Measure and the Truth

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Garrison Sergeant Maxim Withers, much to his surprise, received a curt note from his captain: the emperor wanted to see him, personally. Withers carefully polished his boots, shined his armor, and made sure his flowing mustache was thoroughly combed before he reported for the audience. He marched in to the emperor’s office, saluted smartly, and waited for Jaymes Markham to finish reviewing some of the important-looking papers that were scattered across his desk. Finally, the great man looked up.

“Sergeant Withers,” the emperor said coldly, stirring the soldier’s anxiety. “I have decided to reassign you. Sometimes duty in the palace, or in the city, softens a man, and I would hate to see that happen with an estimable fellow of your quality.”

“Excellency, I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Oh, you will.” The emperor was smiling, though his tone was most unpleasant. “I’m assigning you to the garrison command of the Northpoint Lighthouse, effective immediately. There is a supply ship departing the docks with the evening tide. I expect you to be aboard.”

Withers swayed, feeling a little sick to his stomach. He knew the Northpoint Lighthouse was a huge tower on a rocky islet just beyond the northern terminus of the Bay of Branchala. A perennial flame burned at the summit of the tall spire. It was fueled by oil pumped by the garrison. The light of that fire was reflected and amplified by great mirrors that were visible for dozens of miles out to sea. The installation was beloved by mariners as a sign of safe harbor ahead.

Yet the place was not viewed so favorably by the men assigned to keep the fire burning. The lighthouse was staffed by a garrison of twelve men-at-arms and a single sergeant. Since it was miles from the mainland, and scores of miles from the city, the troops were stuck there for a term of three months, during which time they lived on the remote, otherwise uninhabited, islet. Stormy waters often surrounded them, so supply and replacements ships were unpredictable, often delayed for weeks or months. And the smell of the perpetually burning oil was notorious to passing ships and often sickened the guard contingent.

“I have decided that there is too much instability in the operation of the lighthouse,” the emperor continued. “Staff, especially the command sergeant, replaced every three months leads to inefficiency. Therefore, your term will last for a full year!”

Withers, aghast, dared to ask Jaymes the reasoning behind the posting.

“Ask your mother,” the emperor retorted. “It seems you converse with her about all manner of things that are within the purview of this palace and not the subjects for marketplace gossip.”

Chagrined, the veteran guard slunk out of Jaymes’s office, grateful he still had his life and some semblance of his rank.

A short time later, the captain of the gate guard came in and reported that the wine merchant known as Norgaard Eric had been put out of business, his stock dumped into the gutters of the marketplace. No doubt a few bottles of the higher-quality product had been salvaged by the city guards for their own enjoyment, but the emperor expected as much and didn’t care to inquire.

“Let him languish in the gaol for a fortnight. And tell him to watch his words when he’s released, or the next time it will cost him his tongue.”

“Aye, my lord,” said the captain, bowing quietly to his stern, forbidding lord and, with a wary eye on the emperor, withdrawing from the office.

Jaymes spent the whole night at his desk, drafting and redrafting orders, calling for scribes when one parchment was done, turning to the next even as those servants began making copies. He worked by the light of several bright lanterns, and threw away a quill every so often as they became overworked, cracked, and useless. “More ink!” he demanded several times through that long night. When his hand cramped up, he flexed his fingers and picked up another pen. When his back became sore, he rose from his chair, stretched for a moment, paced a few times around his office, and sat back down to continue writing orders.

By dawn, he was finished. In the space of eight hours, he had authored a dozen new laws and prepared a detailed statement to be read aloud by a dozen heralds. The announcement would be called out every hour by each of the heralds throughout the day, and every day for the next two weeks. Additional copies were prepared and dispatched by mounted couriers to city rulers in Vingaard, Thelgaard, Solanthus, Garnet, Caergoth, and the lesser towns of the realm.

The copies completed, the criers headed off to begin their day’s work. By the time they were finished, the people of the city would know that it was a crime to criticize the emperor’s motives as he led Solamnia into the future. It was sedition to discuss the emperor’s actions in a way that would reflect poorly on Jaymes or his officers. Criticizing the government in small groups-any scurrilous gossip against the state-was also a criminal offense.

