DW01 Dragonspawn

by Mark Acres

  “The Golden Eggs of Parona are worth at least several hundreds of thousands of crowns. But only if one could sell them. Of course, they could be melted down, and the gemstones pried out, and so on. But that would reduce the value by more than half. How can you sell something that the entire world will know is stolen?”

  “What I do with the Golden Eggs once you have stolen them is my affair and mine alone,” Shulana said.

  “Show me the money you will pay me, then,” Bagsby demanded.

  “I cannot. You have not yet said how much your services would cost.”

  “Let’s say, just for sake of argument, two hundred thousand crowns.”

  “I agree to your price.”

  “Show me the money.”

  “I cannot,” Shulana said honestly.

  “Of course you can’t, because you don’t have it,” Bagsby crowed.

  “You are correct,” Shulana said, nodding.

  “What! You admit it?”

  “Of course. What would be the point of denying it? Most of the kings of the human world could not raise two hundred thousand gold crowns in cash. I certainly cannot.”

  “So your offer is a fraud.”

  “No. If you succeed, the Elven Council will present to you its entire treasure, which is easily worth the amount you demand,” Shulana said. In fact, this was the truth. Despite the reports of their own seers, which seemed to favor Bagsby, the Elven Council had agreed that, if Shulana could engage a thief who actually did procure and turn over to them the Golden Eggs, the entire treasure of the council could be given as payment to that thief. This they did because in their hearts they did not believe the thing could be done. Even then, they were in no danger of losing their treasure, for Shulana had no intention of allowing Bagsby to live once his task was completed.

  “Even if that were true, and I don’t think it is,” Bagsby said, “why should I even think about accepting such a contract? The eggs are more closely guarded than the lives of kings.”

  “Because,” Shulana said patiently, “the Golden Eggs have been purchased from the King of Parona by the Black Prince of Heilesheim. Even now they are being transported from Parona in the north to Heilesheim in the south. The route of the transport passes through this city.”

  Bagsby sat down on the edge of the bed, hardly daring to believe what the elf said. If it were true, if it were true, such a theft just might be possible.

  “How many troops?” Bagsby demanded quickly.

  “An escort of five hundred men guards the treasure. These were furnished by Heilesheim.”

  “Well”—Bagsby shrugged—“maybe, there might be some way....”

  Shulana smiled. Despite Bagsby’s better judgment, she had him hooked, and she knew it.

  Preparations

  THE SUN was not yet up when fat Marta awoke, her slumber broken by the clamor and clanking on the far bank of the river. With an angry grunt she threw back the thick quilts and hoisted her bulk from the fine goose feather mattress. Two short shivering steps brought her to the wooden shutters of the bedroom window. She threw them open and stared into the night, her anger rising as goose bumps crept along her cold flesh. Strangers across the river—a lot of them by the sound of it. And, that worthless, lazy, skinny dullard she’d married had let the bedroom fire burn out as well.

  “Albert!” she squawked. “Wake up, you lout! The fire’s cold, and there’s a large party at the river ford.” Without waiting for Albert’s response, Marta opened her large oak wardrobe and drew out a heavy woolen shawl. Tossing it about her shoulders atop her thick blue sleeping-gown, she stooped, grabbed the fire irons, and began a futile effort to poke life from the dead embers. “I said, wake up, you slothful nobody!” she shouted, sharply stirring the crumbling, burned logs.

  Albert, who had awakened at her first call, gave a dull grunt in response. “Go back to bed, cow,” he muttered, pulling the covers up tightly about his head. As the commander of the Count of Dunsford’s Yeoman Border Guards at Shallowford and the highest official in that tiny village, Albert owed loyalty and obedience to the count. He neither deserved nor took lightly the abuse of his spouse, who enjoyed—thanks to his industriousness, bootlicking, and embezzling—this fine wooden house, a man- and maidservant, and a status far above that to which she was born. So, Albert thought, let the old cow bellow. He’d sleep till sunup, and if her ass was cold, she could make the fire herself.

