Which is why he stood here, now, on the gate-tower of the free city of Garnet, watching the last of the Solanthian knights ride away, their banners held high, their silver armor shining, amidst a fanfare of bugles. But no doubt about it, like their Crown brethren from Thelgaard, the knights of Solanthus were running away.
The goblins of the Garnet Range were on the march. All week long reports had been streaming in, describing a horde of unprecedented size-raiders who had were sweeping through small mining towns and dairy villages, plundering and killing. As the band of marauders drew closer to Garnet, many of the people had fled onto the plains while some had stayed to defend their homes. Now Sir Mikel knew that it was too late for anyone else to leave.
“Captain Horn, here are the latest reports from the scouts,” said Dynrall Wickam, Mikel’s squire and aide. Dynrall was his most loyal retainer, or had been up until this morning, when Mikel had ordered him to depart with the men of Solanthus.
“Will you be leaving, Captain?” Dynrall had asked.
“I cannot. By the Oath and the Measure, I stay here in Garnet until we are relieved. But you, lad-you should go!” the captain had replied.
“And leave the man who has shown me the true meaning of that Oath, and that Measure?” the squire had replied. “No, my lord, the only way I leave Garnet is if I follow you out. No sir, I refuse that order. Write it down on my record. I’m staying.”
Horn had been too overcome to reply. Now he looked at the young man, one of the few steadfast warriors in the town, and all he could think of was that his own stubbornness had condemned the youngster.
“What are the reports?” he asked.
“The goblin horde has been spotted on the King’s Road in the foothills,” Dyrnall reported. “Still displaying surprisingly good march discipline. Best estimates are that they will be heading down the west ridge within a matter of hours. If they desire haste, they might be able to fall upon the city before nightfall.”
“Then we had best take up positions on the wall. What are our numbers?”
“Some hundred knights remain, sir. Perhaps three or four times that many men of the city will stand watch. All have been directed to battle posts and will hasten there upon your signal.”
“Very well. It is not so bad. It could be worse. We will acquit ourselves. Summon my bugler, and sound the alarm.”
An hour later the raiders burst into view, several thousand of them blackening the summit of the low, rounded ridge that formed the eastern horizon when viewed from the town walls. They were about a mile away, standing shoulder to shoulder in silent menace.
“That big fellow there, in the middle. He’s the leader,” Horn said, studying the horde with a practiced eye. He indicated a massive, broad-shouldered warrior who swaggered out in front of the horde. The goblin chieftain wore a necklace of skulls, grisly trophies that rattled upon his chest when he walked. He held a massive spear in his hand, and for a moment he struck a pose, the haft of his weapon planted upon the ground as he glared down at the small, walled town nestled in its little hollow in the plains.
Abruptly, he raised the spear in a massive fist, whirling the weapon back and forth over his head. An eerie green light pulsed from that mighty spear, and when the glow washed over the men on the city ramparts their knees quaked, and their courage went sour in their mouths. A great roar rose from the horde, and the front rank of goblins surged forward. The next came behind, and soon the ground was teeming with them, a screaming, howling horde sweeping down toward the poorly defended town.
They reached the wall and the gate and barely slowed. Some goblins threw grapples over the parapet, while others formed crude ladders from posts and timbers scattered outside the walls. They swarmed up and over, striking down the few men who dared to stand against the tide. The attackers spread to the right and left, and within a few short minutes the outer wall was in their hands.
The great half giant stood at the city gate, smashing at it with his powerful fists, bashing the barrier down. Brandishing his glowing spear, he led a charge right down the main street of Garnet. Hundreds of savage, painted goblins, shrieking in bloodthirsty frenzy, thronged the street behind him.
Sir Mikel came down from the rampart and met the goblins at the head of the charge with his broadsword, killing the first two. The great half-giant loomed over him, lip curled in a sneer of contempt. The huge spear with the gleaming green tip thrust forward, and the knight made to parry, a forceful block with the hilt of his sword clutched in both hands.
But the thrust was a feint, and the hulking half-giant whipped the weapon around with startling speed. It was the haft of the weapon-a stick of wood as thick as a strong man’s forearm-that struck home, shattering Sir Mikel’s helmet into two pieces, crushing the man’s skull.
The knight died there, mercifully, for the suffering of his city lasted through the rest of the night.
“Great victory!” crowed Laka, pouring the contents of a bottle of red wine-a vintage that had been priced at more than fifty steel, just a few hours ago-into her mouth and down the front of her ragged tunic. The amulet of Hiddukel, the last shard of the green rock she had discovered so many years ago, glimmered almost with delight as the blood-red liquid spilled over it.
“Aye!” Ankhar crowed. He was leaning back on a feathered mattress in a wealthy merchant’s great manor. The merchant himself lay dead in the next room, while his wife and maidservants were locked in a nearby pantry. Even now, hours later, the half-giant could hear their terrified sobs. It was a very pleasant sound. He was in no hurry to kill them. Let them beg and weep for a while.
“Many treasures,” the chieftain reflected, looking at the array of gold and silver objects in the room-goblets, candlesticks, platters, and picture frames. “Food and drink for a whole year. If we want to stay here to eat.”
His foster mother tossed the half empty wine bottle across the room, where it shattered against a canvas portrait that apparently portrayed the dead man who lay with his brains crushed in the next room.
“Now it look like him!” she cackled, as the crimson liquid spattered the painting and slowly trickled toward the floor. Then her eyes narrowed thoughtfully, as she closed her bony fingers around the amulet of the Prince of Lies. “You say if we stay here, son,” she observed.
Ankhar was up, pacing around the great room, his thoughts tumbling through his mind with increasing potential, ambition, excitement. “Yes,” he replied. “This fun, great victory for my army-but it only first victory! Now we go across plains. Take what we want. Go where we please!”
“You want war with knights?” Laka asked, her own eyes flashing.
“I destroy knights!” Ankhar pledged.
He stared at the pulsing light, and he saw the Truth.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Not stay in sewer?” The Highbulp’s lower lip quivered in a dramatic pout. “We have feast and drunk! Lots of fun-women, too!”
Dram suppressed a shudder. “Sorry, but we have business with the gnomes.” He was not entirely exaggerating as he added, “We will always remember your help, though. You brought us right to the street we were looking for. Firesplasher Lane, you said, right?”
“Yep. Them Firesplashers all live here, you bet,” declared the Aghar proudly.
“We’ll go on ourselves from here,” Dram said.
“Fine by me. Humph,” sniffed the gully dwarf. “Gnome girls ugly! Gnome beer flat!”
Although Dram was inclined to agree, he knew that the standards of beauty and brewing among the Aghar were far worse. Even so, like the human, he had grown genuinely fond of the brave little fellow who had brought them through the maze of sewer tunnels unmolested, right to the short alley called Firesplasher Lane.