DW01 Dragonspawn

by Mark Acres

  Shouts of “Well said!” erupted from the rural lords.

  “Then he said he wanted me to take a message to my lord the Count Dunsford,” Marta went on as stillness settled over the room again. “He said he wanted Dunsford to know what would happen if all his demands weren’t met.” Marta paused and raised her chubby arms. Her fat fingers pulled at the ties of her gown behind her neck. “Then,” she said, turning her back to her audience and letting the top of the gown drop, “he did this to me.”

  The eyes of the nobles grew wide with horror as they gazed upon the sign of the dragon branded into the flesh of Marta’s broad back. Bagsby dropped involuntarily back into his chair, his eyes shut tight, his fists clenched, and his taut muscles trembling as a wave of uncontrollable rage swept over him. The sign of the dragon, with its outstretched wings, had been branded on him as well, only his brand was deep within the recesses of his mind in a place where he seldom let his consciousness wander.

  Marta stood erect, tied her gown, and turned to face her audience once again. “Now,” she went on in a calm, cold voice, “Dunsford is a wasteland. What happened at Shallowford the Black Prince lets his men do everywhere, to every village. There is nothing but rape, murder, pillage, and waste. Dunsford is made a desert.” Marta paused, thinking. From the looks of the assembled lords, she had made her point. These men were not lazy and were not cowards, she thought. They would do the right thing. It was time to be still, she decided. “With Your Majesty’s leave, that is all I have to say,” Marta concluded.

  “You may go,” the king said softly.

  Marta plodded her way to the door and slowly opened it. She was pleased to hear the shouts of “War! War! War!” that erupted as soon as the door was closed.

  “Your Majesty! Your Majesty!” Viscount D’ Alonzo shouted above the din. “I pledge you my wealth, my honor, and all the men at my disposal. Honor and prudence now combine to demand that we assemble at once a great army to meet this unholy foe. Let us summon the aid of the remainder of the Holy Alliance, and let the priests call upon all our gods to aid us!”

  The city lords cheered their support and loudly indicated that each of them, too, would throw the total of his financial and manpower support into a war with Heilesheim.

  The most senior of the rural lords banged his fist on the table, demanding the floor. At length, he was able to blurt out, “Your Majesty, let an army be assembled at once, and I will lead it to the borders of the County of the Wyche, where we will deal with this threat from Heilesheim in such a way as to reflect glory and honor upon Your Majesty.”

  “We are agreed, then,” the king said. “It shall be war. Lord Keeper of the Seal, you shall summon the royal troops to assemble at Clairton with all haste.” The tall, silent man wearing the chain of office acknowledged the order with a bow of his head. “My lords, I shall expect your contributions of money, supplies, and troops here in Clairton within the week. May your men march swiftly! My Lord Comminger,” the king said, indicating the rural knight who had offered to lead the armies, “you are appointed Lord General of the Realm and shall lead our forces. We ourselves,” the king added, “shall accompany the army.”

  The king basked in the applause of his nobles and in the success of his plan to achieve quick unanimity in favor of the defense of the realm. Only one detail caught the royal eye as somehow out of place, and he addressed it immediately.

  “Sir John,” the king said, “you have not spoken to the issue of this council.”

  Bagsby remained frozen and shaking in his chair, his eyes tightly shut. At the king’s address, he strained to regain control of his violent emotions. Slowly, he opened his eyes, unclenched his fists, and stood to address the monarch. Now was his time to strike.

  “Your Majesty, I applaud any and all actions against the forces of Heilesheim and against that imposter of a king, who, dethroning his own brother, now lays waste to a great land.”

  “Then it is settled. Even a foreign lord can see the justice of our cause,” the king crowed.

  “But I would point out to Your Majesty,” Bagsby suddenly continued, “that you need not wait until a great army is assembled to strike a devastating blow against Ruprecht.”

  “What?” clamored a dozen voices. “Where? How?”

  “Speak plainly, Sir John,” the king demanded. “What blow could be struck at once?”

  “Your Majesty, and these assembled lords, know full well that wars cost money,” Bagsby said. “An army without money is almost as poorly off as an army without swords.”

