoned piece of armor that had been in his family for a dozen generations. It vanished into the muddy waters as the duke swam toward the far bank, strong strokes carrying him away from the deadly shore.

Behind him, the howls of thousands of triumphant goblins sang in his ears, a chorus of humiliation and shame that would echo in his memory, he knew, for every day of the rest of his life.

Despite the down mattress and sturdy bed that was a part of his army’s equipment every time it took to the field, the Duke of Caergoth had spent an extremely restless night. Every time he drifted off to sleep, it seemed as though secret voices were whispering in his ear, warning him of dangers before, behind, to every side. Some of the whispers were lies, he knew-but others were truths!

How to tell them apart?

He awoke in a sweat, breathing hard, staring wildly around the large tent. Despite the four bright lanterns his aides kept burning through the night, it seemed terribly dark, dangerous, with unseen menace hovering in every shadowy alcove. At dawn he had a terribly upset stomach and sent immediately for his breakfast. As it arrived he had learned that two messengers had arrived from the Duke of Solanthus, but he wasn’t ready to meet them, not at first. Instead, he sent even his trusted aides away and paced nervously on the lush carpets that lined the floor of his tent, leaving the two messengers from Solanthus cooling their heels outside in the rain.

Finally, he let one of his aides in and asked about the messages carried from Duke Rathskell. “They appeared most inconveniently, you know,” Duke Walker sniffed, picking at his crepes and fresh oranges. “Now they disrupt my breakfast!”

“Excellency, it does seem to be a matter of some urgency,” said the aide. “Captain Marckus has suggested that we muster immediately, cross the river in support. There is word of a massive goblin flanking maneuver, the horde reportedly far inland of the duke’s army, coming into position to threaten the city of Luinstat.”

Duke Walker had already given initial orders, and his army was gradually coming to life around him-though he would not yet authorize the striking of his grand tent. No, he needed to keep the rain off of himself while he pondered this important decision.

Where to go? Of course, to Marckus it was all so simple: just march right up to the enemy and engage in battle! The duke had to be aware of more subtle concerns-feints and deceptions, concealed intentions, even false information. Indeed, any move to cross the river, now, would inevitably expose his army to a whole host of unknown counter-moves. It seemed best to wait here, patiently awaiting word on further developments.

A half hour later, a thoroughly soaked, bloodied, and chastened Duke of Thelgaard appeared, with report of an attack on his own camp, his army routed, driven through the river. Thousands of gobs and hobs, Thelgaard said. They were too many, too disciplined, led by a canny half-giant who had struck at the knights’ weaknesses.

“See!” declared Caergoth accusingly, addressing the messengers from Solanthus. “This is why I don’t make hasty decisions! No, far better for us to remain here, on our side of the river and wait to see what’s going to happen next!”

“Aye, Excellency,” said the men.

“Now, duke, why don’t you dry yourself off and get that wound looked at by one of my healers. Have some hot tea. Take a good nap. Things will look better tomorrow.”