Lord of the Rose (23 page)

“Is she gone?” Dram asked, finally coming back from the garden. “Used her magic to disappear, did she? Makes my skin crawl just to think about it!” He shuddered in the common dwarfish aversion to all things magic. “We’re better off without her! Though she did give us a timely exit back there in the ghetto.”

“We’re lucky she bothered,” the warrior said.

“Yeah. Uh, speaking of luck, we’re lucky I went out to the garden just now. I got a good look at the road across the plain, and we have some visitors coming. Fast. Out of the East.”

Jaymes cocked an eyebrow.

“Yes, they’re riders all right, but they’re not coming on horseback,” Dram said. “My best guess is they’re goblins on wolfback. They’re spread out on both sides of the road but they aren’t traveling by highway, they’re moving faster on the grass.”

“What about the gnomes?” asked the man.

“Last I saw they were looking around in that direction,” Dram replied, indicating the shell of the manor’s west wing.

The two companions made their way along the front of the house, spotting the gnomes up in the second story of the ruin, bickering in what had once been a grand hallway.

“Something put out the fire,” Carbo insisted. “Rain wouldn’t be enough, see. I know all about rain. Probably it was a nitrogen-sulfate mix of some kind, designed to retard combustion.”

“No,” Sulfie objected, “you heard them, it burned itself out. See how it got to this stone balustrade, on the big stairs? It just petered out.”

“Poppycock and balderdash!” snorted the male gnome. “The stairs are wood—
they
would have burned! No, there was some kind of intervention. Perhaps a fire brigade came by and doused the flames.”

“Fire brigade? Ha, ha! From where? That’s just ridiculous. Maybe the stairs are fire-retardant—like ironwood! Did you think of that?”

“I thought of—”

“Rain.” Jaymes said from below, staring up at the two gnomes.

“Go away!” Carbo snapped down at him.

“I told you what happened: It started to rain,” the warrior continued, his tone flat. “The house was gutted in the middle, but the ends were still standing. It rained hard enough to put out the fire.”

“See!” said Sulfie. “You heard him. Rain!”

“Come on,” said the human, ignoring the two gnomes, who continued to debate. “We’ve got to get out of here—goblins are coming.”

The gnomes hastened down from their high perch, moving precariously along the edge of the half-burned staircase. Once they were safely on the ground, Jaymes pointed toward the back of the once-grand manor and spoke to Dram Feldspar. “You’ll find a shallow ravine just a stone’s throw from the back plaza. Take the gnomes, and wait for me there.”

“Aw, I don’t like waiting. You’re not going to do anything crazy now, are you?” asked the dwarf.

Jaymes shook his head, as Dram led the two gnomes away. Before they were out of sight, the warrior was moving forward at a crouch, concealing himself in the tangle of the overgrown garden, making his way around the hedge until he could see across the plains that extended, flat and brown, toward the eastern horizons.

He spotted the riders immediately, knew that Dram had been accurate. These were goblins riding those huge, shaggy wolves they often used as mounts. Their canine lope was unmistakable
as the goblins were borne across the grassy flatland. A quick glance showed him at least two score of these outriders, with a larger column of goblins just beyond. The latter marched on foot but were making good time. All of them seemed to be verging on the ruin of Lord Lorimar’s manor.

Jaymes checked the wind. It was coming from the plains, blowing toward the four companions, so they would not be betrayed that way. The warrior ducked back, watching as the leading goblins drew up to the fringe of what had once been the garden. They dismounted, turning their great wolves free to lope on the plains, while the goblins drew their wickedly curved swords and started into what had once been the rose garden, hacking the blooming branches down as if they were jungle creepers.

Jaymes withdrew to join his comrades in the low gulley. From here they could peer between the thick grasses along the rim and, as long as the wind stayed friendly, keep an eye on the goblins with little chance of being spotted themselves.

The goblins swarmed through the blackened rubble, kicking around the broken timbers, whooping and cheering as they scrambled over debris. Several squawked and barked when they came upon the fresh hole where the steel box had been removed.

A goblin tore down one of the blue silk draperies from the lady’s bedchamber and threw it over his shoulders, a mockery of a regal cape. He pranced along the sagging edge of the broken floor until a rotten timber broke under his feet, plunging him unceremoniously into the tangled wreckage of the first floor. Moaning piteously, he was too injured to resist as another goblin came up to him and snatched away the material, leaving his stricken comrade pinned between two heavy, charred beams.

Gray clouds had rolled across the plains with the goblins. Now a chilly drizzle began to fall, and the marauders wearied of their unprofitable explorations. They withdrew to the garden, leaving a few pickets posted around the fringes of the ruin. As
it grew dark, the orange glow of an immense bonfire brightened the interior of the hedge ring. The rain picked up, leaving the four companions stuck in their ravine soggy, miserable, and cold.

Even so, Jaymes said they should wait until dark before slipping away. Dram agreed. The two gnomes, huddled together under a single blanket with teeth chattering, had lost all their spirit. Hours later the warrior led them away, heading north behind the cover of rain and clouds and darkness blanketing the area.

Hours before dawn, they were still moving. “Those outriders are just the vanguard,” Jaymes warned Dram. “I have a feeling the whole army is going to be along in another day or two.”