  “True enough,” the king agreed. “But our treasury is not poor. These last several years—”

  “I do not refer to Argolia but to Heilesheim,” Bagsby said, daring to interrupt the king with his enthusiasm for his idea. “At this very moment, the greatest treasure owned by Heilesheim is on Your Majesty’s soil, and within two days will pass through the very streets of Clairton.”

  The king’s eyebrows rose. “You mean the convoy carrying the treasure of Parona, recently purchased by Heilesheim?”

  “The same,” Bagsby said. “Why should the greatest treasure in the world be delivered into the hands of your enemy?”

  The king hesitated. “We have given our word to Heilesheim that this trade convoy may pass unmolested through our land. And, while war is imminent, honor cannot ignore the fact that Heilesheim has not yet attacked us,” he said.

  “Quite true, Your Majesty,” Bagsby agreed. “Nor will Heilesheim attack until that treasure is safely across your borders and in the hands of Ruprecht’s army in Kala.”

  King Harold at once saw the thrust of Bagsby’s thought. “But,” he countered, “Our word was given. On what grounds could that word be broken? This dishonorable action would taint our person.”

  “No, Your Majesty,” Bagsby continued, “if the treasure was taken into your royal custody because it was found to be in the possession of spies against this land. Can any lord here doubt now that the ‘escort’ of five hundred troops that guards the treasure as it passes through Argolia is anything other than a military spy mission? What better means could the Black Prince have to ascertain the lie of the land, the locations of roads, castles, fortifications, lakes, streams, and every source of communications and supplies than by marching five hundred trained soldiers through this land?”

  “By the gods!” Viscount D’ Alonzo exclaimed. “Sir John, you are a man of discernment. We entertain within our own borders the very scouts for Heilesheim’s invasion forces!”

  “Do not forget,” King Harold snapped, “that the honor of your king and the value of his word is here at stake. Now, if it could be proved that these escorts to the convoy were spies, we would have grounds to take action and would do so gladly.”

  “Then proof you shall have, Your Majesty,” Bagsby declared. “I volunteer my services to Argolia to furnish that proof, and, with that proof in hand, to seize the treasure of Parona for Your Majesty’s safekeeping until such time as peace negotiations decide who shall be the rightful owner.” Bagsby puffed out his chest and stood to his full height. He drew his slender rapier and held it high. “This I swear,” he declaimed. “The spies who operate against the safety of Argolia shall be brought to the king’s justice, and the treasure of Parona shall not be allowed to fall into the hands of Argolia’s enemies!”

  “Sir John Wolfe,” the king responded, “your intelligence, courage, and honor shall not go unused or unrewarded. We name you lord commander of the Second Company of our Royal Guard, one hundred mounted knights of proven courage, and we charge you with the task of gathering evidence against the spies in our midst. Further, we charge you that, should you discover conclusive proof of Heilesheim’s spying against us, you shall confiscate all wealth belonging to our enemy and return it safe to our person.”

  Loud cheers greeted the king’s pronouncement. Bagsby beamed. Not only would he have a chance to get vengeance at
last on Valdaimon but also he would have a small army to help him do it. The king ordered food and drink for the lords of his council, who continued to cheer their cause and curse their enemy through the day. With all the boisterous racket of their preparations for war, they never noticed the screeching of the large crow that took flight from the king’s garden, circling in broader and broader circles over first the palace and then the city of Clairton before winging to the south, where a certain ancient wizard eagerly awaited its return.

  “By all the gods of Argolia!” Bagsby cursed. A light breeze swept through the open entrance to the large tent, rifling the piles of parchment charts and maps spread out on the big table in the center. “I was a fool to take this army with me to do a thief’s job,” he ranted, disgustedly tossing his measuring string onto the table atop the map he had been studying. “How do those over-muscled dolts in armor ever manage to do this?”

  “They are bred for war,” Shulana said flatly. “They think of nothing else from childhood. It is their nature to solve these kinds of problems.”

