The Crown and the Sword

CHAPTER THREE

Jaymes ordered his army to concentrate all three wings on the west bank of the Vingaard, south of the great fork in the middle of the plains. The generals put his orders into action while he himself traveled with only the two dozen Freemen of his personal guard. Captain Powell knew his commander well enough that, for the most part, the escorting knights rode several hundred yards behind Jaymes. The party followed the meandering course of that mighty river, so the lord marshal could enjoy a few days of relative leisure before immersing himself again in the complexities of command.

At last he turned the little roan mare due south, riding with purpose now. The column tightened up. The marshal passed the first pickets of the army camp some ten miles out. These veteran scouts, in leather armor with their fleet, long-legged steeds, were not surprised to see their leader riding across the flat steppe at the head of a small company. Even before they waved him through their outposts, the scouts detached galloping riders to carry word of the lord marshal’s approach to the main camp.

Soon Jaymes could make out the vast spread of his army’s tent city gathered around the officers’ encampment, where plain brown domes rose above the lesser dwellings. Horse corrals were small, scattered among the units so the mounts were close to their riders. A large pasture, well guarded, had been established to the rear, where hundreds of cattle-used both as cargo haulers and food-grazed.

When the dukes had ruled these troops, each noble’s tent had been a huge, colorful pavilion, with attendant dwellings for retainers, courtiers, and other key members of the ducal entourage. Whole wagon trains had been devoted to luxuries such as crystal dinner services, silk tablecloths, and padded thrones. A central part of the camp would typically have been set aside for formations, parades, jousting, and other elaborate games.

But those days were gone. Now the officers, from the generals down to the platoon captains, dwelled in nondescript shelters of the same nondescript denim-larger than the tents of the enlisted troops only insofar as space was needed for map tables, rosters, and signaling equipment. Undistinguished, perhaps, but they also made it difficult for an enemy to determine where they would find the important leaders of the Solamnic Army. As an added benefit, the common men in the line understood that their officers shared their living conditions, and this boosted morale.

Lord Marshal Jaymes had appointed his officers based upon their demonstration of military ability, not because of any accident of birth. True, his three army generals-Dayr of the Crowns, Markus of the Rose, and Rankin of the Swords-had been captains under the dukes. Still, each had proved on the field that he was skilled and trustworthy; each merited the responsibility of his command.

The rank of lord marshal was new to the Solamnic military hierarchy. Jaymes had created it for himself after being awarded the united command two years earlier, when his steadfast leadership-as well as his discovery of explosive black powder-had saved Solamnia from Ankhar’s horde. After the horde had been halted on the brink of attacking Caergoth, the nobles had had little choice but to reward their savior with supreme command. In the years since, Jaymes had slowly driven the invaders back, liberating Thelgaard and Garnet, finally clearing them from the entire reach west of the Vingaard.

Many of the men still referred to Jaymes as the Lord of the Rose, and he accepted this honorific when it was offered. Others called him the Lord of No Sign. For though his banner incorporated elements of all three orders of the knighthood, he was comfortable riding about in his plain woolen poncho, displaying no heraldry whatsoever.

Riding the roan at an amble, Jaymes made his way through the outer camp. These were the pikemen and archers who could form ranks in a matter of moments to defend the perimeter, while the knights with their more elaborate accoutrement armored themselves and their horses before supplying reinforcements. He was recognized by many as he approached and accepted the salutes and cheers of his men with a gracious nod to the right and left, or the raising of his hand toward a man or a company of particular note.

Many of these men had won great victories for their marshal. The Vingaard pikes, woodsmen from the mountains who wielded their long wooden pole arms with unflinching discipline, were often the first responders. Many a charge of warg-riding goblins had been broken by their iron will, and one regiment of pikemen served in each of the three armies. He rode now past the Southshore Longbows, deadly archers from across the coast of the Newsea. The dwarves of the Kaolyn Axers, not to be outdone, raised their foaming tankards aloft and roared a lusty toast to their commander, who politely declined the invitation to stop at the dwarven campfires for a friendly tankard or three.

