Lord of the Rose

CHAPTER TWENTY — SEVEN

H orribly seared by the black dragon’s acid, Carbo writhed in pain as Jaymes bore him along, the bluff above the broad Vingaard. They made camp at the first shelter they reached in a grass-lined ravine, and Dram gave his small flask of dwarf spirits to their injured companion. The strong drink seemed to alleviate the little fellow’s pain, but it couldn’t do anything to heal his grievous wounds. The acid had burned his flesh away and blinded him. They stretched him on a blanket on the ground. He held his brother’s and sister’s hands, as, gradually, his labored breathing grew quieter, more relaxed.

Carbo died shortly after sunset, and the companions laid him to rest in a small grave, watered by the tears of his sister and his long-lost brother. Jaymes and Dram, having dug the grave, stood uncomfortably by as the bereaved pair sobbed out their farewells.

“You should never have come for me,” cried Salty Pete, his narrow shoulders quivering. “This wouldn’t have happened-he’d still be with us!”

“No,” Sulfie said, sniffling, wiping her large nose with a handkerchief. “He wanted to come and find you. He was so brave.”

Jaymes cleared his throat, touched his chin, his heart. “I think he’s proud that he helped to get you out. He was a hero.”

“But he’s dead! Sheedra killed him, called him a ‘nasty’! I hate her!” Pete proclaimed.

“Well, she’s dead too. Jaymes and his sword took care of her,” Dram said.

“I’m sorry it was too late for your brother,” the swordsman said.

Jaymes turned and stalked to the edge of the ravine. He looked at the murky waters of the Upper Vingaard, his fists clenched into white-knuckled knots in the gathering darkness.

“Jaymes-wake up.”

The warrior was awake in an instant, sitting up, reaching for his sword, until he recognized the white-robed enchantress who had suddenly appeared, as she so often did, without warning.

“What is it?” he asked, throwing off his blanket and rising to his feet. “You have news?”

He and his three companions were camped on the open plains, several days march south of the Brackens and the grave where they had buried Carbo. Sulfie, Pete, and the dwarf still slept. Nearby, two casks stood with their gear, containing the rest of the explosive compound they had been able to ferret away from Sheedra’s lair.

“The Duke of Solanthus is moving the contents of his vault to Caergoth or Palanthas. He will take it on the road himself. If our suspicions are correct-if he is the one who ordered the murder of Lord Lorimar-the green diamonds will be among that treasure.”

“Do you really think it was him?”

Coryn shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know what to think. Remember what you told me: The house was attacked by six knights, none wearing the sign of an order.”

“But they were Solamnics, I’m sure of that,” the warrior asserted. “One of them was standing over Dara’s body and muttering, reciting that foul pledge- Est Sularus oth Mithas.”

“And she was already dead?”

“Yes, I told you. I was in another part of the house, I heard the commotion and came running. Dara had been stabbed through the heart. The lord was bleeding, his leg nearly sliced off.”

“And the attackers?”

Jaymes shook his head. “I’ve told you all this before… more than once.”

“Be patient. Tell me again,” said the wizard.

“I can’t remember details. I lost my head, to be honest. I was in such a rage, I killed them all. Five of them, and quickly. The last one talked a bit-only told me his lord would be pleased.”

“Could they have been bandits?”

“No, there was discipline in their attack, like knights. That vow-I will swear on what’s left of my honor that they weren’t Dark Knights. They were Solamnics.”

“Then it must have been Rathskell,” the enchantress said. “We know he was furious when Lorimar denied him the right to seek Dara’s hand in marriage. Thelgaard strikes me as too stupid for such deviousness, so I think Solanthus is the one. He will be leaving with his treasure before the dawn.”

“Why? Isn’t the safest place for his treasure within the walls of his own castle?”

Coryn gave him a sly half-smile. “Let’s just say that all of the lords are having an attack of nerves. The Lord Regent feels he is short of funds. Perhaps I had a little something to do with that.”

“What, you stole his gold?” Jaymes asked.

“Of course not!” The white robe feigned shock. “I did fix it so that he might be a little reluctant to spend it. In any event, Solanthus plans to ride even before the dawn. He will take the mountain road to the south so he can avoid the horde on the plains.”

The warrior frowned. “I’ll never get there in time,” he said, shaking his head. “Even with a fleet horse-”

She cut him off, her smile broadening. “Well, there are more expeditious ways to travel than even astride the fastest horse.”

He looked at her questioningly.

“Let me have your ring,” she said.

Puzzled, he pulled the golden band off of his finger and handed it to her. She held it up and murmured an incantation, repeating the quiet words three more times. When Coryn handed the ring back to him, it felt slightly warm.

“Go ahead, put it back on,” she instructed. “You will be able to use it to teleport four times-you must picture the place you wish to go. Turn the ring twice around your finger, and it will take you there.”

A shiver ran down his back as Jaymes slipped it over his finger. The warmth it emanated felt pleasant, comforting.

