“The Lady Coryn is very wise,” said the lord marshal, rising from his bunk. “Go to the corral; tell the squires that I order that my horse be saddled.”
“Oh, all right. The corral. That’s where all the horses are, right? Boy, that place really stank, you know? I rushed right past it, holding my nose. You would have thought that horses… well, they’re so pretty, that they wouldn’t smell so bad. You know what I mean?”
“Go!” said the man.
“Uh, wait-I forgot, you won’t need your horse,” the kender objected. He scratched his head. “I don’t know if we could take it even if you wanted to,” he added mysteriously.
“What do you mean?”
The kender produced two small bottles from a pouch somewhere in his tunic. “Here,” he said. “We’re each supposed to drink one of these, and hold hands, and-well, it’s a lot faster than horses and smells better too.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Ankhar, the Truth, strolled through the lines of his great army, wrestling with a sense of disquiet that loomed over him like a dark thundercloud. The half-giant’s problems seemed, on an almost daily basis, to be growing more and more insoluble.
It was not the loss of his company on the canyon wall to the explosive charges placed by his duplicitous enemy-indeed, if the Marshal of Solamnia had not tried some deadly payback scheme in spite of their truce, the half-giant would have been more surprised. The violence of the landslide had been an ingenious trap; the hulking commander admitted a grudging admiration for his enemy’s cold, calculating originality.
He even chuckled as he remembered the deadly cloud cast by the most able of his Thorn Knights, the wizard called Hoarst. That man was a frightening character, calm and unemotional even as he perpetrated mass murder. The poisonous cloud had been silent and utterly lethal, and it came as a complete surprise to the enemy. Hoarst and his companions had proven invaluable to Ankhar during the first years of his war against the Solamnics. The dark magic-user and his friends possessed many useful talents.
But there was one other adviser who was closer to Ankhar’s ear, and to his heart. Now it was to her, to Laka, the hobgoblin shaman who had rescued him as a babe from a cabin in the mountains, that the half-giant made his way. She would be in her tent, the shelter that had evolved into a kind of mobile temple during the course of the past two years. Two burly ogres stood guard outside the door, and they snapped to a semblance of attention, holding their great halberds upright as the army commander approached.
“Est Sudanus oth Nikkas,” said one, chanting the army motto.
“Aye. My power is my Truth,” the half-giant echoed, pleased.
“You are the Truth, lord,” pledged the other ogre.
Ankhar acknowledged the honorifics with a grunt. He was pleased to have his troops stand at “attention” and to offer him salutes. These innovations had been introduced to the horde by one of his most capable officers, Captain Blackgaard, formerly of Mina’s Dark Knights. Such civilized ideals of obedience and discipline could only make his fierce fighters more effective in battle.
Stepping through the open flap of the temple-tent, the half-giant blinked and allowed his eyes to adjust to the gloom. He was keenly aware of the smells-Laka’s smells, including the acrid stink of perspiration, the sweet musk of the oil she smeared through her hair, the perfumes and incense that she used in the myriad of confusing rites she performed, all of which were devoted to the greater glory of Hiddukel, Prince of Lies. Cinnamon and cloves sweetened the air, while in the background lurked an essence of something hinting at very old cheese.
Her voice, a cackling rasp, emerged from the shadows and as always, brought him comfort and hope.
“Ankhar, my bold son, you come to me with troubles weighing upon your shoulders.”
“Aye, Mother.” He could see inside the gloomy tent now and made out the twin green specks of fire that marked the eyes of Laka’s most potent talisman. She raised it high, a ghastly human skull set upon a shaft of ivory, and when she shook it, the luminous emeralds rattled around in their sockets, tumbling and blinking with power. The death’s-head was a trophy of Ankhar’s first great victory; it had formerly housed the brain of a captain of Garnet, the first city sacked by the half-giant’s war on Solamnia.
Gradually, the rest of the shaman came into view as she shuffled forward. Her skin was wrinkled and brown as old leather, a dark contrast to the gold chains that ringed her narrow throat and clinked noisily across her skinny chest. She wore the same ragged shirt of fur that had kept her warm through the snowy winters of the Garnet range, though the baubles of pearl and ruby on her fingers were proof that her circumstances had improved from those days as a scavenging nomadic barbarian. Two gold teeth sparkled brightly from her lower jaw, an ornamental touch that gave her great pride, but nevertheless struck in Ankhar a small note of unease every time he saw them.
“Tell me the cause of your worry,” she urged him, laying a clawlike hand upon his wrist. She squeezed with a grip like iron.
“It stands on the plains east of here; it taunts me with thick walls and high towers.”
“It is the city that the humans call Solanthus,” she replied evenly. “And it vexes you like a thorn in the paw of a mighty lion. It cripples you, so that you cannot march away from here, and yet it is shelled like a turtle so you cannot reach the soft meat within.”
Ankhar had not thought about it in exactly those terms, but he nodded in agreement. “Now the knights reclaim lands west of the river. My army needs a great victory, a triumph to give my warriors hope and show to the humans my power-my Truth.”
“Yes! You must take the city-destroy those walls, and slay all the humans who cower within. This is the victory you deserve. It is inevitable.”
“But-how?” he asked. “Every one of our attacks have been driven back. We cannot strike at men inside parapets. My warriors die by the hundreds in trying.”
“This is the question I will put forth in my dream,” Laka declared in a tone that bolstered Ankhar’s confidence considerably. “You go forth now, and make your army ready for a great battle. I will consult Hiddukel, and the Prince of Lies will show me the Truth.”
“We have captured three deserters. I suggest you summon the rest of your troops to witness their executions. It will be a valuable lesson to other cowardly souls.” The speaker wore dark armor and a metal helm of the same color, with a breastplate that barely showed the faded outline of a black rose. He spoke to the half-giant with supreme confidence.
Captain Blackgaard, as usual, was making a lot of sense. Ankhar thought about the proposed executions for just a moment and nodded. “Do this. Are these deserters goblins?”
“Two are gobs. I regret to inform you that one is a human, a former Dark Knight who has disgraced the legacy of his company and his officers. All of my men will be punished for his transgression. And I request, my lord, that the manner of these executions be such that it will create a vivid impression in the minds of those who view the punishment.”
“Yes, they should leave an impression,” the half-giant admitted. “How will you kill them?”
“I would like to have each deserter, in turn, rent by four powerful ogres, one pulling upon each of the wretch’s limbs. The victim will be crippled beyond recovery and then will be left to lie in the sun until he succumbs to his shame… and his pain.”
Blackgaard and Ankhar were meeting on a low hill that lay on the outer fringe of the horde’s vast encampment. From here they could see a column of troops marching toward them from the north, the last detachment of the ogre brigade that had guarded the crossings of the Vingaard on the northern plains. They had been two hundred miles away when Ankhar gave the orders for the grand assembly, and thus, it had taken them nearly a week to reach the main force.