It was against the law to interfere with, heckle, or otherwise obstruct an official herald in the conduct of his duties. Removing or tampering with the official scrolls posted around the towns and cities of the realm was an act, not of vandalism, but of rebellion against the state. Those who would publish pamphlets, posters, or newspapers of their own needed to have those publications approved by the emperor-or his local representative, for areas beyond Palanthas-before public dissemination.

Those who violated the edicts would face a wide variety of sanctions, including imprisonment, public humiliation, loss of property, or worse. True sedition would result in exile or execution. Conversely, the new laws built in many rewards, mostly financial, that allowed loyal citizens who reported on the disloyalty of their neighbors to profit handsomely, often with a portion of the properties seized from the designated rebellious miscreants.

Satisfied with his long night’s work, the emperor did not go forth to listen to the announcements and observe the reaction of his citizens. He knew what the heralds would say, and he knew the new laws would be obeyed.

Besides, he was exhausted. When the last crier had left the palace, he devoured a cold breakfast, eating by himself, and went to his private chamber. There, he stripped off his clothes and crawled under the covers.

But it was several hours before he could fall asleep.

Blayne knew he was a captive, utterly under the control of the man in the gray robe, even though no rope or chain had been used to bind him, no gag placed across his mouth to keep him from crying out. He plodded along behind the man without uttering a sound of protest and, despite his profound weariness, without collapsing to the ground. In a sense, it was a relief to turn his life over to another person, to be freed from the terror of flight, of trying to make his way alone through the mountains.

It was not until dawn broke around him that he began to question everything about the strange experience: his own thoughts and emotions, his remarkable endurance, the sense of cooperation and comfort he felt with the unique man. He was no longer cold, despite the fact that the fellow had made no fire. He was no longer wet, though the air remained damp and dew was heavy on the grass, rocks, and boughs of the surrounding trees. Somehow he felt strong enough to keep going, though he had managed only a few hours of frozen, cramped sleep during all of the previous forty-eight hours.

And through it all the young nobleman remained strangely content, numb but in a pleasant, almost dreamlike state, as he followed the gray stranger up a grueling and dangerous climb.

They followed a steep, half-hidden path that Blayne hadn’t even known about, leading away from the placid lake where he had caught the trout. They wended their way up a steep-sided gorge, finally moving through a pass so narrow that they needed to move in single file. Sheer walls of rock rose to the right and left of them, culminating in summits hundreds of feet over their heads. The pass twisted around like a winding corridor, shadowy and cool even though sunlight and blue sky were visible far overhead. In places the cliffs loomed so close that they overhung the path, looking as if they were ready to collapse on them at the merest whisper of sound or swirl of wind.

But when they finally emerged from the narrow slit of the pass, they arrived in a sheltered valley hitherto unsuspected even by the young nobleman who had grown up hunting and climbing in those mountains. The land before him was flatter and more verdant than any place he knew about in the whole of the Vingaard Range. Not only did he spy farms and mills and clusters of buildings that indicated the existence of several towns, but there were encampments across every bit of level ground, tents as far as the eye could see. A thousand cook fires glowed in the early-morning mist, and a whole army seemed to be living there, going about its morning meals and ablutions in such an utterly secret place.

“Who are you?” Blayne croaked, finally finding his voice.

He suddenly found that he again possessed his free will-and that the fatigue of his long flight had caught up with him. He staggered and allowed the stranger to offer him an arm in support.

“Just a bit farther and all your questions will be answered,” said the man in the gray robe. “For now, it is enough to know that I am a friend to you-and an enemy to the emperor.”

That was enough to keep him going. An hour later Blayne found himself seated in the parlor of a large house. A beautiful young woman with striking albino features had brought him a cup of hot tea, and he was sipping the liquid gratefully, sitting beside a roaring fire, gradually getting his bearings. The gray man had led him to the house then disappeared somewhere in the back of it. When he returned, when Blayne was nearly done with his tea, he was accompanied by a man in a black shirt and leggings.

