thwack. “All right,” he said, glaring down at Hoarst. “How will you do this?”
“Form a line; have your troops hold out as long as possible while the enemy attacks. I am going to cast a spell that will create a door to safety. When you step through this door, it will take you to the fortress I spoke about. And you can bring as many of your ogres as are able to get away.”
“Let me see this door!” demanded the half-giant skeptically.
“Very well. But once the spell is cast, I cannot change it. The door will last for some length of time, maybe half an hour. You should go through first, but tell your ogres to keep following you.”
Ankhar glowered at Hoarst. “Why are you helping me?”
“You will help me if you come to this fortress,” the Thorn Knight said honestly. “I need warriors, and you need a place where you can make a stand. I believe we are helping each other.”
Once more the half-giant had to struggle against his own instincts to charge the enemy Solamnics and dwarves. Companies of humans were taking up positions on the flanks, other men and dwarves were bringing forward water, replacement weapons, and fresh horses. Clearly the respite in the battle would not last much longer.
“Cast your spell!” Ankhar ordered.
Hoarst nodded, ignoring the half-giant’s brusque tone; there would be time for that later. He went to the wall of one of the great charcoal factories, behind a shed where they were for the most part out of sight of the enemy troops. He took several small diamonds from his pouch and pressed the hard chips of stone into the wooden panels of the wall, outlining a rough rectangle some five feet wide and almost nine high. Closing his eyes, he began to chant.
Ankhar knew enough about spellcasting that he simply stood there and watched while Hoarst worked his magic. It was a complicated chant, full of barely-human sounds, augmented with many intricate gestures of the spellcaster’s hands. For sixty heartbeats, the Thorn Knight spoke, then for sixty more, barely drawing a breath. When he finished, the Thorn Knight staggered weakly, and only the half-giant’s reflexive catch prevented him from falling.
“Look!” grunted one of the ogres.
Hoarst shook off the fatigue and did, indeed, look. The area outlined by the diamonds was a shimmering surface of blue light, with arcs of power crackling across it and sparks trailing to the ground. It hummed with an otherworldly force, a thrumming they could not only hear but also feel in the pits of their stomachs.
“What is that?” demanded Ankhar.
“It is the door-the door between dimensions!” Hoarst snapped. “Now let’s go!”
“You go first,” the half-giant prodded.
“All right,” said the wizard. “I will. But you must come quickly with as many ogres as you can; I don’t know how long it will last.”
Ankhar nodded and quickly indicated some of his warriors-and one terrified, plump ogress-bringing them into a queue next to the wall. At the same time, the humans and dwarves shouted their war cries and commenced another rush across the plaza.
Hoarst took one last look, then stepped into the blue aura, allowing the magic to sweep him away.
At sunset scouts brought word that a brigade of troops was marching down the road from the High Clerist’s Pass, coming to cement the coup that replaced the emperor with the lord regent in Palanthas. Blayne went to the city gate to await the arrival of the brigade. The men of the city watch had already been informed by decree of the new order and the lord regent’s restored role. They willingly accepted Blayne’s presence at the watch command station.
If events were progressing according to plan, the men coming down the road ought to be troops of the Black Army, perhaps even Captain Blackgaard and the gray wizard Hoarst. As darkness fell, Blayne ordered the watchmen to light lanterns around the gate in the light posts set out along the road.
The men of the Legion of Steel had taken control of the palace and several key locations in the city. The city guards had caused no problem once the authority of the lord regent was invoked to support the coup. Sir Jorde, with two dozen of his men, waited in the courtyard below the gate tower where Blayne was watching for the troops. Sir Ballard was also due to arrive.
The waiting seemed interminable, but Blayne’s mood was lifted when the young nobleman felt a friendly clap on his shoulder and turned to see the first man he had met on his mission to Palanthas.
“Archer Billings!” Blayne cried, delighted to see the grinning guardsman. “It’s a great day today, is it not?”
“It is indeed, sir. It is indeed!” agreed the bowman, who wore his usual battered short sword in the scabbard at his waist. “I take it you had a hand in this, my lord?” he asked respectfully.
“I couldn’t have done it without you,” Blayne said. “The legion was ready to move, but they just needed a contact with the rebels outside of the city. You facilitated that.”
“The least I could do, m’lord,” Billings said modestly.
He stepped to the parapet of the watchtower, peering into the courtyard below. “My, they do look like they’ve waited a long time for this,” the archer said.
Jorde and his small company were dressed immaculately in gleaming armor in a mix of Sword, Rose, and Crown emblems. They were well armed and positioned in the shadows of the high walls. There were two gates, both leading into the gatehouse itself or the training yard around the barracks of the city guards.
“There they are!” shouted a watchman suddenly, and Blayne and Billings turned to look up the road. The column marched into view, the men in the black tunics and armor, and at their head rode Captain Blackgaard, the commander of the Black Army and the liberator of the High Clerist’s Tower.
The advance columns of the Black Brigade were mounted and rode at an easy trot. The sentries on the city walls pointed and watched expectantly as the riders drew closer.
Blayne didn’t hear who it was who shouted the warning, but the words rose suddenly from one of the footmen outside the wall. “Beware! These are Dark Knights!”
“No!” cried young Lord Kerrigan. “That can’t be!” But he realized even as he raised the protest that it was possible. Could he have been so stupid?
“I recognize that captain-he was the Butcher of the Dark Tower here, when Mina ruled!” cried another man.
“Close the gate!” Sir Jorde shouted to his men. They rushed toward the passage out of the courtyard only to have the gate slam shut in their faces.
And Blayne saw why: There was another man in the courtyard. He was dressed utterly in black, even to the point of wearing a mask over his face. His hands waved before him as he chanted arcane words-speaking in a strangely familiar voice. Almost immediately, a greenish-yellow mist swirled around him, a heavy vapor that seeped along the ground, filled the small courtyard, and rose to clutch at the legionnaires with sinister tendrils.
Blayne stared in horror as one of the legionnaires clutched his throat and doubled over, kicking violently then falling utterly still, his body grotesquely contorted. Another, then more of the trapped men toppled over, thrashing and gasping, though none of them struggled for more than a few moments.
“A killing cloud!” grunted Jorde, lunging toward the man in black. “We’ve been betrayed!”
The knight’s sword was in his hand, but the other person-he was a priest of darkness, Blayne realized-held up a hand in a gesture that brought Jorde to a sudden stop. His face twisted in anguish. Staggering, the legionnaire dropped to one knee, swaying clumsily before falling on his face. Like the other victims, all probably dead by then, he vanished beneath the miasma of mist that oozed and billowed across the courtyard floor.
“No!” cried Blayne, starting for the stairs. “We’ve got to close the city gate!” He spun toward Billings, and that movement saved his life.
The archer had his short sword out and was driving the tip toward Blayne’s back. The lord whirled away, pulling out his own weapon and smashing it sideways to block the blow aimed at him.
“You were more help than you’ll ever know,” Billings said tauntingly. “Bringing the secret knights out into the open, where the Nightmaster could find them!”
“You lie!” gasped Blayne, even though he realized it was the pathetic truth. In a frenzy he came at the other man, driving him back with savage overhand blows. The archer’s face betrayed fear as he retreated until the solid parapet was behind him, fighting desperately to hold Blayne’s furious attacks at bay.
But young Lord Kerrigan stabbed him in the right arm and, with a scream of pain, Billings dropped his sword.