Mason’s Ford was a nondescript town that owed its existence to a shallow stretch of the small but rapid North Garnet River. A series of small corrals and barns ringed the outer fringe of the community, which lacked the protection of a wall, tower, or any other fortification. The four travelers were foot-sore and weary as, two days after leaving the ruin of Lord Lorimar’s manor, they trudged along the muddy track leading through the town and toward the river crossing that had given the place its name.

The rain had continued durng their trek, and Mason’s Ford was shrouded in a soggy fog that rendered the place indistinct and dreary.

“Seems kind of crowded,” Dram noticed immediately. The main street was lined by wooden buildings with long covered porches that were crowded with men, women, and children. Many of the people were huddled in blankets or tarps. A few of the men had staves, picks, and other crude weapons near to hand.

“What word of the gobs, Strangers?” asked one man, rising from the front step of an inn and ambling into the rainy street.

“Last saw ’em two days back,” said the dwarf. “A patrol on worgs south of here. Dunno where they were headed.”

“They burned Garnet, you know.”

Jaymes and Dram exchanged a grim look. “No. We hadn’t heard,” said the swordsman.

We’re just passing through, ourselves,” Dram added.

The man chuckled. “Good luck,” he said, before turning back to his family and companions who were watching, with interest, from the crowded porch.

“Wonder what that was about,” the dwarf said. “Why in the name of Reorx are all these folks sitting around here if they’re so dang worried about the goblins?”

Jaymes simply kept walking, his long strides forcing the dwarf and gnomes to hurry in order to keep up. The street started to descend toward the ford, and they noticed even more people huddled under every roof. Some had erected tarps in vacant yards, while others had taken over stables, barns, and sheds for makeshift shelters.

The reason for the crowding became apparent as they approached the river. Brown water spilled over the porches and crept up the walls of the last buildings on the street. The current surged, churning far above the banks, making the river so broad that the far bank was lost in the murky distance. Jaymes narrowed his eyes, looking toward the stout rope that anchored the auxiliary ferry, a flatboat that provided passage for those who didn’t care to wade the ford. That boat was broken, hurled by the surging current against the pilings of a nearby lumber yard, where it sat with its hull cracked and open to the river’s angry rise.

There would be no crossing of the Vingaard, not until the rain ceased and the flooding river fell.

Ankhar didn’t mind the rain. The water rolled easily off of his bearskin cloak, and his broad shoulders and sturdy frame were not burdened by the weight of the sodden garment. His goblins were happy to march through the mud, and the fleet-footed worgs were not hampered anywhere near as much as horses would have been.

Several of his outriders approached now. The half-giant halted and shook his head, casting a spray over the hobs of his personal bodyguard. The lead scout, a small, wiry goblin named Rib Chewer, sprang from the back of his lupine mount and knelt before Ankhar.

“Master, we have followed many humans to a place on this river. They cannot cross in the high water, and they have no wall to protect them. We can kill them all!”

“Good. Where this place?”

“It lies but a half-day’s march to the west of here. There is no river crossing above or below for two marches.”

“What about knights?” asked the hulking chieftain. “They got garrisons to north and south. They moving?”

“No, Master!” the goblin uttered a wet cackle. “They have withdrawn into their fortresses. They cower in their castles like old women. They are afraid to face us!”

Ankhar stroked his broad chin, reflecting. His horde was spread across a hundred miles, but this town was a good objective. There would be good sport in the killing, and even if they found little treasure, there was sure to be food and drink enough to satisfy his troops for several days.

“Son.” It was Laka, tugging at the loop on his belt where he slung his mighty, emerald-headed spear. She waved the skull totem back and forth, and Ankhar resentfully met those dark sockets with his own eyes.

“What word of Prince?’ he asked.

Instead of answering, Laka shook the head so the pebbles rattled and bounced in a wash of noise that was like the warning of a rattlesnake. No green light came into that empty visage. No words of counsel or warning emerged from the dead teeth.

“Tell god we win another victory,” Ankhar said to his foster mother, his jaw jutting.

“You not tell god!” spat Laka, springing closer to the half-giant, shaking the death’s-head at his face. She danced around in agitation. “The god tell you! And you listen!”

“The god tell me nothing—I see humans for the killing!” Ankhar retorted. “So we attack!”

Laka, sulking, went back to her tent—the only such structure in the whole camp, because the old shaman needed privacy for her meditations, invocations, and prayers. Ankhar tried, without success, to shake off a feeling of disquiet as he turned back to his goblin scout. That worthy lieutenant had been carefully studying the outskirts of the camp, though he had no doubt overheard the conversation between his army commander and the witch-doctor.

“You do well, Rib Chewer,” the half-giant said. “Send riders to far wings of horde. March to this town today. We gather over night. Tomorrow morning we attack.”

“Aye, Master!” cried the goblin, cackling again as he sprang into his saddle. The worg snapped and growled, drool slicking the long fangs, dribbling from the narrow jaws. With a howl, Rib Chewer kicked the beast in the flanks, and the wolf started across the plains at the easy lope that it could maintain for the rest of the day.

By the time it finished, the horde of Ankhar would be gathering for the attack.