  “Well, I don’t even know where to begin,” Bagsby confessed. “Only a hundred men—I thought it would be easy. I never dreamed I’d have to coordinate such a mob.” Bagsby walked to the open entrance and looked out on the green, grassy plain that extended for more than a mile from the low rise on which his tent was pitched. The forces of the lord commander of the Second Company of the Royal Guard of Argolia consisted of one hundred mounted knights, large, crude men whose sole goal in life was to bash some other knight in the chest or head with lance or sword or mace. At the moment they were milling about their own tents, about twenty tiny, tall, white structures pitched at random across the plain. But mingled in with the knights were more than five hundred other people: squires, cooks, bakers, valets, wagon drivers, grooms, blacksmiths, armorers, cartwrights, carpenters, shoemakers, tailors, tent makers, pages, lackeys, flunkies, whores, wives, children, and thieves—all the usual troop who followed an army. Then there were the wagons—huge wagons hauled by teams of mules or oxen, carrying food, beer, wine, tools, and other raw materials.

  Bagsby’s first plan had been to wait in Clairton, sit at the head of his company of knights, and simply surround the Black Prince’s convoy as it passed through the streets. But King Harold would have none of that: the presence of a Heilesheim force in the city streets while rumors of the coming war spread like wildfire among the population could trigger a riot or worse. Instead, Bagsby was instructed to march north and intercept the Heilesheim convoy as it came south along the great highway that ran from Clairton all the way to far Parona.

  The first day of the march had been a disaster. Bagsby had been totally ignorant of the entourage he would have to command until “Sir John” was asked, slightly before dawn, what orders he had for something his knights called the “order of march.” He had told his knights to arrange their “order of march” however they preferred; at the time that seemed like a good idea to win their favor and cooperation. Of course the opposite had occurred, as each knight chose to have his own retainers march with him, where he could keep a watchful eye on them, and the knights then spent hours squabbling among themselves over who would follow whom out of the city. The chaos was so great that the force of one hundred fighting men, mounted on some of the finest horses available in Argolia, had covered less than six miles before nightfall.

  The disordered mob he surveyed on the broad plain was the result of Bagsby’s second and final order for the first day. “It’s dark. Let’s camp here,” he’d said.

  The sun was already high toward the center of sky and no progress had been made toward sorting out the mess. Bagsby’s tent, a huge affair with broad red and gold stripes, was the scene of endless comings and goings all morning. Knights would stride in, complaining that they did not know where the wine was. They couldn’t find the boot maker. They didn’t know where to find the blacksmith to shoe a horse, the armorer to fit a new cuirass, or the tailor to mend a ripped tunic. Throughout the throng on the plain, the feeling was spreading that the man in the great tent, above which the huge, square banner with a silver lion imposed over red and gold stripes snapped in the gentle breeze, did not have the slightest idea what he was doing.

  Bagsby was forced to agree with that spreading opinion. He had to do something, and do it soon, or troop would lose the entire day’s march. But how to begin? He didn’t dare set them on the road until he had somehow brought order out of this chaos.

  “What would you do?” Bagsby asked casually, continuing to survey the disorder. “I mean, if you were in my position.”

  Shulana was startled. It was the first time Bagsby had even hinted to anyone, to her knowledge, that he needed advice. True, he had been treating her kindly, in his own way, since the night she had accosted him in his litter. And, in a strange way, Shulana realized, she had been treating him more kindly in return. A kind of gentleness had settled over their relationship that was strange to her. And now this.

  “I don’t know,” she replied honestly. “I’m not in your situation.”

  “Hmmmph,” Bagsby snorted. “No help from you, eh? Just use me to get the treasure, that’s all you want. Never mind how much trouble I get into doing it. And I am doing this for you, you know.”

  Shulana laughed, and a quiet thrill ran through Bagsby. The sound of elven laughter was light and tinkling, like tiny, silver cymbals hung on a string and colliding gently in a breeze. It was almost as thrilling as the fall of her breath upon his ear, or the...

  Bagsby stopped himself. What was he thinking?

  “You’re doing this because you want to,” Shulana was saying. “I’ve given up trying to get you to do anything for anyone except yourself,” she added.

  Despite himself, Bagsby laughed too. What a woman, he thought. Elf! He quickly corrected his thinking. And what a caper! Here he was, a royal general. What would a real general do? He’d kick some order into things, that’s what he’d do. And he wouldn’t worry about currying favor with the troops.