As news of his arrival spread, men came streaming from the other encampments, adding their cheers. He came to the center of the great encampment, where the bulk of the knights were amassed. Though they were the backbone of the Solamnic Army, in actual numbers the knights formed only a small percentage of the troops. It was the pikemen who formed the battle lines, the archers who provided the covering fire, and the dwarf heavy infantry who would assemble squares to stand against any attack. Then and only then could the fleet and powerful horsemen of the knighthood fight with all their ability.

The marshal took time to greet some of the knights personally. He reached down to clasp the hands of several Caergoth Steelshields as he rode past. These were the Rose Knights who had carried the day when Jaymes had first struck north across the Garnet River, pushing Ankhar’s army back from the position it had held for six months following the half-giant’s initial, nearly triumphant campaign. Then there came the doughty veterans of the Newforge Regiment, Knights of the Sword who hailed from besieged Solanthus; they had pledged to lead the assault that would free their surrounded city. Just beyond them, standing at attention with their snow-pure steeds behind them, were the Crown Knights of the White Riders-the unit that had broken Ankhar’s ogres so recently in the north, paving the way for this great concentration of force.

All in all, more than twelve thousand men were congregated here, and the army commander could not help but be pleased by the sight of his army. His three generals awaited him in the center of the camp. He dismounted, allowing his horse to be led away for a rubdown by several eager young squires, and stretched the kinks of his four-day ride out of his back and shoulders. He joined the generals at their small fire, taking a seat on a small stool.

“Any urgent news?” Jaymes asked.

General Rankin acted as spokesman for the trio. “No word from Palanthas, nor from the Compound, my lord.”

“Regent du Chagne still prefers that his own legion guard the city, does he?” asked the marshal, shaking his head.

“Perhaps he is worried more about you than about Ankhar,” suggested General Dayr.

Jaymes smiled tightly. “Probably he should be worried about me. But I don’t have time for him now. Solanthus requires our attention, and we’ll have to make plans with the assets we currently have on the field.”

“That should give us plenty to work with,” declared Sir Markus Haum, the general of the Rose. He was a steadfast veteran with a very impressive mustache and had rejoined the army in the winter after narrowly surviving an attempt on his life. Among the three, Jaymes regarded him as his most trusted, capable field commander. “Our forces are spread within ten miles of this very spot, ready and willing to go where you send it, my Lord Marshal.”

Jaymes nodded. “What of the crossings? I presume Ankhar has them well guarded?”

“Aye, sir,” Dayr confirmed rather glumly. “He has pickets posted for a hundred miles north and south of here, with strong detachments at every ford.”

“We tried a probe with boats, as you ordered,” General Rankin said. “We sent three hundred scouts, all of them volunteers, across the wider part of the Vingaard, a score of miles downstream from here. Ankhar’s bastards waited until the boats were almost to shore, and then those damned ogres bombarded them with boulders. Most of the boats were sunk, and barely eighty men made it back to our bank alive.”

“Unsurprising,” Jaymes acknowledged. He had in fact expected a disastrous result with such an experiment, but he had to give the tactic a try. The loss of so many men was a steep cost, but it was a price he must pay in return for intelligence regarding his enemy’s dispositions. “Has there been any word from Solanthus?”

“The last messenger to make it through the siege lines arrived more than a month ago. We’ve tried to send men in, but sporadic reports-by homing pigeon-indicate that none of them have made it through. There’s a cloud of magic around that place, no doubt caused by the Cleft Spires. Though it blocks our scrying attempts, it is also an asset-for it certainly protects the city against the magic of Ankhar’s Thorn Knights as well.

“So Solanthus is still holding out. Discipline and morale are reportedly good, my lord, but the shortage of food is becoming the worst predicament. Most of the food is going to the fighting men, of course, so the suffering is greatest among the citizenry. It will not be long before the youngest and oldest citizens will be starving to death.”

