Lord Lorimar had erected his manor in the shadow of this bridge on the north bank of the great river, and the ruins of that once-splendid house could be glimpsed from the crossing. The duke felt his eyes drawn to the charred site, even as he shuddered in horror. Dara Lorimar had been such a beautiful woman… what a shame she had to die that way.
More relevant to Crawford’s immediate future-and a relief to his distracted mind-was the spectacle of the great army, more than ten thousand men encamped along the south bank. The men exploded with cheers as their lord rolled through the vast tent city.
The next day the duke led his entire army across the bridge, which was nearly a quarter mile long. At the north end, where the road started across the vast plain, he climbed one of the two watchtowers, and relished the sight of his great army flowing over the gleaming span, and forming into neatly organized columns on the north side of the river.
The Garnet River was not as great a waterway as the mighty Vingaard, which lay to the north and drained the vast swath of the plains through the port of Kalaman into the northern ocean. But the Garnet was still deep and fast-moving and bore snowmelt and rainwater from the mountains of the same name through the fertile bottomlands of Caergoth into the Strait of Ergoth. Marshy banks kept the troops away from the river’s edge. Like the road itself, the bridge was paved in granite slabs, and stood as proof of the greatness of the Solamnics.
First across were the knights of the Ducal Guard on their uniformly colored horses. Next came the ranks of pikemen marching in crisp formation, the silver tips of their tall weapons glimmering like a field of diamonds. This column alone stretched more than a mile long. The pikemen were followed by legions of men armed with sword and shield, with more long ranks of those carrying crossbows. Finally the catapults and ballistae rumbled along, the great war machines pulled by straining oxen-even those ponderous beasts had been combed and brushed to a sheen, their tack polished and buckles shined to a dazzling brilliance.
Duke Crawford stood atop the bridge tower and watched the mighty column as it marched past. He allowed himself a moment of pride, reflecting that no force on all of Krynn could stand against his multitude on the battlefield. His captains saluted him, their horses prancing with heads held high. Trumpeters brayed, and festive banners and pennants snapped in the breeze.
In all, the column was more than ten miles long, each detachment formed of men loyal to him, sworn to the Oath and the Measure. They had come from Sancrist, Sanction, and Palanthas, from even farther outposts across the continent of Ansalon, but they would obey his orders alone. Every polished piece of equipment, each steel blade and razor-edged arrowhead, had been provided for such cause as he deemed right and proper. His great power almost made him swoon in his saddle.
“Why the glum face?” the duke asked Captain Marckus, who stood in the position of top honor on Crawford’s right. “Does it not look like a splendid army?”
“Aye, lord. There is no more splendid looking army. Please forgive my melancholy-I was but reflecting that the late duchess would have been delighted by the pageantry.”
“Ah, yes, the Lady Martha was always one to relish a display,” the duke allowed, grimacing. Marckus was always reminding him of the last thing he wanted to remember. As a practical man, he had come to see the death of his wife-distasteful as the whole affair had been-as a blessing. Now he was free to seek a truly worthy wife!
His mind wandered to the Princess Selinda. He recalled the golden sheen of her hair, the breathtaking swell of her breasts beneath her velvet gown. Now that was a woman who would make a proper wife! Not only that-by virtue of her own rank, she could raise a duke to the status of a king. The duke imagined Selinda’s certain delight when he communicated to her, hopefully in person, news of the great victory he was about to win. He wished she could be there to welcome him when he returned, victorious, from the field of battle-what a perfect moment!
Now, as the duke stood on the tower and watched, it took more than three hours for his army to make the crossing. In fact, he stepped back from the brink several times for refreshment, and once even enjoyed a short nap under the shade of a hand-held awning. When he awoke, his troops were still marching past! They gave a hearty cheer as he again appeared at the battlement and offered them an encouraging wave.
Impatient at last, he climbed down the many steps from the tower, mounted his charger, and started to ride away. He passed uncomfortably close to the ruined manor of Lord Lorimar-the blackened, burned structure seemed to stare ominously at him. He spurred his horse forward, cantered along the side of the great column as it advanced northward. He knew that he cut a dashing figure as he rode his stallion, trailed by a dozen or so men of his entourage.
Caergoth was going to war! He felt a twinge of nervousness, suddenly conscious that this was real war. The news from the east was dire. The horde of Ankhar had sacked Thelgaard. Solanthus was isolated, the duke slain. Crown and Sword had been humbled by a mere barbarian chieftain. It was time for the Knights of the Rose to set matters right. The Lord of that order, Duke Crawford of Caergoth, was just the man to command the forces of good.
The excitement of the march diminished considerably in the following days as they steadily moved northward along the road. One the second day the Garnet Mountains rose into view on the eastern horizon, but the force passed only within a dozen miles of the outlying foothills.
The great body of the infantry, the foot soldiers who were the backbone of this and every other army, plodded along stolidly in the center of the great formation. The individual units were spread out in a fan-like pattern so they could respond to a threat from either flank. A strong screen of heavy cavalry brought up the rear. The baggage train and war machines were in the middle of the infantry columns, securely protected against threat from any side.
Caergoth’s outriders, his light cavalry, swept the plains ahead of his army. Soon reports began to arrive, and they were exactly as the duke had anticipated: The horde of Ankhar was heading south to meet them. The enemy, too, was closing his ranks, massing his great army into a single phalanx.
The army of Caergoth slowed as it continued north. No longer was the army spread along a ten-mile stretch of the road. Now they marched in block formations, covering a half-mile frontage. Only a small portion of the army could actually use the paved roadway. At least the catapults and other war machines, as well as the wagon trains hauling supplies, ammunition, and everything from portable smithies to huge stocks of coal, could still roll along the highway dating back to the days of the Empire.
It was when they passed the border of Southlund that they began to smell the nearby Garnet Mountains. The ruin of the city of Garnet, scene of Ankhar’s first conquest, appeared like a blackened scar, and the troops grew quiet, deadly serious, as they marched past. It was only a few miles north of the devastated fortress-city and a similar distance west of the mountains that they finally got scouting reports of the army of Ankhar.
The outriders rode as close as they could, though they were driven back by sweeping charges of goblins on their worg mounts. The light cavalry of the knights exchanged battle with these lupine riders in a number of sharp skirmishes, with neither side prevailing. The duke knew his horsemen were feeling the size of the enemy, gathering information on its dispositions, its line of march, and its order of battle.
There were whole regiments of battle-hardened hobgoblins, huge swaths of ground covered by the winged draconians, and more and more goblins spilling down from the mountains.