  “Are you deaf?” Marta screeched. “Can’t you hear that clatter across the river? There must a hundred or more men over there—and you’d better see what it’s about. I don’t intend to have you lose the position I’ve worked so hard to get you into just because you’re too lazy to roust yourself out of that soft bed.” Having failed to find life in the ashes, Marta turned the irons and her attention to the blankets under which her husband’s legs were curled. Three sharp whacks brought him howling to his feet, hopping first on one foot, then the other. As he continued his dance of pain, he massaged the spots on his shins where bruises were already forming.

  “You cursed old swine,” he shouted. “What devil has seized your brain to treat me thus in the middle of the night?” Albert gave up his dance and flopped over backward atop the bed, drawing up his legs and rubbing both shins at once. “You might have broken—”

  His whining was cut short by the sound of a loud shout in the distance—a shout that clearly came from a huge number of men.

  “Great gods of Dunsford, Marta, what is that?” Albert exclaimed, forgetting his pain and sitting bolt upright.

  “I’ve been telling you—there’s a great crowd down there across the river,” Marta said, looking at him with a sort of fondness. Once awake, he was still a handsome rogue, she thought, even if he did owe every achievement of his life to her nagging. “Go on, see what the matter is. Do your duty, and I’ll be waiting here when you get back. If you don’t vex me further, I’ll see you have breakfast on your return.”

  Albert rummaged through the wardrobe until he found his favorite pair of warm, purple velvet breeches. He pulled these on quickly, along with a clean white linen shirt. With Marta’s help and much grunting and straining, he managed to squeeze his gouty feet into his fine, shiny black boots. From the table by his bedside he lifted the gold necklace that bore his seal of office and placed it around his neck. Marta brought him his best thick woolen cloak and fastened it by the gold clasp that bore the count’s emblem.

  “Get that breakfast ready,” Albert grumbled as he strode down the stairs of his fine house. His steps clicked sharply on the cobblestones of the village’s one paved street as he stomped his way to the shack that served as a border station by the river ford. No doubt this was some bunch of deuced nonsense, he thought. Probably some hunting party on the Heilesheim side of the river, with a dozen drunken lords and their attendants, raising a ruckus, rousing his wife, and dragging him out of bed in the wee hours of the morning for absolutely nothing.

  Albert heard the splash of hoofs in the shallow water as his own steps brought him nearer the water’s edge and the border guards’ shack. His eyes were barely adjusted to the darkness; it took him several seconds to see the corpse of old Athelston lying on its back with a crossbow bolt sticking straight up from its chest.

  “What, ho!” Albert shouted, suddenly alarmed. He whirled to face the ford and saw the first of several horses coming toward him, now at fun gallop.

  “In the name of the Count of Dunsford, halt and say who goes there!” Albert called at the onrushing form. His eyes grew wide with terror as the moon passed from behind a cloud and its white light glinted off the flawless, polished armor of fully armed knight, charging directly at him. The warrior’s left hand loosely gripped the reins of his lumbering, barded horse; his right held the haft of a great morning star, a ball of iron with protruding spikes that whirled in the air at the end of a length of chain. Emblazoned on the man’s white tunic
was the form of a great black lizard with wings, the Dragon of Heilesheim, as the Black Prince was wont to call it.

  Duty conquered fear in Albert’s brain long enough for him to scream out, “To arms! To arms!”

  “The sport begins!” came the answering cry from the charging form, whose steed closed the gap to the river shore. The whirling morning star struck Albert square in the face with such force the shouting man’s head was ripped from his body, impaled on the swinging ball.

  “Hah!” The knight laughed aloud, swinging his gruesome trophy for the following horde to see. He reared his horse up on its hind legs, pointing with the morning star toward the hapless village, where, the few burghers and several dozen families of peasants were just rousing from their slumbers, wakened by Albert’s call. “Death and flames,” the knight cried. “Put it to the torch and slaughter all!”

