fortress. A smaller tributary, Apple Creek, guarded the southern approach to the castle and surrounding town. Apple Creek was a raging torrent as it rose in the heights near the crest of the Vingaard Mountains, but where it meandered across the plain to join the mighty river, it was merely a wide, sluggish stream with a muddy bottom and swampy, reed-choked banks. The waterway was not deep, though the soft bed made it a major impediment to the maneuvering of an army.
The Palanthian Legion marched out of the mountains and approached the keep along a road that followed the south bank of the creek. Soon after they had started across the plains, a message from General Dayr arrived, reporting the reasonable progress of the Crown Army. A day later, and ten miles short of Vingaard, Jaymes called a halt, putting his army into a fortified camp.
There was a sturdy span called the Stonebridge over the Apple, well downstream from where the legion camped, but none of the emperor’s officers questioned his decision. The bridge and its approaches were within catapult range of the fortress, and if in fact this looming confrontation came to be, that was not a location for any sensible soldier. Besides, there was a ford near their camp, where the banks were dry and the bottom of the creek was lined with a bed of boulders and gravel-the only such crossing until they reached the mouth of the stream and the ancient bridge.
General Weaver, the legion’s tactical leader under Jaymes’s overall command, joined the emperor on a low hill overlooking Apple Creek. In the distance they could see the elegant trio of spires of the keep. “Any word from General Dayr?” asked Weaver.
“The Crown Army is only a day’s march south of the keep,” Jaymes replied. “As I expected, they are making good time. He’s crossed over to the west bank of the river. What have you learned about the situation in our immediate neighborhood?”
The emperor gestured to a nearby grove of apple trees, and beyond it the vast stretch of airy woodland that extended for miles along the other side of the creek.
“The scouts have returned. They report a full regiment of pikemen in that grove, ready to block any attempt at fording. They have archers and heavy infantry to back them.”
“We’d certainly outnumber them,” Jaymes noted.
“Oh, of course,” Weaver replied. “But it would be a bloody crossing.”
“Well, maybe we won’t have to shed blood. Any word from Lord Kerrigan regarding the parley?”
“I dispatched the message to the keep as you requested, Excellency, but there hasn’t been-oh, wait. Here comes my man, Baylor-the one I sent with the message.”
The two commanders rested easily in their saddles as the lone rider urged his horse to a gallop and up the gentle slope to the hilltop. He saluted briskly; Weaver returned the formal gesture, while Jaymes nodded.
“Lord Kerrigan accepts your offer of parley, Excellency,” Baylor said, addressing the emperor. “He questioned me strictly on the guarantee of safe passage to your headquarters, and naturally I pledged to him that you gave your word he and his party would be allowed to come and go in safety.”
“Go on,” Jaymes said.
“He will arrive an hour before sunset, and wishes to discuss the possibility of ending this dispute in an amicable fashion. He sends assurances that he does not wish to challenge your ultimate dominion of the empire, and merely wants to negotiate some of the fine points of governance.”
“Very well,” replied the new emperor of Solamnia. He looked at the sky, squinting at the western sun. “We’ll see him in a few hours, then. And then we shall see what we shall see.”
Lord Kerrigan was a tall, hearty duke with an ursine aspect and, under most circumstances, a hearty, infectious laugh. His red hair fanned across his shoulders in a cascade of curls, and his cheeks and nose flushed, either from exposure to the air as he rode the few miles out to the army’s camp or-more likely-from an excessive fondness of strong drink and rich food.
He was accompanied by a knight in a black tunic adorned with the red rose, an elderly priest of Kiri-Jolith, and a younger man in a silk shirt and elegant riding boots. A quick search, supervised by Sergeant Ian of the Freemen, ascertained that none of the three was armed, and the pickets stood aside to let their horses advance, at a walk, toward the table and chairs set up outside the emperor’s headquarters tent.
“The young fellow-that’s his son, Sir Blayne,” Weaver said quietly, standing next to Jaymes as they awaited the truce party’s approach. “A good knight-served five years in the legion. Smarter than his father, I’d say. Back then he was a bit hotheaded, though.”