“Thank you for bringing me here,” said the young nobleman sincerely. He knew enough about the stranger to believe him when he said they shared the same enemy. “I presume you will tell me more, when you’re ready.”

The gray man smiled, a kindly expression full of sympathy and understanding. “I appreciate your patience. My name is Hoarst, and this is Captain Blackgaard. It is he who has established the little outpost, and this is his house.”

“I’ve hunted these mountains all my life and never even knew there was a valley like this up here. I can’t understand how it has gone undiscovered so long.”

“I can tell you that this is a very magical place,” said the captain. “Through the centuries many dragons have flown overhead, some carrying human riders. And yet, when they look down, they spot only glaciers and barren rock. It is an illusion of nature, one which I gratefully used to my advantage.”

Blayne looked bluntly from one man to the other. “You are enemies of the emperor? Do you know that he has killed my father, bombarded my home? I will devote the rest of my life to vengeance. If you can use my services, I will gladly join your force.”

Blackgaard chuckled. “My force is quite large enough, don’t you think?” he said dismissively.

The young nobleman’s heart sank, but he could only nod. “I could tell as we approached that you must have thousands of men. Well-trained, well-equipped men. A not inconsiderable army. But why do you have them here, locked up in the mountains?”

“Picture where we are, in your head. What do you see?” prodded Hoarst.

“You’re in the high Vingaard Mountains… maybe twenty miles north of the High Clerist’s Pass. Is that right?”

“More like fifteen miles,” Blackgaard corrected. “Hard mountain miles, but there is a certain route that will take us there. I have men excavating a concealed road even as we speak, to allow us to cross the steepest parts of the trail.”

“I see, you could strike at the emperor there, cut him off from the plains! But… can’t you use my help? I know how to wield a sword, even to command a company. I led the attack that destroyed two of his terrible cannons!”

“I had heard of that attack,” the captain said. “It was well done. But no, I do not need you to join the ranks of my army.”

“I understand your dismay,” Hoarst said as Blayne slumped back in his chair. “But don’t despair. You can help us greatly-in another capacity, not as a swordsman in the Black Army.”

“What do you want? Tell me, whatever it is, I’ll do it!” blurted the young man.

“Have you heard of the Legion of Steel?” asked Blackgaard gently.

Blayne nodded. “An ancient sect of the Solamnic Knighthood, as I recall. They used to be active in the cities, helped to ensure that no one leader became too powerful… too enamored of his own…” His voice trailed off, and he nodded. “They were dedicated to preventing someone like the emperor from seizing too much authority and control!” he realized.

“You are correct in almost every respect,” Hoarst said. “You only err in assuming that they are gone, a part of the past.”

“Do you mean they still exist?”

“They exist, and they strive to limit the emperor’s power in every way they can. They operate a cell in Palanthas that is desperate for fresh blood. Especially noble members, young men who have been trained in the ways of the Solamnic Code.”

“People like me! They could certainly use my contacts in the city. Yes-by all means! Let me find the legion, offer them my help. Together we can bring down Jaymes Markham. Send me to them, and I will tell them of your army, your position here in the mountains.

“I admire your passion,” said Captain Blackgaard. “Now we must talk of your circumspection.”

“Please, explain what you mean,” urged Blayne, eager to do whatever he could to win the approval of the men.

“It is better for us all if the legion doesn’t learn of our existence until the time is right. Indeed, no one in Palanthas must know. The emperor has too many ways of learning what’s going on in his city, and even a whisper of suspicion could be enough to thwart our plans.”

“I understand. Your secret is safe with me,” pledged the Vingaard nobleman.

“Yes,” said Hoarst quite confidently. “I’m sure it is.”

“Tell me what you want me to do.”

“You will go to Palanthas and make contact with the Legion of Steel. There is a man in the Westgate garrison, an archer named Billings, who can assist you. Tell him the truth-that you have evaded the emperor’s minions in Vingaard and crossed the mountains on foot. That you would like to work with the legion to stop the man who destroyed your home.”