  With a great shout, a dozen mounted knights charged down the cobblestoned street, followed by more than a hundred men-at-arms on foot. The knights clustered about the three finer houses, breaking down the doors and entering to kill and pillage. The foot soldiers contented themselves with setting fire to the more than two dozen thatched huts that housed the village’s peasantry and practicing their archery as the hapless occupants staggered into the fire-lit, smokey streets.

  The knight who had slain Albert laughed as he watched the scene of blood and chaos. Tossing his weapon with its grisly trophy to the ground, he raised his beaver and then lifted off the great helm, decorated with spread dragon wings of thin gold-plated steel. This he handed to the young squire who had come to stand at attention beside his mount.

  “My lord,” an ancient voice called from the river ford, “is the battle already won?” The touch of irony in the question was lost on the young man, who laughed aloud again as two of his foot soldiers stamped to death a young peasant who had tried to flee down the village street.

  “Come, Valdaimon, see how easily we tread on old Dunsford’s lands and what sport we have!” the youth called.

  “My lord is in good spirits after his victory, I see,” Valdaimon commented, carefully threading his way across the last portion of the ford and stepping gingerly onto the riverbank beside the leader’s mount. “An easy victory. May all your battles be won so easily, Black Prince.”

  The young man turned and looked down at the old wizard who had tutored him through his youth, carefully teaching him the fine arts of government, war, and refined cruelty. “Don’t patronize me, old man,” the Black Prince snapped. His dark eyes blazed with a cold fire, and his long black hair snapped in the dawn breeze as he tossed his head arrogantly. “This was no battle, and you know it. Killing helpless peasants is mere sport. I was testing my men for their hardness, nothing more.”

  “As you say, my lord,” the old man replied calmly. “In any event, a clear signal to Dunsford that he has little choice but to accommodate your larger designs.” The old wizard leaned on the great staff that towered over his head. A smile creased his leathery, narrow, hideously wrinkled face, revealing the gaps between his few remaining teeth. The Black Prince wondered if the old man was smiling at the ease with which the village was sacked, at the continuing cruelties visible in the village streets, or at the fact that he had positioned himself upwind of his ward and the stench of his filthy body was causing the young man’s nostrils to flare in disgust.

  “Back off, Valdaimon,” the prince ordered. “The stink of your potions and filth offends our person.”

  “May my lord’s enemies be so offended soon,” Valdaimon replied, lifting his staff and slowly hobbling back toward the ford. “There is no need for me here. I will await your presence and your pleasure at your palace. No doubt we shall talk tonight.”

  “No doubt,” the prince called after the old man. Someday, he thought, someday he would no longer need the meddling old crocodile’s counsel. Then he would be rid of his stinking carcass once and for all. But until that time, Valdaimon would be safe. His wisdom and his magic were both necessary for the great plan that was hatching in the prince’s mind.

  “Lord!” a knight called, galloping up with a fat, screaming wench in tow by her hair. “This is the last—I saved her for you to slay yourself.”

  The knight released his grip on the woman’s hair, and fat Marta flopped to the ground. Her blue nightclothes were a mass of filth and blood, and she trembled and wept for the fate of her village, her home, and her life. Then she spied the head impaled on the morning star that lay in the mud beside her and shrieked her grief to the uncaring heavens.

  “Hmmm,” the Black Prince grunted. “This must be the wife of the leader of this village. I’ve a good idea. We’ll spare this fat pig to do our will elsewhere. Bring me a torch and hand me your shield.”

  Puzzled the knight grabbed a torch from a passing man-at-arms and handed it to the Black Prince. Then he removed his great shield, with the sign of the dragon raised in metal upon it.

  Laughing, the prince put the torch to the front of the shield, heating the dragon form until it glowed a dull red.

  “Bring that fat wench here and bare her back,” he commanded.

  The knight dismounted and grabbed fat Marta under both her arms. He slung her against the side of his horse, and with his dagger, ripped down the back of what was left of her nightdress. The Black Prince dismounted and stood behind Marta.

  “What is your name, wench?” he bellowed.