The four men rode nearly to the circle before reining in. Stewards took their bridles as they dismounted in unison. Kerrigan stepped forward, his eyes frank and inquiring as he advanced toward the emperor. He began to extend his hand until something in Jaymes’s face caused him to halt. Instead, he straightened.
“Excellency. Thank you for hearing my parley.” His voice was friendly, though his expression had grown watchful and guarded.
Jaymes nodded and indicated the chairs that had been arrayed for them. The four men of Vingaard sat, and the emperor took his seat. General Weaver occupied the chair at his right hand, Captain Powell to his left. Lord Templar, the clerist, was the fourth member of the emperor’s party.
“It is impossible not to notice you have disregarded the government’s lawful requests for tax payments, as well as refusing to send recruits for the empire’s army,” Jaymes began. His tone was dry, almost bored, but his eyes bore a different intensity and never wavered from Kerrigan’s face. “My agents have addressed this lapse by letter and emissary for nearly twelve months, now. I regret that it became necessary for me to bring my army into the field. Now you find us before your gates, after a march of no little expense and inconvenience.”
“You’re not at our gates yet,” muttered Sir Blayne, drawing a sharp look from his father. Kerrigan cleared his throat gruffly, and returned the emperor’s even gaze.
“Wait,” Jaymes said, holding up his hand before the duke could speak. He glanced at the young knight, an almost-smile creasing his lips. “The only reason we are not at your gates, young sir, is that I do not want to kill your men unless I have to. Your regiment of pikes-and the hidden archers and swordsmen-in the grove across the stream wouldn’t stand for ten minutes under a concerted assault from my battle-hardened men. But we are here to talk because we hope such an attack won’t be necessary.”
The young knight flushed. His hand brushed the curl of his mustache, and his eyes attempted to bore holes in the emperor’s face. But he held his tongue.
“And, I trust, no attack will be necessary,” said Kerrigan smoothly. “Naturally, I anticipated that your scouting would be thorough; my men were there for you to discover them.
“But, Excellency,” he continued, “as I tried to explain to your emissaries-the burden you place on Vingaard is too heavy. Our economy is on weak footing, and our population is too small. To pay half the tribute you demand would be a hardship-to contribute half the recruits you require would be a terrible burden. To fully comply with your numbers would be to destroy all I have worked to build here. So I beseech you, Excellency, lower the numbers. Let us begin to work together.”
“It seems to me you have been rather fortunate, here in Vingaard.” The emperor gestured to the keep. Even ten miles away, it dominated their view with its lofty towers, the spires so slender they almost seemed to sway in the sky, defying gravity. “In the past few years, Garnet and Thelgaard have been captured and sacked by barbarian forces. Solanthus endured a siege of two years’ duration and a destructive battle of liberation. Caergoth has been transformed into an army and naval base of unprecedented proportion. Palanthas has filled the coffers of the empire with the steel of commerce, and at the same time it has contributed countless men to the ranks of the legion and the knighthood.”
He continued speaking, his eyes daring anyone to interrupt the emperor. “This magnificent road-the highway that runs almost past your fortress gate, that has opened trade routes to Kalaman and places as faraway as Neraka-is a tangible benefit of the new Solamnia. There are inns and wayhouses every mile, smiths working hard for the benefit of travelers-and all of them paying taxes into your treasury. While you, here in Vingaard, have farmed your farms, fished your river, and harvested your apples.”
Sir Blayne clenched his jaw with visible anger, while the flush spread upward from Kerrigan’s cheeks to fully encompass his brows and forehead. Even General Weaver, beside Jaymes, looked at his leader, who had adopted a sharp tone, askance.
The duke took a long moment to draw a breath and calm himself before responding. “Surely you are aware, Excellency, of the contributions made by the men of Vingaard during the campaign against the barbarian Ankhar! Our knights rode with the regiments of Crown and Sword and Rose-a hundred of my men fell in the crossing of the