“And the duchess herself?”

“She pleads for help, as soon as possible. But she also promises to hold out until we can break the siege,” reported Rankin. “She’s but a slip of a thing, and… well… when she married Duke Rathskell, we all made assumptions about her that have turned out to be wrong. By the gods-my men and I respect her now. We should be there with her!”

For several years Rankin had been the captain in charge of the duke’s army. Following Rathskell’s death, he had retained his office but had been outside the city with his mobile forces when Solanthus was surrounded. Now his eyes grew moist and his voice broke from the obvious passion of his desire to return to the city and fight for its freedom.

Jaymes himself showed little emotion in his face or voice. “The talents of the duchess obviously go far beyond the bedroom, you mean?” he asked.

Rankin nodded, flushing slightly. “I admit I made a poor judgment of a great lady, my lord.”

“We all made the same judgment, I’m afraid,” Dayr noted quickly, coming to Rankin’s rescue. “But she’s a better man than her late husband ever was.”

“Indeed.” The marshal nodded, reflecting privately.

“Good riddance to Rathskell, in any event,” Markus huffed. Each of the generals knew that Duke Rathskell had died on Jaymes Markham’s sword, but none of them saw any reason to mention the fact. Nor would they mention the fortune in gems that had vanished upon the duke’s death, though they must suspect that those stones were now being used to fund the expensive, and secret, operations of the distant, mysterious Compound.

“Excuse me, my lords?”

They looked up at the approach of a young knight, a clean-shaven officer who wore a tunic of white, emblazoned with small symbols of the Crown, the Rose, and the Sword.

“Sir Templar? Please, join us,” Jaymes offered.

“Thank you, my Lord Marshal. Welcome back-I am pleased to see that Kiri-Jolith has blessed you with a safe journey.”

“Well, he didn’t place any undue obstacles in my path, and for that I myself am grateful,” Jaymes replied. “What can we do for you?”

Templar was a knight-priest, a Clerist like Sergeant Heath, one of the new breed of clerical warriors who had begun to join the ranks of the Solamnics during the later campaigns of the War of Souls. With the disappearance of Paladine, the traditional high god of the knightly orders, the Clerists had been working hard to rebuild the faith of the troops. Some of them maintained devout worship of the merchant god Shinare, while many others, such as Templar, were devoted followers of Kiri-Jolith, the Just.

“Well, my lord… it’s the dwarves. We have several good, solid priests among their ranks, and they are trying their best. It’s just that… well…”

“Tell us-spit it out, man!” encouraged Dayr.

“Well, the dwarves are refusing to take the Oath-they serve in the ranks of the Solamnic Army. But they won’t speak the words that pledge their commitment to all of the knightly cause!”

“Well, they’re not knights, after all,” Jaymes said. “They’re not required to take the Oath. And it seems that too vigorous efforts to bend them to that ideal might only drive them away. I have known more than a few dwarves in my time, and every one of them is stubborn to the core. But also quite honorable, in their way.”

“That’s not the point!” protested the priest.

Dayr and Markus exchanged nervous glances-even Jaymes’s highest-ranking generals were not so quick to bluntly contradict the army commander.

“Now, lad,” said Markus sternly, clearing his throat. “Remember your place. This is the lord marshal you’re addressing.”

“I know!” said Templar dismissively. “But it’s a matter that needs to be addressed. Thus far this army has been blessed by remarkable success-the gods have smiled upon us! But if we don’t take that obligation seriously, who knows how long this favor will last?”

“What obligation, exactly, do you mean?” asked Jaymes softly.

“Why, the obligation to the great legacy of Solamnia! Of Vinas Solamnus, who forged these scattered realms into an empire! And to the noble lords who have carried his legacy on through the ages!”

“Noble lords, such as Duke Walker of Caergoth? Who killed his own wife to further his ambitions? Who betrayed his fellow dukes and allowed hundreds, even thousands, of brave men to die because he was reluctant to spend his treasury, too lazy to leave the protection of his city walls? You mean that legacy?” Jaymes’s voice took on an edge.

