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.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Hey, you. Come here.” The speaker was a Knight of Solamnia, Order of the Rose-the first knight the travelers had seen in the small riverfront town where they had been trapped for a day.
“Me?” Jaymes asked. He was seated on the ground, mostly covered by his woolen cape as he leaned against the wall of a store. The rain was still coming down, and he along with the other members of his sodden little party were huddled together under the overhanging eave of the building.
“Yeah, you,” said the knight. “Come with me.” He was a young man, with a full shock of brown hair and a mustache trimmed neatly over the upper lip of a handsome, full-lipped mouth.
“What’s going on?” Dram asked the knight, blinking himself awake after being elbowed by the warrior.
“You’ll find out soon enough, dwarf. You, human-you heard me, come along. We don’t have a lot of time.”
With an indifferent shrug, and a glance at the dwarf, Jaymes pushed himself to his feet and ambled along after the knight, who led him around the building and along the muddy street toward the largest inn in the main square. “Wait in there,” the knight said, pointing toward the front door. “Tell them Sir Rene will be right there-I’m just going to make a swing past the sawmill.”
Upon entering, Jaymes found the great room crowded with men: burly farmers, a dozen lanky plainsmen in buckskin, a few well-muscled woodcutters and boatwrights. A half dozen knights were standing around or seated at a large table in the front of the room. None of them paid any particular attention to Jaymes, who, after a moment’s hesitation, walked up to the knights and said, “Sir Rene is coming soon-he’s going to the sawmill first.”