“What about the other man, Sir Dupuy? Are you sure he’s dead?”
“Both of them ought to be dead, by Joli-there’s no way anyone could survive that fall!” said the captain in disgust and frustration. “But the Sword of Lorimar is missing from my saddlebag! So far we haven’t been able to get a clear look at that part of the river directly below us-the overhang juts out too far!”
“Well, get someone down there to check!” ordered Selinda.
“Perhaps we should lose our lives too? Haven’t you noticed the raging river with all the jagged rocks at the bottom?” The captain’s tone was furious, his eyes bulging in his head. The young princess suddenly understood the depth of his emotions: not just anger at the escape of a prisoner but humiliation for his own failure, and grief for the loss of a good man. “I’ve sent some men down the road-that they might get a look from the next bend.”
The princess bit her lip, turning away. She drew a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “Yes-I see the danger, and I should have realized you would have acted at once if things were otherwise. The man who died-who was he? It seems strange that he was involved.”
“Yes, that’s a little strange,” Powell admitted. “He belongs to my order, yet I’ve never made his acquaintance before. I asked some of the other men-you know, family details, that sort of thing-and none of them claim to know him either.”
“Is that so unusual? The Rose is a large order, is it not?”
“Yes, of course. There are chapters all across Solamnia, even on Ergoth and points west. But the man had a Palanthian accent, which is home to most of the men in this company, and we have all served together or trained in Sanction at some time or other in the past decade. It seems odd he could be a stranger to us all.”
“Sir!” called a knight, riding up the trail as quickly as safety would allow. “We got a good look at the river. There is a body down there, wearing the tunic of the Rose. Sadly, it would seem to be Sir Dupuy.”
“Just one body?” demanded Powell.
“Aye, sir. Just the one we spotted. But… sir!”
“What is it, man? Speak!”
“I did see the prisoner flying, sir. Pardon me for saying so, but I swear this on the Oath and the Measure. He was carrying that great long sword and soaring down the gorge like an eagle, heading back toward the east. I may be going mad, Sir, but that’s what my eyes told me I saw.”
“Very well, then.” Powell declared crisply. “Who else supposedly saw the prisoner flying?”
Several more knights spoke up sheepishly, all of them claiming to have witnessed the impossible. Several added that they saw two flying figures, one of whom resembled a dwarf.
“Flying dwarves, now?” the captain groaned. “By Joli, what next?” He turned away, rode a little way up the widening road as Selinda spurred her horse to his side.
“Do you believe such lies? How can it be possible that the Assassin flew away from here?”
“You heard them. Either they’re all lying, or bewitched by some kind of illusion magic. They saw a dwarf, too-maybe that dwarf we allowed to escape. Well, obviously there’s some kind of sorcery at work-but from what source and how he worked these wonders I have no idea.” Suddenly Powell smashed his fist into the rocky hillside above the road. Trembling with rage, he had to turn away from Selinda and compose himself. If I had let the prisoner be executed as was proper, he thought, this wouldn’t have happened.
The princess, understanding his shame, hung her head.
“I’m sorry,” she said again. “This is my fault.”
He turned back, his expression stiff and controlled as usual. “No,” he said. “The responsibility lies with me, and I will tell your father that.”
“What about pursuing him, er, or them?” she asked hesitantly. “Not that we can fly after him, of course.”
“I have already dispatched fifty men to the east,” Powell said, pointing down the road they had traversed this morning, the treacherous way back to the plains. “They are riding as fast as they dare, and will disperse to scout the area when they reach the flatlands. They are pledged to search for the villain, as long as it takes, but I doubt they have much chance of success-even fleet horses can’t fly! But we must make a commendable effort.”
“Perhaps we should all go after him?” Selinda suggested.
She shut her mouth and stepped back as she saw the flush of rage once again start to color the captain’s features.
“No, princess,” he declared in a deep, powerful voice. “The rest of the company is the minimum necessary to properly protect you. We must stay together now, and we must make haste to get you safely back into your father’s palace, where you belong.”
The mountain fortress rose against the backdrop of the looming Garnet Range. Draconions lined the walls and the gate, glaring in a mixture of suspicion and fear at the horde that had appeared with the dawn on their very doorstep. The stronghold bristled with spears and swords clutched in clawed talons, with rustling leather wings quivering in agitation. The scaly, fanged defenders hissed and growled along every battlement.
The many thousands of goblins and hobgoblins, arrayed in battle order, with regiments of growling worgs and poised riders on both flanks, made an impressive threat. The ranks of human soldiers were also neat, tight, seemingly prepared to advance at the word of their commander. The Dark Knights formed a broad front, their great steeds snorting and ready, lances upraised. The massive horses stood beside their monstrous comrades, steady as steel.
Fresh from the sacking of wealthy, abandoned Luinstat, the warriors of Ankhar’s horde were spoiling for a fresh fight. They roared ugly challenges, banged their spears against their shields, stomped their feet, and raised a din that easily overwhelmed the sibilant taunting of the draconian defenders of the stronghold.
Ankhar swaggered forward out of the front ranks of his army, one brawny fist braced upon his hip while the other clenched his spear, waving the glowing tip back and forth over his head. He raised the weapon as high as he could, and his glare swept the battlements, seeking the draconian clad in the most gold.
The half-giant finally fixed his eyes upon that one-an aurak naturally-and his voice bellowed across the valley.
“Let me in! I talk with master, Cornellus the Strong!”
“Go away!” barked the aurak. “He doesn’t want to see you.”
Ankhar flexed his massive fists. He eyed the gate, pretty certain he could bash it down personally, with just a few strong punches. The thousands of gobs and hobs arrayed behind him would swarm over this place within minutes. His troops outnumbered the defenders three or four to one.
However, he had learned a few things about leadership during the course of this summer’s campaign-and he had not come here to shed the blood of a lot of draconians or to lose more of his own troops. He turned his tusked face upwards, allowed a bland, unthreatening expression to fall across his features. He lowered the spear, and the green light faded- almost completely-from view in the bright afternoon sun.
“You ask mighty Cornellus again,” the half-giant said calmly. “Tell him Ankhar, Speaker of the Truth, seeks audience with great Cornellus. Want to discuss something of profit and power for both.”
The aurak bristled, his great wings flaring from his shoulders. His taloned forepaws, clutching the sharpened timbers at the top of the wall, dug into the wood. He was anxious to fight, but with a conscious effort he considered Ankhar’s words.
“We can always fight later, if that what your master want,” prodded the half-giant Ankhar cheerfully. “We kill you by night or all day-whichever you want. Right now, we talk. Go tell lord.”
“Very well,” the big draconian said, finally. His wings buzzed audibly, but he nodded his head in a token, albeit a minimal gesture, of respect. “I will go and inform Cornellus.”
An hour later, the hulking half-giant and the obese ogre were seated together in the great hall. The place was charred and smelled of soot, and several holes were burned through its thatched roof, but it was still a large chamber swirling with the motion of many attendants.