“Without mentioning you or your operations here in the valley?” Blayne asked, and the other two nodded. “Yes, I can do that.”

“That is no more than I expected you to say,” Hoarst noted, obviously pleased. “Now you must rest and restore your strength. In another day or two, we will see you on your way.”

General Dayr worked on a message to the emperor, trying unsuccessfully to couch Dram Feldspar’s refusal in gentler terms than the dwarf had used. In the end, however, it was a hopeless task, and with a sigh he simply wrote to Jaymes and matter-of-factly described the meeting in New Compound. He finished the letter, dusted it with sand to dry the ink, and was sealing the scroll when his son came up to his study in Thelgaard Keep.

“There’s a courier just arrived from Palanthas,” Franz reported. “He says he brings an important message from the emperor.”

“I’ll see him at once,” said the general.

A short time later, he was unrolling a hefty pack of scrolls, five sheets all rolled together and placed in one tube. The courier had been dismissed to get a meal and some well-deserved rest-he had made the ride in less than ten days-and only the general’s son was present as Dayr read the first scroll. He put it aside without comment, but his heart was sinking as Franz picked it up and started to read. Before he was halfway through the second scroll, Dayr heard Franz’s snort of outrage.

“That’s enough!” snapped the older man. “These are direct orders from the leader of the nation!”

“Orders to gag the mouths of his own people!” Franz snapped back. “Whoever heard of passing laws that prohibit talking! Maybe next he will ban eating? Or having babies?”

“I told you-that’s enough,” declared Dayr, standing and confronting his glaring son. The general had not progressed even halfway through the several scrolls, but he had seen enough to realize that Jaymes was presenting him with a whole new set of laws, legislation that would create criminal activity out of a number of simple things the people of Solamnia, of all Krynn, had long taken for granted. How the people would react to those laws, he couldn’t predict, but he was determined to bring his own son to heel before Franz said, or did, something that could be construed as treasonous.

“Are you really going to post these laws, Father?” demanded the captain. “As if what happened to Vingaard Keep wasn’t enough-now he tries to control the conversations that go on in the marketplaces, in the taverns?”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do about it!” Dayr retorted, drawing a look of surprise from his son. “But I will not tolerate treason in my own household. You will watch your tongue, or you will leave. Now!”

“Maybe you don’t know what to do about it,” Franz said, his tone contemptuous, “but my own decision is easy.” He stalked to the door, pulled it open, and pivoted to glare at his father.

“Goodbye,” he said, walking away.

The Nightmaster had provided Ankhar with a detailed map, and with a little help from Laka, the half-giant had studied the map until he was pretty sure he understood what all the pictures, symbols, colors, and lines depicted. He thought of employing some of the flying draconians to get a more firsthand report, but in the end he decided not to risk allowing them to be seen.

Besides, the enemy layout was actually rather basic. The knights had established a series of picket forts along the borderlands with Lemish. They were garrisoned by only a company or two apiece and were meant to serve as tripwires to alert their comrades if anything untoward happened from the wilderness to the south. The map, and the dark priest’s counsel, showed Ankhar that a very large force of Solamnic Knights, including cavalry, archers, and infantry numbering in the thousands, was posted in a permanent camp some ten miles north of the border. That force was expected to mobilize and come to the rescue of any of the garrison posts in the event of a cross-border incursion.

Based on that knowledge, and his long experience fighting the knights, Ankhar had formed a plan to surprise and confound them. He gathered his captains together at the edge of the Lemish forest and explained the plan to them. The big ogres were there, and Rib Chewer the warg rider was there, as well as the chief of the draconians, Guilder. The latter’s slender, reptilian body seemed to spark and pulse with its own kind of internal lights, and as a consequence, even the biggest ogres gave him a wide berth.

The headstrong ogres, knowing that the enemy lay in camps just over the horizon, were all in favor of bursting from the woods, charging north at full speed, and overrunning any outpost of Solamnics that they encountered on the way. Bullhorn and Heart Eater both advocated that tactic, but the half-giant was grateful that the veteran Bloodgutter-his new general-persuaded his fellow ogres to at least listen to Ankhar’s strategy.