“Yes! I mean, well, no-not that part of Walker’s character. Surely, he made mistakes. But he was corrupted by the Prince of Lies! It was Hiddukel who turned him from the path of righteousness!”

“But he took the Oath, did he not? In fact, he administered the Oath to countless recruits, good men who became knights.”

“Yes, exactly! It was the Oath… I mean… but it’s important! The Oath must be preserved and furthered as best we can. Surely you can see that.”

Jaymes nodded, pausing before he replied. “Yes, the Oath is important when it is spoken by one who believes that to which he swears. And so it shall be in the Army of Solamnia. You can teach the men-and the dwarves-about the Oath and the Measure and the legacy of Vinas Solamnus. But nobody will be required to speak that oath, nor shall any soldiers in this army be criticized or harangued for failure to speak its credo.”

“But-”

“Son, I think the lord marshal has made his wishes known. Thanks for bringing your concerns to us.” Dayr spoke brusquely.

Templar, finally, seemed to get the hint. He looked glum as he rose, but he bowed with stiff formality and nodded to the commanders. “And thank you, my lords, for hearing me,” he said before turning and shuffling off into the gathering darkness.

The lord regent’s palace overlooked the city of Palanthas and the splendid, deep-water Bay of Branchala from a mountain vantage outside of the city’s walls-the walls that could, in truth, no longer be said to contain the vibrant metropolis. In fact, much of this splendid city now sprawled outside the ring of ancient fortifications. These outlying districts included the splendid manors of nobles as well as the stockyards and corrals necessary for the bustling commerce that was the city’s lifeblood. Markets, artisans, and manufactories lined the wide highway leading to the inner city.

Within the palace halls, on this early evening, an elegantly dressed nobleman made his way toward the regent’s drawing room bearing an expression of quiet satisfaction. By the time he reached the chamber and was admitted, he was smiling broadly.

“I thank you for your intercession, my lord,” said the man. “Your daughter has consented to accompany me to the Nobles Ball next month.”

“Ah, Lord Frankish. Good. I knew she would,” said Lord Regent Bakkard du Chagne. He was a short, pudgy man with only a thin layer of hair on his head, but his visitor-as well as most others in this city-knew that his unassuming looks were deceptive. Du Chagne was the most powerful man in Palanthas, descended from a long line of stewards who had held authority in the city since the end of the lineage of Solamnic kings. His influence, and money, was enough to intimidate other powerful persons in Solamnia-with the notable exception of the Lord Marshal Jaymes Markham.

“In fact,” the regent went on, his voice dropping conspiratorially. “I encouraged her to welcome your approaches. She needs someone like you-a man of good station and impeccable loyalty-to guide her future.”

Lord Frankish was also one of the wealthiest nobles in northern Ansalon, and while this, too, counted as an important factor in the lord regent’s favor, neither man felt that this asset needed to be voiced aloud. In addition, Frankish was the commanding general of the Palanthian Legion. This large, well-trained, and well-equipped force had been serving as the lord regent’s personal army since shortly after the fall of Mina and the Dark Knights.

Only then did Lord Frankish notice two other men present in the drawing room. One was the tall, dour priest, the Clerist Lord Inquisitor Frost; the other was Sir Russel Moorvan, a magic-user and Solamnic Kingfisher knight.

“Good sirs,” said Frankish with a polite bow. Frankish was more a man of action, an accomplished swordsman and equestrian, but he understood that these two men were policy advisers who were equally important to the lord regent.

“We are discussing matters on the plains,” du Chagne announced, “and would be pleased to have you join us, my lord.”

The plains, Frankish knew, meant Lord Marshal Jaymes Markham. The four men were united in their firm belief that the upstart army commander-a man of common birth! — was an irritant that they could not continue to ignore. So long as his army was occupied fighting Ankhar’s barbarians, it was hoped that he would stay away from this great metropolis. But as soon as that campaign was resolved, there was nothing to prevent him from marching to Palanthas and offering the city his vaunted “protection.”