  “Marta, Marta, wife of Albert, the highman of this village, whom you have slain,” Marta answered, hatred in her voice despite her tears.

  “Well, Marta, I’m going to let you live,” the prince said grandly. “I want you to go to Dunsford and tell him all that has happened here. Tell him that what happened here will happen to his entire realm unless he gives fealty to me and complies with my wishes in every regard. Do you understand?”

  Marta nodded her head against the sweaty flanks of the knight’s horse. There was no point in fighting now—she would live to oppose this young bastard devil’s son another day.

  “Good,” the Black Prince said. “And now, just so old Dunsford will know that everything that is his is now mine...” The young man pressed the red-hot front of the shield against the flesh of Marta’s back, branding her like an animal with the dragon insignia. Marta screamed and fainted.

  The Black Prince tossed the shield to the ground and remounted his horse. “Leave her,” he ordered. “Reform the men and return the bulk, leaving a small guard. Send a bridge party here at once. I’d have a bridge built here in two days’ time.”

  “Yes, sire,” the knight replied.

  Laughing again with his high-pitched, whining laugh, the Black Prince rode off across the ford. Today was going to be a very busy day. He was glad it had started so well.

  Baron Manfred Culdus whirled around, his face contorted with rage, and hurled his dagger full force at the form of the wizard who had just materialized behind him and called his name.

  “Curse you, Valdaimon!” he shouted. “Leave your wizard’s tricks behind when you come calling on me. Knock on my door like any normal man.”

  Valdaimon casually turned his head as the dagger passed harmlessly through his shriveled body. He watched with feigned interest as the deadly missile flew on across the large, octagonal room to impale itself in a thick wooden beam next to the heavy, ten-foot-high door. “Accurate, as always,” he commented. “But, Baron, futile rage hardly becomes a military leader. You must learn self-control. Besides, your door is much too heavy for one of my frail strength to open, and to knock would have torn you away from your studies.” With a grand gesture, Valdaimon indicated the huge oak table on which were unfurled more than a score of parchment maps.

  Culdus snorted. “I don’t like you, wizard,” he said plainly. He drew himself up to his full height of six feet three inches. Clad as he was in his chain mail and battle tunic, with a great bastard sword strapped to his sid
e, his great helm and mailed gloves lying beside him on the pile of maps, the baron cut an impressive figure, even at the age of forty-eight. “I don’t like your magic or your ways or that stench that hangs about you like a cloud. I don’t even know what you really are.”

  “All true, Baron,” Valdaimon said, smiling and chuckling. “All true.” Valdaimon fully appreciated the lethal nature of this man. He was a perfect warrior, in the wizard’s opinion: a strapping, cunning hulk bred and trained to obey and to kill. But he could be dangerous if given too much freedom of action. “And you don’t know how to kill me, either,” Valdaimon subtly reminded this perfect tool of war.

  Culdus scowled, and his great salt-and-pepper mustaches drooped down around his chin. “Well might you pray that I never learn how,” he muttered.

  “Prayers are for priests, dear Baron,” Valdaimon said calmly, approaching the table and gazing over the maps. “My profession has little to do with religion, although at times we invoke powers that mere mortals might well consider divine.”

  “Enough,” Culdus said curtly. “You are here for a reason. What is it?”

  “To report to you, what else?” Valdaimon smiled broadly again, raised his arms, and shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of innocent inquiry. His tattered, filth-covered robes swirled as he did so, and the wizard watched carefully to see the baron’s nose wrinkle as the odor assaulted him.

  Culdus turned and strode to the far end of the table, his eyes glued to the maps as though there were some important point he was pondering. “Then report. And remember that despite our personal feelings, we are still allies. Be accurate.”

  “Certainly, friend Baron, certainly.” Valdaimon beamed. “Here, let me show you on this chart.” The old wizard rushed to Culdus’s side and began flipping through the piles of maps. Culdus recoiled from the smell. He strode quickly across the room, away from the table, and hurled his muscled bulk into one of the high-backed wooden chairs scattered through the spacious chamber.