“You see fort out there?” the half-giant demanded, silencing the others with a glare, barely holding his exasperation in check.

They were clustered behind a curtain of foliage, vines and creepers and swamp flowers that blocked them from view as they gazed out over the open ground to the north. Less than a mile away, they could spy the knights’ outpost-a small, square compound protected by a wall of logs. Several men rode horses in a lazy patrol outside the wall, and a lofty tower, also erected out of logs, allowed a handful of lookouts to get a commanding view.

“Yes,” growled Heart Eater sullenly. “My axers could rush out and destroy it before humans have time to turn around!”

“My clubs could smash it to pieces!” Bullhorn added. “Kill everyone!”

“I know that!” Ankhar retorted. “But there are ten forts like that. All along here, by Lemish woods. Not strong forts, but strong enough.”

“If not strong, why we not kill them right away?” pressed Bullhorn.

“Because men in those forts want us to attack them. That’s why they are there! Sure, we wipe out fort, but not before men in fort light signal fire, put up big smoke cloud. Horses ride away, tell everyone we attack.”

“Smoke cloud not scare me!” declared Heart Eater.

“Smoke not to scare you-smoke is to call knights from big camp. They see smoke, they ride out and attack us.”

“Then we kill them!” Bullhorn concluded. “After we smash fort.”

“Listen! Just listen!” Ankhar drew a deep breath. He looked at Laka, and she raised her talisman, rattling the skull with the glowing emerald eyes, and that produced a general silence. “Lots and lots of knights are in big camp. Many soldiers sleep; they live there. They not watch for us because these forts are here. But tonight, there is no moon. We go-all of us go-between two forts, very quiet. We march all night, and come to big camp. We attack there, when the sun comes up, and kill many, many knights.”

He exhaled, finally sensing that he had their attention. “Then we come back and smash all the forts,” he concluded.

“All right. We try your plan,” Heart Eater said, nodding and scratching his bulging chin.

“And what about my flyers?” Guilder, the aurak, wondered gutturally.

“I have a plan for them: they fly over knights’ camp and land on other side, where horses are. Scare all the horses, and the knights cannot ride.”

Guilder nodded, hissing his approval. Bullhorn, too, agreed with the plan, and at last the scheme was set. The great column gathered at the edge of the woods, still concealed by the dense foliage. With some difficulty, the captains persuaded their troops to wait for the signal to move out.

“You two will wait here,” Ankhar told Laka and Pond-Lily seriously. “I send for you when fight is over.”

Pond-Lily nodded vacantly, staring at him with the limpid puddles of her small, deep-set eyes. Even Laka, to the half-giant’s mild surprise, accepted her role of waiting, perhaps understanding that she was no longer capable of keeping up with a night-long march.

Darkness was complete a few hours later, and Ankhar led the great column, thousands of ogres marching on foot, between two of the border outposts, the forts with the towers and horsemen that could be seen from the woods and were spaced about every five miles along the line. Moving quietly, with many whispered admonitions to avoid making any noise, the band somehow escaped notice as it swept toward the great garrison camp, the place where the real defensive force awaited, all unaware.

Dawn turned the eastern sky blue as the ogres came into sight of the vast wall around the fortified camp. Made from sharpened birch stakes driven into the ground to form a palisade, the barrier would have been a formidable obstacle to goblins, hobgoblins, even some ogres. But Ankhar had taken note of the weaponry preferred by Heart Eater’s warriors, and his plan was shrewd.

“You lead the way,” he said to the strapping bull. “Use your axes and break down wall-make many holes. The rest of us come after you, charge through holes, and kill the knights.”

Naturally, Bullhorn raised some objections-“Why Heart Eater go first?”-but was mollified by the argument that the axe-wielders had a special job in the attack. Guilder, concealed by a spell of invisibility, quickly ventured out for a look and was pleased to report the vast horse corrals on the north side of the camp were very lightly guarded.

“We can stampede the herd,” he reported with confidence.