“His operations are very expensive,” the inquisitor observed. “Can you not cut his funding?”

“I have tried,” du Chagne said with a groan-and they all knew that he was a man who, insofar as it was possible, would clutch every coin in his treasury until it could be physically pried out of his hands. They took him at his regretful word. “But the families of the knights stay my hand. If they feel that I am not sufficiently supporting the war effort, they make things very difficult for me-very difficult indeed.”

“And how fares the campaign?” asked Moorvan, the Kingfisher.

“It is hard to tell-he shares little or no information with me,” admitted the lord regent.

“Haven’t we tried to place spies in his camp?” asked Frankish.

“Yes-and he willingly accepts any volunteers we send to him, but none of them is ever granted an ear at his councils. No, I suspect he rather enjoys sending my agents out on the front lines of battle.”

“Then what is to be done?” asked the inquisitor.

“We must keep watching and waiting,” said du Chagne. “And hope that, sooner or later, he fails miserably. Or makes a fatal mistake.”

The lord marshal’s tent was surrounded by alert pickets, who had sworn upon penalty of death to keep any intruders, potential assassins, or random nuisances from their master’s domain. Even so, no one noticed the small figure that darted stealthily from the horse corral, through the armory, past the smithy tent, and up to the very base of the army commander’s brown canvas shelter. Disdaining the entranceway, where two guards shifted their weight from foot to foot and stared vigilantly into the night, the figure lifted up the edge of the tent, pressed himself flat against the ground, and slipped inside.

He rose to his full height, about that of a human child, peering into the pitch darkness of the shelter’s interior. He crept to the low cot where Jaymes Markham lay sleeping. Extending a hand, the intruder poked sharply into the man’s face.

“Psst! Wake up!”

There was sudden movement, a flash of steel, and the marshal was awake with a dagger in his hand, the tip halting a mere fraction of an inch from the intruder’s throat.

“Hey-stop it!” protested the diminutive figure, twisting away. He was stopped by the man’s hand as it reached out to clamp down, hard, on a thin, small shoulder.

“State your business,” hissed Jaymes, his voice as cold as the blade held so steadily in his hand.

“Let me introduce myself. I’m Moptop Bristlebrow, professional guide and pathfinder!” The intruder twisted and pulled but couldn’t break the steely grip. “ She sent me; she said it was important! Hey, let me go!”

“ ‘She’?” The marshal sat up on his cot and blinked a few times; then his eyes narrowed. “The Lady Coryn?”

“Yes!”

“Why? Tell me what she told you, exactly.”

“She needs to see you in Palanthas. Right away-as soon as you can get there.”

“And you’ll take me to her?”

“That’s what she said-I’m supposed to go with you.”

“Who are you?”

“I told you, I’m a professional guide and pathfinder. And I’m an old friend of Lady Coryn. We go way back. To before she was Lady Coryn, or a white witch, or any such thing! She trusts me even more than she trusts you. Of course, I don’t know how much she trusts you. I mean, I don’t want to make any presumptions-”

“The Lady Coryn is very wise,” said the lord marshal, rising from his bunk. “Go to the corral; tell the squires that I order that my horse be saddled.”

“Oh, all right. The corral. That’s where all the horses are, right? Boy, that place really stank, you know? I rushed right past it, holding my nose. You would have thought that horses… well, they’re so pretty, that they wouldn’t smell so bad. You know what I mean?”

“Go!” said the man.

“Uh, wait-I forgot, you won’t need your horse,” the kender objected. He scratched his head. “I don’t know if we could take it even if you wanted to,” he added mysteriously.

“What do you mean?”

The kender produced two small bottles from a pouch somewhere in his tunic. “Here,” he said. “We’re each supposed to drink one of these, and hold hands, and-well, it’s a lot faster than horses and smells better too.”