  “Page!” Bagsby bellowed. A thin young lad came at the run from somewhere nearby. “Tell the knights to assemble here, in front of my tent. In full armor, ready for battle. Now!” The youth ran off, wide-eyed with fear at the anger in the eyes of the lord general.

  “What are you going to do?” Shulana asked.

  “Something these louts will understand,” Bagsby said, grinning widely. “I’m going to bully them into submission and then into doing what they know how to do.”

  Bagsby knew that his knights were low on respect for him and probably resentful as well. He had managed to learn, by means of a few discreet questions before leaving court, that the knights of the Royal Guard were socially the low men in the knightly hierarchy of Argolia. Knights sold themselves into the royal service as a last resort. Most were second or third sons of poor nobles who could not hope to inherit lands or money and needed some means of support other than honest work or thieving. War, which was essentially honest thieving, and which they were trained for from birth, was their best opportunity. Naturally they would resent a higher ranking commander, especially a foreigner whom they didn’t know, who had displaced their usual leader. It was time to turn things around, Bagsby decided.

  As the first few knights began straggling slowly up the small hill, Bagsby disappeared inside his tent, taking Shulana with him and pulling the entrance flap shut. Inside, he began the tedious process of choosing which of the pieces of armor he should wear from the full suit provided him by the king. If he were going strictly for show, he would wear the whole suit—it was most impressive, full steel plate with fine fluting and designs inscribed on the arms, legs, and cuirass. But he might have to fight in a few minutes, and the full suit would weigh him down. He couldn’t hope to beat a real knight at his own game. Bagsby thought for a moment, then pulled on the great helm he’d been given, strapped on his cuirass, and thrust his hands into the pair of mailed glov
es. He belted on a longsword, stuck a dagger inside his high boots, and picked up a mace. Then he turned to Shulana and gave her a look that was at once a scowl, a frown, and a promise of violence in the immediate future.

  “What is suddenly troubling you?” the elf asked. “A moment ago you were laughing—now you look as if you want to kill me.”

  “Good,” Bagsby said, breaking into a muffled laugh. “That’s just the impression I want to create.” He carefully placed the scowl back on his face and stepped outside to confront his disgruntled troops.

  He was greeted by a wall of silent, staring, sullen, armored men; anyone of whom, he knew, could happily kill him with a single blow. It was a pleasant advantage, he thought, that they didn’t know that—not with certainty. Bagsby deepened his scowl.

  “I called you here to find out whether you are cowards or merely fools,” Bagsby shouted at the assembled host. “I know you are one or the other. I hope you are fools, for fools can still be taught something. If you are cowards—and I hope you are not—I have no use for you.”

  The startled, angry reaction was exactly what Bagsby had expected. Murmuring broke out among the men, and one of the larger ones stepped forward quickly, his hand on his sword hilt, an enraged gleam in his eye.

  “Are you calling me a coward?” Sir John of Elamshire demanded.

  “No,” Bagsby replied calmly. “If you’d a brain to go with your brawn, you’d understand that I’m asking you a question. Are you a coward or a fool?”

  “I’m no fool!” Sir John thundered.

  “Then, I conclude you are a coward. There. Happy? Now I’m calling you a coward,” Bagsby said with a sneer.

  The air rang with the sound of Sir John’s cold steel blade being pulled swiftly from its scabbard. With a roar the knight sprang forward, the blade raised in both hands high over his head, ready to cleave in twain the little man who had insulted his honor. Bagsby stood his ground, quickly shedding both cuirass and helm, until the large man was only one step away, his blow already slicing downward. Then the little thief collapsed into a ball and hurled himself forward in a somersault between the charging knight’s legs. Sir John’s blade was buried in the earth. Bagsby sprang to his feet behind Sir John and whirled with his right arm extended upward, mace in hand. The short, heavy metal bludgeon caught Sir John squarely in the back of his helmet, knocking the knight forward onto his face. Bagsby leapt onto the man’s back and once again struck with the mace, crushing the back and top of the knight’s helmet. Blood began to puddle beneath Sir John’s face.