Laka scrambled through the dust, trying to pick up the precious gems, while Ankhar growled and paced in agitation. “Hurry!” he barked, but this only caused his stepmother to halt and glare wordlessly up at him. This being the opposite of the effect he was trying to provoke, the half-giant angrily held his tongue, turning his back on the old hob-witch so he was not tempted to strike her the blow she so richly deserved.
The Thorn Knight, Hoarst, lay on the ground where Ankhar had set him down. The wizard’s eyes were open, but he was pale. He had not spoken since his wounding in the sudden sneak attack. His gray robe still bore the stain of the blood, now dried, shed when the lord marshal’s bolt had pierced his chest. He had borne the wound, and the retreat from the city, without complaint, but now the Gray Robe seemed near death.
Ankhar looked at the mage with faint scorn. He was furious about the surprise attack and blamed the wizard for failing to defend himself and his commander. But something in Hoarst’s cold, cruel eyes prevented the half-giant from rebuking him.
The elemental king was moving ever closer. The magical creature had emerged from the rubble of the ruined West Gate, kicking through the mass of goblins there. Troops scattered in every direction, shrieking in terror. Each step taken by the king crushed more of them, while its gusting winds hurled soldier after soldier through the air. Ankhar had ordered a rank of pikemen to form up before his headquarters, hoping to buy time, but the commander could only watch in contempt as the troops dropped their unwieldy weapons and fled long before the conjured creature was upon them.
The giant elemental drew closer and closer, and for the first time in his life, Ankhar felt pure, abject terror. Every fiber of his being urged him to turn and run. With a sneer that bared both of his tusks, he took up his heavy, emerald-tipped spear, and cocked back his arm for one final throw. He would not die without at least a symbolic resistance.
Hoarst spat one word, a noise like a guttural curse, and abruptly disappeared.
Then the elemental king was there, towering overhead. Ankhar cast his spear, and the creature swatted it aside like a pesky gnat. One mighty fist smashed outward, the monster aiming directly at the half-giant. It had clearly singled out Ankhar for death.
“I cannot fix the box!” cackled Laka in frustration. She looked up, her thin lips parted in a sneering grin. “You must help! You must wield the wand!”
Ankhar looked again at the toothpick of wood, pinched between the forefinger and thumb of his right hand. Shaking to his toes, he lifted the little thing and pointed it at the approaching monster.
And, before the killing blow could land, the king of the elementals turned and strode away.
The elemental king felt the repulsion effect of the magic wand as a despised presence that, however intangible, could not be defeated. It flailed and roared but almost immediately redirected its frustration toward other targets it could hate. There were many creatures moving across the plains, thousands of mortals that were not protected by the unseen talisman. A mighty foot kicked through a column of Dark Knights, scattering riders and steeds high into the air. Screaming and thrashing, the doomed creatures tumbled back to earth, their broken bodies strewn, shattered upon the ground.
A group of hobgoblin archers took flight at the monster’s approach, and the king sent a tornado tearing through their ranks. Roaring with fresh freedom, the monster kicked through the rear ranks of the army. It felt unconstrained, released.
And the whole vast Plain of Solamnia was open before it.
The kender looked up at Jaymes, and even in the shadows of late afternoon, the lord marshal noted the rarity of tears in his eyes. Smoke swirled around them, but the worst of the battle was over, the noise muted. Soldiers moved about, counting the dead.
“She said I was a good pathfinder,” Moptop said plaintively.
He held the duchess Brianna’s head in his lap. An arrow jutted grotesquely from her neck. There was blood everywhere. “I should have looked out for her better!”
Jaymes knelt and reached to her neck, feeling for a pulse, even though the effects of that arrow were obvious and telling.
The Duchess of Solanthus was dead.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The body of the duchess was laid in state in the great hall of the ducal palace. Though Ankhar’s troops had been completely driven from the city, the shocked and shaken people of Solanthus couldn’t celebrate a victory. The troops of the garrison returned to their walls, and labored to build a defensive position across the bloody battleground of the West Gate. The rest of the populace gathered, quietly grieving, around the looming bulk of the Cleft Spires and across the plaza, the ducal palace.
Within that lofty structure, Lords Harbor and Martin took the lead in walking slowly, reverently, past the casket, while the other captains, nobles, and guildmasters of the city assembled in the anteroom. One by one, the others filed past to pay their last respects.
Duchess Brianna looked beautiful and at peace. Coils of copper hair surrounded her face and concealed the gruesome wound caused by the arrow that had taken her life. Her slender hands were folded on her stomach, her eyes closed as though she slumbered.
The penultimate person to go through that line was the professional guide and pathfinder extraordinaire who had cradled Duchess Brianna’s head as she breathed her last. The kender paused at the casket, standing on tiptoes so he could lean closer to the body. Moptop sniffled loudly, the tears flowing from his eyes unchecked.
“You didn’t deserve to get killed like that,” he said, gently touching her cold cheek. “You ought to have seen the battle won, and the fire giant chasing after Ankhar and everything. You would have been real happy about it. I… I’m sorry you didn’t,” he said.
The last person in the funeral line was Lord Marshal Jaymes Markham, commander of the Army of Solamnia. He, too, paused for a moment to look down at the still, beautiful features of the dead duchess. If her death caused him any heartache, any fury, or sense of injustice, he carefully concealed such emotions. He touched the fingers of her right hand then strode away as the priests of Kiri-Jolith came forward to close the casket and prepare for the funeral. She would be borne through the city to give the people a chance to say farewell and would be interred in the nobles’ vault beneath the northernmost of the Cleft Spires.
Jaymes made his way through the throng of officers to the two lords, who were standing on the front steps of the temple. The plaza was filled with people and was silent except for the sound of muffled sobbing.
“I need to leave the city,” Jaymes said to the two lords. “I intend to return, as soon as possible, with the army.”
“What if the elemental returns?” asked Harbor guardedly. “How will we stand against it without you?”
“We couldn’t stand against it this time,” Jaymes replied. “Perhaps you should pray to whichever gods you hold holy that it finds another target for its wrath. If it returns here again, there may be nothing we can do to stop it.”
“Surely Ankhar will send the elemental again,” said Lord Martin. He stared at the enemy army still massed beyond the city wall, tears in his eyes.
“We can only hope not,” Jaymes said. “It seems to me our attack against the Thorn Knight has weakened his hold upon the monster, somehow. For that, we have your son-and his noble sacrifice-to thank.”
“How long will you be gone?” asked Harbor.