“Do you know the mountain road south out of Solanthus?” she asked him.

“Yes. I know it well from my goblin-hunting days. Dram and I just traveled that way to meet with Cornellus.”

“Good.” Coryn handed him a small leather bag. “Here,” she said, answering his raised eyebrows, “this is a magic bag. In case,” she added with her sly half-smile, “you find yourself with a few more treasures than you can easily carry in your pockets.”

He nodded. “It should come in handy,” he said.

By now Dram had awakened, and the two gnomes were also stirring. Jaymes filled them in. “You should make for the Vingaard Mountains with all haste,” he said. “I will catch up as soon as I can. Tell Swig Frostmead I’ll be bringing his money.”

After a hasty goodbye, the White Witch wrapped them both in the cocoon of her magic, and they were gone.

The wagon rumbled along the narrow mountain way, skirting the steep foothills of the Garnet Range. The Duke of Solanthus and his driver clung to the rails and the reins, trying to stay perched on the jolting seat. A column of a dozen Knights of the Crown clattered along ahead of the four sturdy workhorses pulling the wagon, while a similar detachment followed close behind.

The road was dangerous. To their right, the slope spilled down to a cliff, which hung over a dry ravine some two or three hundred feet below. To the left, the land rose sharply.

They had departed through a little-used gate in the very south of the city walls, far from the main roads connecting Solanthus to the rest of Solamnia. Fortunately, there were no goblins near this route. Leaving before dawn, they had been able to travel high into the mountains before the sun rose. Behind them now they could see the ogre army sprawled across the plains like locusts, a dark smudge extending for miles in three directions around the walled city dominated by the stark landmark of the Cleft Spires.

Duke Rathskell glanced over his shoulder, not at his besieged city but at the four strongboxes lashed into the wagon’s cargo bed. They were all filled with jewels. Probably enough jewels to ransom his city, he reflected sourly, but they were bound elsewhere.

“My lord duke!”

Rathskell saw one of the men from his trailing escort galloping forward, waving for his attention. He kept his grip on the side rail, gritting his teeth at every wrenching bounce, waiting for the man to catch up to the rumbling wagon.

“What is it?” snapped the duke, even as the driver, at his orders, kept urging the team of horses onward.

“Goblins, my lord,” said the knight. “A large number have moved onto the road behind us. They seem bent on giving chase.”

“How many of them?” he asked.

“A detachment. A good-sized group, to be sure-maybe a thousand of the bastards. We didn’t spot them at first, and now they are but a few miles behind us.”

Rathskell cursed. “Are any of them mounted?” he demanded.

“No, sir. The party appears to be on foot.”

“Good. We should be able to outrun the wretches. Now go back to your post, and keep an eye on them! Let me know if you see any sign of worg-riders or if they appear to be closing the gap.”

“Aye, lord!” The knight snapped off a salute and turned to ride away. Rathskell was still watching him when he was stunned by the loudest explosion he had ever heard. Dust and smoke rmixed with gouts of fire billowed across the road behind the wagon. The duke watched in disbelief as the man and horse, propelled by the blast, went soaring into space and tumbled toward the base of the rocky precipice along which the road skirted.

The team of horses bucked and surged ahead in sudden panic, lurching the heavy vehicle forward over the bumpy road-until, moments later, a second blast obliterated a great section of that roadway, right in the path of the advancing wagon. The lead horse fell, part of its head torn away by the explosion, while another steed shrieked piteously and went down with a broken leg.

“What’s happening?” demanded Rathskell, panic setting in as he stood up and drew his sword. The driver didn’t answer. Instead, he clasped both hands to his bleeding forehead where a shard of rock had smashed him, then slumped, unconscious, in his seat.

The wagon was trapped, the duke could see-two sections had been blown out of the cliff-side road, blocking passage forward and back. The two blasts had neatly separated the duke from his escort of knights. Some of those men had recovered their senses but were forced to rein in at the edges of the gaps. There was no way for the mounted men to reach their lord.

“Are you all right, Excellency?” called one captain, astride an agitated horse at the edge of the forward gap. “Are you hurt?”

Rathskell shook his head, still trying to grasp what had happened. Was it magic that had torn the very roadway off of the mountain? He didn’t think so-not from the ogres.

“Stay there, lord! We’ll try to reach you!” cried the captain, the leader of the detachment at the front of the column.

One brave rider volunteered. The knight urged his horse into a gallop and tried to leap the still-smoking breach in the road. The distance was too great, and both horse and rider tumbled over and bounced down the cliff, finally settling in gruesomely distorted poses among the broken rocks below. Wincing, the duke looked away toward the rear. He saw the knights there taking a defensive posture down the road, dismounting, drawing weapons. Several of the men were hauling fallen timbers out of the woods, making an impromptu breastwork. With a sickening sense of apprehension, the duke remembered the goblins-“maybe a thousand of the bastards”-coming at them hard and fast from that direction.

