“This way is Solanthus,” she declared, pointing in the general direction of the front. “You go to make war on that city again?” The tone of warning in her voice was unmistakable.
And the warning was well warranted, Ankhar knew. After the initial victories of his first war, the entire campaign had come down to a long, tedious siege of that city at the northern terminus of the Garnet Mountains. For more than a year, he and his troops had surrounded the place, camping within view of the walls. One attack had even breached the walls, and for a few glorious hours, the attackers had charged into the city, running amok, burning, looting, and killing.
But in the end, Ankhar’s army had been repulsed and the lord of the knighthood had brought his own troops to the relief of the city. Ankhar had withdrawn to another battlefield, where, a few weeks later, his army had been broken, his dreams shattered. His mother was clearly worried he intended to repeat that pattern.
The half-giant chuckled, pleased at his own cleverness, before he replied. “No,” he said. “We don’t go there. But I want the knights to think we will attack Solanthus!”
“Ah, clever, my son. Where do we really go, then?”
“That,” he said, his chuckle growing into a hearty guffaw, “is a surprise!”
Waiting frustrated men of action, and the gray wizard Hoarst and Captain Blackgaard, their preparations completed, chafed and stewed in the secret valley north of the High Clerist’s Pass. The Black Army, some three thousand well-trained and well-disciplined troops, equipped with the best weapons and armor steel could buy-and magic could conjure-also detested the delay. They had been drilled to the point of exhaustion, and the captain wisely released them from training for a few days, and still they waited.
They would not risk everything by a premature attack, and so they bided their time until they received the message they awaited.
That message inevitably came at night, borne by a black-cloaked, whispering figure who arrived with suddenness at headquarters. The Nightmaster was not unexpected, but even so, his teleported arrival caused a cook to drop a tureen of soup and sent a half dozen guards lunging for their weapons.
“Hold, men!” Blackgaard ordered as his own heart skipped a beat. He glared at the cleric, who had materialized without warning in the anteroom of the captain’s manor, just as he and his staff were sitting down to a late dinner. A sharp reproach rose to his tongue, but a moment’s thought-not to mention the cool, unreadable expanse of black gauze covering the high priest’s face-caused him to draw a slow breath instead of complaining aloud.
“Greetings, priest,” he said. “You’re just in time to join us for dinner.”
“I have no need of such sustenance,” the Nightmaster replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I need to speak with you. I come with news.”
“The wizard will be here shortly-ah, here he is now. Hoarst, come in,” Blackgaard said as the Gray Robe entered through the front door. His white-skinned woman, the concubine he called Sirene, glided silently at his side.
A kitchen orderly mopped up the spilled soup, while the dozen or so officers at the table waited expectantly for whatever would happen next. “You men, go ahead and eat,” Blackgaard said, glancing at them. He nodded at the Nightmaster and the Thorn Knight. “We can talk in my office.”
“Wait for me here,” said Hoarst, disengaging Sirene from his arm. She went over to the dining table, where the officers quickly shifted to give her plenty of space on one of the benches. Her eyes never left the tall, gray- haired figure of her wizard as the three men departed through another door.
“What news from the city?” asked Blackgaard as soon as the door closed behind them.
“Events progress as we planned. The Legion of Steel seethes against the emperor’s new laws and stands ready to rise against him. All that is required is the provocation, the catalyst-and the archer tells me that he has already arrived in the city.”
“Good,” Hoarst said, nodding. “His rage burns within, unabated. It is a spark that shall serve as splendid kindling.”
“We watched the emperor and his Freemen ride through the pass several days ago,” Blackgaard said. “I have no word directly, but I think he must be out on the plains by now.”
The Nightmaster nodded. “My auguries have shown him to me. He gathers his troops on the plains and moves toward Solanthus.”
“And the half-giant?” asked Hoarst, raising an eyebrow.
The masked priest chuckled dryly. “He has erupted from Lemish with all the thunder and storm we could wish. The whole of Solamnia-at least, Solamnia east of the mountains-is in an uproar. All their attention, all their fear, is fixed upon our erstwhile ally.”
“Good!” declared Hoarst. “It seems the great oaf still has value to us.”
“But my men die of boredom here,” Blackgaard noted. “They must have action soon, or they will lose their edge. Discipline is good for the time being, but idleness is the enemy of discipline. My soldiers will need every advantage when they attack. Even coming by surprise, and outnumbering the tower garrison by ten to one, it will not be easy to breach those ancient walls.”
“Soon,” counseled the Nightmaster. The masked face turned to Hoarst. “You have one more task to perform, do you not?”
Hoarst nodded as Blackgaard glanced at the Gray Robe. “What’s that?” Blackgaard asked, startled.
“I must return to my fortress to work,” said the wizard. “It will take me three or four days, but when I return, those ancient walls will no longer be much of an obstacle.”
Jaymes had reined in his horse, stopping to look up as he rode past the Stonebridge that crossed Apple Creek at the bank of the Vingaard River. He saw that the wall around Vingaard Keep was almost completely repaired. The scarred stubs of the fallen towers, on the other hand, were still there, proof of the violence that had transpired.
For a moment the emperor wondered about Marrinys Kerrigan, how she was faring with the rebuilding. For some odd reason, he wondered if she would ever forgive him for the devastation he had wrought. With a grimace of irritation, he dismissed the thought: such concerns were a weakness he could not afford. In another few moments, he had turned south along the Vingaard road, and the damaged fortress was relegated to memory.
Often during the long days of riding, he thought of his wife. It was only a week ago that he had received the sudden news of Ankhar’s invasion and departed Palanthas before dawn. Yet he couldn’t forget that before leaving, Jaymes had called on Selinda in her chambers and learned she had not yet returned from wherever it was she had gone on the previous night. Worry, fear, and anger vied within him whenever he thought of his wife. He wasn’t accustomed to a problem that was out of his control. He couldn’t stop thinking about her, about home and impending fatherhood.
At last, following the great river as it swept into the plains, Jaymes and his Freemen drew near to the camp of his most steadfast troops.
The Palanthian Legion had received orders by courier, and the men were mustering for the new campaign. Even before Jaymes and his Freemen rode down from the High Clerist’s Pass, the five thousand troops had broken down their permanent camp, organized their weapons, horses, and equipment, and made ready to march.
“Secure those tarps!” Jaymes barked, passing a wagon where the waterproof cover had begun to slip. “Pick up the pace,” he shouted to the captain of a company of lancers. “We need to move-I want thirty miles behind us by nightfall!”
With Sergeant Ian at his side, Jaymes rode at a canter at the front of the vast column of his legion. The troops, who had lived in their camp beside the Vingaard for more than a month, started southward. With many a marching song rising from their ranks, they trekked all day, starting an hour before dawn and not making camp until an hour after sunset. At that pace, it was only three days before they arrived at the great Middle Ford, where the wide river flowed across a smooth, hard bed. Given the dry weather of the past season, the water was no more than three feet deep in midstream, and the troops didn’t hesitate to march right through.
General Dayr, with six thousand men of the Crown Army, awaited the emperor on the east bank of the river. Jaymes and Dayr rode their horses off to the side and watched as the huge, ox-drawn wagon supporting his single bombard rumbled up and out of the river. The stolid creatures pulled the wagon easily over the bank, and it trundled off toward Solanthus. A hundred other wagons, none of them quite as large, trailed after, while the file of the legion’s column snaked into the distance to the front and the rear.
“What’s the latest word from the border country?” Jaymes asked, removing his helmet to mop at the clammy
