“Jaymes, my old friend,” he said softly. “I think I have a present for you.”
Ankhar approached the gray tent, the only such shelter in the whole vast encampment of his army. As the commander, he was entitled to go anywhere he wanted in that camp, but for some reason he hesitated outside this tent. He cleared his throat gruffly and was rewarded by a faint voice beckoning him from within.
“Come!” croaked the Thorn Knight.
The half-giant ducked and pulled back the flap, squinting against the darkness within. The tent was larger than most, but Ankhar still had to duck down pretty low in order to get inside. He moved inside and hunkered down on his haunches, studying the pale face of the Gray Robe.
“How is pain?” he asked.
Hoarst moved a hand to his chest, where the lord marshal’s bolt had pierced him-had actually punctured his heart. He would have died if it weren’t for Laka’s healing magic.
“Severe,” he said. “I can hardly draw a breath.”
“I am sorry,” the half-giant acknowledged. He extended a cup that he had carefully carried in his big hands to the Thorn Knight. “Laka says you must drink.”
The human didn’t ask any questions. He merely reached out a hand, took the vessel, and tipped it to his lips. The vile stink of the liquid filled the tent-like a skunk had been startled nearby-but Hoarst didn’t hesitate to drink the strong tea down in several bitter, galling sips. He coughed violently, and Ankhar helpfully removed the cup so the Thorn Knight wouldn’t drop it.
“Did that help?” the half-giant asked when the man’s coughing had eased and he was again able to draw a breath.
“Surprisingly enough, it did,” Hoarst admitted, pushing himself to a sitting position. He inhaled and exhaled, clearly relishing the deep lungful of air. “I can breathe again!”
“Good. I need you to get up and go to work now.”
Hoarst propped himself up with both hands. “It must be important,” he grunted. “But I’m not sure I can walk.”
“You don’t need to walk-you need to carve,” the half-giant said. When the man raised his eyebrows in mute question, Ankhar continued. “The army of the knights is reinforced. They are moving from Solanthus now, coming toward us. We must fight them here, in the shadow of the mountains. The king is up there, in mountains someplace. I wish to get him back. But to unleash king against humans, I must have another wand.”
Hoarst nodded, understanding. “All right, I can make another one if you bring me the material.”
“What do you need?”
“The branch of a mature willow tree. The tree must be large-larger, for example, than I could wrap my arms around and touch my hands together on the opposite side. The limb must be one that hangs down far enough so that the tip is brushing the water. You must bring me the whole branch, even though I’ll only use the very tip. And after you cut off the limb, the tree itself must be cut down and burned in a very hot fire.”
Ankhar nodded, committing these curious instructions to memory. “You rest,” he said, “and I will return.”
It was harder to find a willow tree than he had expected, but after dispatching dozens of human horsemen- the scouts of Blackgaard’s light cavalry-he learned of the whereabouts of such a tree in a valley not terribly far away. Not trusting anyone else to the task, he and Laka traveled there with several ogres who were skilled in the use of axes. With Laka’s guidance, the half-giant selected a proper branch and hacked it off with a few blows of his knife. Then he instructed the ogres to chop down the tree and burn it on a large bonfire, fueled by dozens of brittle, dead pine trunks that stood nearby.
He returned with the limb to the camp on the following day to find the wizard had, once again, lapsed into uncomfortable, restless sleep. Ankhar waited impatiently while Laka brewed another cup of the vile, but restorative, tea. He watched her mix ingredients that looked like bark and berries with some unidentifiable components that might have been dried animal parts, pulling all the varied elements from different pouches and pockets on her person.
While he was pacing about the fire, Ankhar was approached by Rib Chewer. “The army of the knights is coming this way still,” Rib Chewer reported.
“How far away now?”
“Less than ten miles, by my best mark,” the goblin-whose idea of distances was imprecise at best- replied.
“They are getting close, then. We must make ready to face them very soon,” the half-giant concluded.
Finally the tea was ready, and the army commander took it in to the magic-user. Once again Hoarst sat up on his cot, breathing easily for a few hours because of the potion. He instructed Ankhar to trim the leaves from the willow branch then told the army commander to leave him alone while he went to work with his tiny, razor-sharp knife.
The half-giant paced back to the fire, where his stepmother sat on her haunches, staring into the flames.
“Can you make another brew of that terrible tea?” he asked. “In case the Gray Robe cannot finish before the effects wear off?”
“I can make another batch, and still another and another,” Laka replied with a shrug. “But it is a dangerous blessing-for though it makes him well for a few hours, if he drinks enough of it, the stuff will build up in his system.”
“And then what?” Ankhar asked.
“Then it will kill him,” she replied, reaching for her mortar and pestle and starting to grind up another batch of herbs.
“I was beginning to think you’d forgotten me,” Jaymes Markham said as he greeted Dram Feldspar.
“You ain’t that lucky,” said the dwarf, who was feeling his usual disgust with traveling by horseback. He was dusty and saddle sore. Still, he clasped his old companion’s hand in a firm grip as he slid down from the saddle and stretched the kinks out of his muscles. “Got anything cold to drink around here?” he wondered.
“I’ve been chilling a cask in the stream over there ever since I heard you were on the way,” Jaymes replied. He dispatched a pair of men to fetch the barrel while he turned his attention to the wagons that were still rumbling into the camp-the wagons that Dram Feldspar had brought down from the New Compound.
“Six of them, eh?” the lord marshal remarked, impressed.
There were an even half dozen bombards, one each on the leading wagons of the train, their muzzles extending out the back of the bed. Each bombard wagon was hauled by eight oxen. The following wagons were smaller and varied in type and cargo. Many of them were filled with kegs containing the black powder. Others were piled with rocks, each stone carved to an identical smooth, perfectly round sphere. Jaymes took in the whole train with his hands on his hips, nodding in satisfaction.
“We got a range of more than a mile in our tests,” Dram finished explaining an hour later as he pulled on a cold beer. He was unmistakably proud.
And with good reason, Jaymes acknowledged.
“Ankhar’s army is over the next ridge, with his left flank anchored on the mountains. Our numbers are about equal to his, so up until now it’s been a standoff,” the lord marshal said to his mountain dwarf companion as he poured them each a fresh tankard.
“Old friend,” he said, raising his glass in a toast, “I think you’ve just changed the odds in our favor.”
It was the goblin warg rider Rib Chewer who at last brought Ankhar the news he had been waiting to hear- and dreading he would never receive.
“The fire-monster has crossed over the mountains,” reported Rib Chewer. “He moves down through these valleys, coming toward your army.”
“How far away?”
“Less than one day’s march, for sure.”
“Excellent,” growled Ankhar. He immediately went to fetch his mother, who emerged from her tent, clutching the small, ruby encrusted box that she had repaired. With Rib Chewer on foot leading the way, the army commander and his stepmother proceeded up the nearest valley leading between the foothills. Ahead of them loomed the tall, snowy crest of the Garnet Mountains.
By the time the half-giant and his mother, who despite her frail appearance could scramble overland with