The ground was still shrouded in shadow, though the sky grew steadily lighter as the ogres spread out into a line more than a mile long. There was as yet no sign that they had been noticed when, at Ankhar’s command, the monstrous warriors raised a great shout and charged forward en masse.

Almost immediately a trumpet brayed within the Solamnic camp. Ankhar loped along in the front rank, and from within the palisade he heard orders shouted, cries of panic and alarm, and the frantic neighing of horses. All the while his ogres pounded closer, the ground trembling under their massive, lumbering weight. A few arrows arced from behind the palisade, many falling harmlessly to the ground, a few puncturing the flesh of the hulking attackers.

But it took more than one lucky arrow hit to stop a massive ogre. The brutish warriors who were struck typically plucked the annoying missiles out of their hides and cast them away-the glancing wounds merely enhanced their fury, their determination to wreak terrible havoc. Tusks slick with drool gleamed in the eerie darkness. Eyes wild, throats hoarse, the horde swept closer.

Soon the picket wall loomed before them, and Heart Eater’s axemen attacked with a vengeance, whipping their heavy, bladed weapons through roundhouse swings, right into the bases of the stout timbers. Several of the posts snapped free with the first blows, while others could withstand only two or three smashes before splintering.

Looking up, Ankhar’s heart filled with pride as he saw the company of sivak draconians, some fifty strong, flying overhead, winging toward the great corrals.

The attackers pressed forward, and the logs of the palisade toppled inward on the knights and infantrymen who were scrambling to the defense. Some men were crushed outright, while the rest were forced to back out of the way, beating a hasty retreat before the barrier collapsed on top of them. Bloodthirsty howls rang out along the whole mile of the front as ogres spilled into the breached camp and lay about with axes, clubs, swords, and spears.

Ankhar’s army hit the fort like a wave, a tide surging against a picket fence, finding gaps in the barrier, crashing and seeping through. Like water, the warriors spilled through the gaps, widening them, dragging down more and more of the birch poles as the trickle became a flow and the flow became a flood.

The half-giant yodeled a great battle cry, feeling a joy he had not known since his defeat in the foothills. This was the life! He thrust with his emerald-tipped spear, piercing a footman like a piece of meat on a spit. With the limp body still hanging from his mighty weapon, he smashed to the right and left, stabbing another swordsman, smashing the weapon-and arm bones-of a frantic archer. Blood ran down the shaft, slicking his hands, and he relished the moment.

Finally he gave the spear a contemptuous flip, tossing the slain man from the end of his weapon, while he looked for his next victim. The ogres were roaring everywhere, smashing through the Solamnic camp. Their quickness belied their huge size as they rumbled through tents, kicking through cook fires and mess halls and canvas-sheltered armories where the knights’ weapons had been neatly stacked.

Human warriors were still scrambling from their tents, strapping on breastplates, sometimes fighting without boots or helmets. Officers screamed and shouted, directing their troops this way and that in the face of howling, growling foes. Often the tents were cut down even before the men emerged, and the trapped humans flailed around under the smothering tarps while ogres gleefully danced across the heaving fabric, bashing it down any place where it moved.

One knot of men fought in a little circle, shields raised and swords brandished as the attackers swirled around them. Bullhorn led a charge, crushing the captain of the company with a powerful downward smash of his club. The circle breached, every man fought for his own life as dozens of ogres pierced the formation. Any place a human looked, there was a deadly enemy, and in a few moments, the last of those brave men had been battered into a slain, bloody pulp.

A trumpet brayed from the rear, and a column of horsemen bearing lances charged the ogre line. They were not many in number, but several of the brutish attackers went down, stabbed by the long spears rendered especially lethal by the driving power of the charging horses. Their armor was incomplete, but the knights wore breastplates and helmets, and their horses were saddled securely. Ankhar wasted no time wondering how they could have equipped themselves and counterattacked so quickly; instead, the half-giant bellowed furiously for a response from his followers.