Only then did Duke Rathskell notice a lone swordsman step into sight, on the island of road with the duke and his trapped wagon. The man’s weapon, a mighty blade, was gripped in both his hands, as he approached the disabled wagon.

He wore a cape, and his whiskered face was devoid of any emotion. But his eyes were dark, and smoldered with contempt.

“I know you. You are the Assassin!” spat the duke, as Giantsmiter blazed even brighter than the sun on that bright mountainside. The duke whipped out his own slender rapier and jumped down to the road.

“I’ve been called that,” Jaymes said, “but I’m no assassin, and I didn’t kill Lorimar. You, of all people, should know that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” demanded Rathskell. “You killed him, and you slew his bitch of a daughter, too!”

Jaymes lunged at the duke, nearly gutting him. The nobleman, though taken by surprise, fell back. The knights on both sides of the gap in the road shouted curses and warnings.

“Be careful how you talk about the Lady Dara,” Jaymes hissed. “You don’t want to have too many lies on your lips when you go to meet the gods.”

A master swordsman, the Duke of Solanthus was grim now and circled warily. Jaymes brought Giantsmiter over his head in a whistling smash, then swiftly chopped from the right and the left, advancing remorselessly against his foe. The smaller man leaped back, using the edge of the wagon as a shield, stepping around the two restless horses remaining from his team.

Rathskell charged into Jaymes’s attack with parries and thrusts, forcing the taller man away from the wagon, backing him to the edge of the precipice. The warrior stopped at the edge, driving his own blade with powerful overhand blows, again and again knocking aside the duke’s slender weapon.

Changing tactics, Rathskell scrambled up into the bed of his wagon, swinging wildly down at Jaymes’s head until the warrior jumped up next to him, forcing him back. For several moments they slashed and cut at each other, both standing in the wagon, their blows whistling over the four strongboxes resting there. Finally, Jaymes made a rush, and the duke half jumped, half fell off the wagon, again retreating to the edge of the slope.

With a sinking feeling the duke saw with a glance that the knights of his rearguard were engaged at their roadblock with a mass of goblins. The ogres were howling with bloodlust, while he was engaged in a fight for his life. He stabbed at Jaymes’s legs as the tall man neared, then turned and ran to the far end of the broken shelf of isolated road.

Here the men of the duke’s forward guard had dismounted and were trying to make their way along the precipitous gap on foot. One man had already plunged to his death and lay in a heap next to the horse and rider who had failed the earlier attempt. The rest of the men were busily coiling rope to belay the next climber.

Rathskell knew they would not reach him in time. He was a skilled swordsman-once he’d thought himself the best in the world-but he could see that he was no match for the Assassin. The duke’s sword was first-rate but useless against the legendary Giantsmiter. He screamed his frustration as he attacked.

Giantsmiter blocked his best efforts again, this time smashing his rapier, the loose shards of steel shattering and tumbling down the mountainside. Rathskell turned to flee, and Jaymes made a swift slash through his enemy’s hamstring. The wound exploded in blood. The duke collapsed, his right leg nearly severed. He groaned in pain and fear as the fiery Giantsmiter brushed his immaculately trimmed mustache.

“Which one has the green diamonds?” asked the swordsman, indicating the four strongboxes.

“I don’t know what you mean-I have never heard of green diamonds!” protested the stricken nobleman.

Jaymes scowled and cut him on his other leg. “Don’t be a fool. You’ll get nowhere lying to me!”

“I’m not lying!”

Jaymes squinted. He turned and slashed the locks off of the four strongboxes, one after the other, then searched through the piles of glittering diamonds and rubies.

“I’m going to ask you one more time. The green diamonds?” he demanded.

“I’m telling the truth-I’ve never heard of any such diamonds!” cried the duke.

Shouts came from behind them, cries of alarm mingling with the clash of steel. “The goblins are closing in,” Jaymes noted. “They’ll be able to scramble along the cliff easily enough. They’re not as encumbered with armor, as your knights.”

Rathskell groaned in pain as he twisted to look in horror. His rear detachment was fighting bravely, but the odds were overwhelming. Each knight had killed six or eight goblins, but there were only a few dozen men back there, and they were facing hundreds of attackers. One by one, the knights were falling, slain or grievously wounded or, in some cases, simply pushed from the cliff by the press of goblin bodies.

Jaymes pulled out the plain leather sack Coryn had given him. He picked up the gems and jewels from one strongbox-and, though the box was several times larger than the bag-he poured the contents in. He repeated the process with each of the other three boxes, and when he was done the sack bulged only slightly.

“Wait! Please, you can’t leave me here!” begged the lord. “The goblins-”

He looked back and saw that only a few of his defenders remained on their feet. It wouldn’t be long now. Already several of the brutal attackers were starting to scale across the sheer cliff. The duke couldn’t stand, couldn’t even crawl for all the pain he was suffering. His one leg was utterly useless.

When he turned back to plead again for his life, he could only moan in despair. The mysterious attacker, with his satchel full of a city’s worth of jewels, had disappeared.