“Yep!” declared the tusked warrior, beaming. “We kilt a bunch of his knights too, but we thought you’d want th’ duke’s head.”
“Treasure it,” declared the half-giant. “See head of duke!” he roared to his fighters, holding it up and showing it around. “This fate of enemies of Ankhar!”
Dirtborn bowed deeply, shivering in delight.
“What about duke’s treasure? Spy told me it on that wagon. You got it for me?”
For the first time, the hob looked crestfallen, even a little fearful. “Sad to say, lord, there was no treasure when we reached the duke. It was taken by another man-we saw him pour it into a magic bag.”
“Who this man?” demanded Ankhar, glowering.
“I do not know, lord. He had a sword that blazed with a blue flame.” The sub-chieftain was about to say more but abruptly looked down, clearing his throat with a low growl. “And… well…”
“Speak truth to me! You bring me head. Now tell me what happened!”
“Lord, it was this man with the fire sword who first struck the duke, not us. He did not kill the duke but crippled him so that we could take him after we slew all the knights of his guard.”
“Very well. I glad you tell me this Truth.”
Ankhar hefted the head, which fit easily into his palm. The duke’s thin mustache was frozen in a curl that might have been disdain or amusement. The half-giant was about to call for his foster mother to admire this trophy when he heard her dry cackle close behind him. He turned and offered the head, which she snatched up eagerly and mounted on the stick rattle-she must have been expecting this prize, for she had already discarded the skull she had carried since the sacking of Garnet.
Still cackling, Laka shook the head on its stick. Ankhar watched, saw the green glow come into those eyes. He was not surprised when the jaw started to move, the words a croak and hiss.
“Walls too tall and gates too thick,
“Will break an army’s will,
“Seek the softer target hence,
“In greener pastures kill.”
The half-giant looked toward the stout, tall walls of Solanthus. The city was still defended by many knights, he knew-and now there was little treasure and no lord, within those walls. Certainly an attack against that place would entail considerable risk, and there was little to be gained by wasting his army.
Nodding to himself, Ankhar made his decision.
“Rib-Chewer!” He summoned his reliable goblin scout.
“Yes, lord?”
“We will leave Solanthus. Great treasure no longer here.”
“What are your orders, lord?”
“Riders charge walls-make great charge. Humans cower, scared of you and your wars. Rest of army march away.”
“It shall be as you command, lord. What, then, after the army has marched away?”
“You follow me. We go to Thelgaard. Remember: Est Sudanus oth Nikkas.”
“Aye, lord,” said the goblin with a cackling laugh. “Your power is your Truth!”
“Guards! Come quickly!” shrieked Duke Crawford, bursting from his bedroom wearing only his dressing gown. Dawn was a pale fluff in the eastern sky. Most of the castle was dark and quiet.
“Help!”
Immediately, Sir Marckus, who was rarely far from his master’s side, burst into the ducal apartments. “What is it, my lord?” demanded the knight captain, his eyes widening as he saw the blood on Crawford’s garments. “Are you hurt?”
“Not me!” cried the duke, “but the Assassin was here-Lady Martha has been slain!”
Marckus went into the sleeping chamber, his sword in his hand. His eyes widened in horror at the sight of the duchess, her throat slit, lying in bed and staring sightlessly at the ceiling. Her face was locked in a death-mask of shock.
The captain turned around, once again regarding the blood-spattered duke. “Tell me, what happened, lord?” he asked soberly. “When was she killed?”
“Moments ago, I should think,” the duke said. “I was strolling on the balcony, taking the morning sun. I went over to the main keep, and that’s when the wretched villain must have acted. I returned to see someone in a black cloak running along the parapet, in the other direction. He had a sword in his hand-a sword that was burning with blue flames! It can only have been the Assassin!”
“What is it?” Captain Reynaud, buckling on his sword, came charging in. “What happened?”
The duke repeated his story, his voice growing more steady as he recited the same horrifying tale.
“Oh, Marckus-Reynaud! It’s too horrible!”
“Indeed, lord, quite tragic and shocking. Won’t you have a seat?” The senior captain ushered his lord to one of the padded chairs in the royal anteroom. Other guards, drawn by the commotion, came in now, and Marckus sent one of them to get some wine for the duke. Reynaud organized a search, dispatching knights in teams of two to comb the castle, the nearby passages, the courtyards, and even niches in the moats below.
Others were sent to search the surrounding streets, the buildings and temples nearby, all told to seek a man with a large sword wearing a black cloak. Marckus pressed the duke for more details, but Crawford admitted he hadn’t even seen enough to be certain even that the killer was male, not female. Only one thing was he sure of: The sword had burned with an enchanted blue flame.
Servants helped the duke change from his bloody garments. Others carefully wrapped the body of the duchess, and hauled the corpse away with as much dignity as they could muster.
In the midst of al this activity Marckus stood at the doorway to the balcony. His eyes roamed along the clean flagstones, seeking some trace of blood, but there was nothing, no signs or clues. Nor did there seem to be any singeing or charring, not even on the bedding where Lady Martha had been struck by the burning blade.
Instead, the captain found his eyes drawn back to his master. The duke, taking a sip of wine, seemed calmer now.
Indeed, he almost looked pleased about something.
CHAPTER TWENTY — NINE
Thelgaard-the duke himself and his army was hard pressed. That much was obvious to Jaymes immediately as he released the ring of teleportation for the last time. He had brought himself to one of the high ramparts of the castle that rose in the heart of that once-thriving city. He found himself alone upon the dark wall and could spot no guards on any of the adjacent ramparts. There were no weapons stockpiles, nor watchfires set-in short, nothing indicated this ancient fortress was ready for war.
Yet war was coming to Thelgaard.
It was night, and the swordsman could see thousands of campfires spread nearby across the plains. Ankhar’s army had come and laid siege to the duke’s city. When Jaymes considered the size of the enemy force he had seen at Mason’s Ford, he realized the horde had grown considerably, tripling in size since that battle four months earlier. Now the army’s fires were like a thousand constellations across the plains, tiny starlike specks flickering in the blackness of the night.
In contrast, the city seemed bleak and deserted. The city gates along the King’s Road leading out of the city were shut, but at first glance Jaymes couldn’t spot any guards. As he looked more carefully, he saw a half dozen men slouched in the shadows on the parapets, hardly enough to demonstrate a defense, let alone stop a determined attack. They looked more like stealthy bandits or starving beggars than bold knights in the service of an ancient order.
Across the sprawl of the city a few chimneys emitted puffs of smoke, but the narrow and winding streets of Thelgaard were quiet. A few people scuttled quickly from one place to the next, but there was no raucous activity, no inns doing bustling business, no merchants or craftsmen laboring late into the night.
No streetlights burned, either. Jaymes wondered, at first, if this was because the oil was being conserved for battle, but even on the ramparts, the platforms where catapults and ballistae should have been positioned were bare. Nor did he see any cauldrons filled with oil and left to heat in preparation for a battle.