Ogres rushing behind him, he raised the glowing spear and charged at the leading horseman, a knight with a gray mustache and long, silvery hair. The man lowered his lance and urged his warhorse forward, and the half-giant halted. Bracing his feet and crouching, Ankhar bashed the long weapon out of the way. But the horse surprised him, lowering a shoulder and knocking him backward.

The half-giant barely maintained his footing but recovered quickly, and the two combatants circled as the battle raged around them. Each held his long weapon with the deadly tip aimed at his opponent’s chest. Pacing sideways, Ankhar looked for an opening, while the knight rested in his saddle as if he were a part of the horse. His shield firmly held over his chest, the knight peered over the top of the metal barrier, keenly studying the half-giant’s maneuvers.

Ankhar lunged, and the steed skipped sideways. Then it reared suddenly, flailing with its great hooves. When the half-giant charged, the horse veered again and the rider jabbed quickly with the lance. Once again, Ankhar parried with the Shaft of Hiddukel.

With a sharp kick in his horse’s flanks, the knight suddenly attacked. The massive horse bared teeth like some kind of nightmare steed and rushed at Ankhar, intent on trampling him. The half-giant crouched, aiming his spear at the horse’s breast, but the man again used his lance to knock the great weapon, the Shaft of Hiddukel, out of the way. Ankhar tumbled into the dirt, rolling away from the charge, barely holding onto his precious spear.

Springing to his feet with a growl, he sprinted after the horse as the steed pivoted and reared, those massive forehooves lashing at the half-giant’s face. He felt a glancing blow on his cheek and staggered back. Surprise gave way to rage, and he bored in, driving between the flailing hooves, sticking the spear right through the horse’s muscular chest. The mount reared back with an earsplitting shriek, toppling onto its side, fatally wounded.

The knight tried to leap from the saddle as his horse went down, but his foot stuck in the stirrup. With a strangled curse, the man sprawled on the ground, his leg trapped under the thrashing, dying horse. Ankhar yanked on his mighty spear, but the Shaft of Hiddukel was stuck fast. Releasing the weapon, the half-giant hurled himself on the knight, bashing the lance out of the way, smashing a huge fist into the shield so hard that the man gasped and lay momentarily stunned. With one massive hand, Ankhar seized the stunned warrior by the neck and squeezed until he heard the snap of bone.

Pushing himself to his feet, the half-giant took hold of his weapon with both hands. He put a massive, booted foot on the dying horse’s chest and pulled with all his vast strength. At last the weapon, the emerald head glowing all the brighter for its soaking in blood, burst free. Raising it over his head, Ankhar shook the weapon at the sky, howling like a maniac to celebrate his personal victory.

Before him he saw a knot of fighting around the gate at the northern end of the great camp. Some of the sivaks had landed there, where they were fighting furiously, holding the passageway against knights who were trying to reach the horses. Quickly the half-giant rallied a hundred ogres and charged toward the draconians. Beyond the corrals, he saw a deluge of sparks and flames, sputtering lightning, and dramatic pyrotechnics. Guilder Aurak was there, casting spectacular-if relatively harmless-spells. The effect on the horses was the important thing, as more than a thousand of the normally steady mounts panicked and stampeded away from the battle, away from the camp, and away from the knights who depended on them for mobility and survival.

When next he looked around, Ankhar saw that the last pockets of defense were being mopped up. Some ogres plundered the extensive food supplies piled behind the kitchen tents while others were hoisting grotesque trophies, including the severed heads of their enemies, and dancing about in triumph and glee.

“Enough!” roared the half-giant in a voice that rumbled even over the celebratory chaos. “We feast later. Remember those forts! Now is the time to go back… and to kill them all!”

With howls of anticipation, the ogres responded to his command. Ankhar himself would remain in the conquered camp-he made sure that a message was conveyed to Pond-Lily and Laka, inviting them to join him in his luxurious surroundings-while thousands of ogres spread across the plains, intent on wiping out the border outposts to the last man.

The half-giant chuckled, a sound of genuine happiness that had not erupted from his chest in several years. It was good to have an army again, good to march, to fight.

And it was good to kill Knights of Solamnia.