by Mark Acres
Sir John had bowed and hastily but happily exited. Bagsby had begun snoring almost immediately but not before he muttered, “Oh, Shulana, what a day this has been....”
Shulana had sat quietly through the night, maintaining the same secret vigil she had maintained ever since her communion in the woods: a vigil against things magical, for there were powerful currents stirring in the sources of magical energy, currents that were slowly and subtly being shaped against Bagsby and against her. Shulana had also used this time to ponder her recent actions. She had broken the Covenant by attacking humans, and what was more, she had used magic to do it—not what one could call an inconspicuous outburst. Why had she done it? At the moment of action, she had not thought at all. She had seen the rout of Bagsby’s force, she had seen danger thundering across the field, and she had acted without thinking. It was almost as though the fireball had surprised her as much as the enemy. She remembered hearing Elrond say that in battles against the humans, many elves found that they simply reacted without thinking. Perhaps that was what had happened to her. But Shulana was too honest with herself to believe that simple explanation. Somehow, her behavior had its roots in the strange new emotion she was feeling toward Bagsby, an emotion for which she had no name and which she little understood.
This emotion frightened her, for she knew that if and when Bagsby was successful, her duty would require his death; and she wondered now if, after protecting him, she could be the instrument of that death.
But neither Shulana nor Bagsby had thoughts of death two days later, as Bagsby’s triumphal procession weaved through the streets of Clairton. The day was perfect for a public celebration: a warm, spring day with sunlight pouring down like pale melted gold to drench the broad avenues of the city, bouncing off the sparkling whitewashed walls of the better buildings and dancing among the brilliant colors of the citizenry’s costumes. Hurrahs rose to the blue, cloudless heavens from the thousands who lined the streets. Some waved banners with the colors of Argolia; others waved bright red, white, or gold cloths of all descriptions and types—anything to contribute to the explosion of color, sound, and joy that greeted the victorious band as they paraded in tight formation with Bagsby at their head, the troops of Heilesheim walking without arms before them, their own banner held respectfully dipped downward in acknowledgment of their defeat.
The celebration, startling as it was to Bagsby, made a kind of sense to him as he mulled over the information he’d gathered from the scuttlebutt among his own troops and from the shouts of the crowd. Even though he had not consciously planned the defeat of the enemy force, Bagsby had, while pursuing his own ends, stumbled onto the one weakness of the Heilesheim military. Invincible as their troop might be on the field of battle, they still had to eat, drink, and maintain themselves. Without the resources to do that, they were harmless. Thus, he had inadvertently produced a victory. And, at a time when the forces of Heilesheim were reaping victory after victory with lightning speed—in Dunsford, in Kala, in the County of the Wyche—it was of immense political value to have demonstrated that the Heilesheim armies were not invincible, that they could be defeated, even by a smaller force.
And so, Bagsby reasoned, as he bowed to one side of the street and then to the other, grunting at the difficulty of moving in his gleaming full suit of armor, King Harold was no fool. He was using this fluke victory to arouse public enthusiasm for the war with Heilesheim. Smart, Bagsby thought. No doubt riders were already on the way to the other counties of the Holy Alliance, bearing word of the Argolian victory and holding out the promise of participation in the fruits of victory for those who responded to the call for assistance.
That there was full-scale war with Heilesheim was no longer questionable. Bagsby had learned at the gates of the city, where the Lord Mayor had presented him with an honorary gold-plated key, that the Heilesheim legions had crossed the southern frontier within the past day. Already they were on the march toward Clairton. And so, Bagsby concluded, the Golden Eggs of Parona were already far south, most likely in Kala, making their way each moment closer to Valdaimon’s hands.
The procession turned a final corner, and Bagsby saw that he was riding into the gleaming white square in front of the great Temple to the Gods of Argolia. The square was immense, fully three hundred yards from side to side. The vast space was empty, calling even more attention to the enormous temple on the east side of the square. As the only approach was the broad avenue from the west, the Temple to the Gods of Argolia dominated one’s vision as soon as the square was visible.
A set of one hundred marble steps led up to the entrance to the white marble temple, which was almost blinding in the spring sunlight. The front consisted of twelve fat, fluted columns that supported a huge, triangular frieze. Depicted on the brightly painted frieze were the great stories of the Argolian gods. Gia, the goddess of the earth, embraced her consort Lamdos, the night. From their union sprang great Argram, ruler of the gods, the god of the sky, who wielded the thunderbolt in fearsome fashion against Karmos, the bringer of evils. Golden Parmen raced across the sky, carrying aloft the great torch of the sun, while Aeris, who brings forth the fruits of the earth, gazed up at him in romantic admiration. Fierce Wogon, the Argolian version of Wojan, stood laughing on a heap of human and elven corpses as he held aloft his mighty spear, a dragon’s head with gaping jaws impaled upon its point. The other minions of the Argolian pantheon walked, ran, leaped, and wrestled their way in blazing colors across the frieze, which was more than one hundred yards long. Bagsby was relieved and pleased to see, as he approached the holy temple, that even Shima, the universal patron goddess of thieves, was represented as a minor deity.
King Harold of Argolia, resplendent in a gold-trimmed robe of crimson whose train extended more than ten feet behind him, stood in the center of the steps, awaiting the returning hero. By his side, dressed in a pure white tunic with trim of green and gold, stood the old, revered high priest of the great temple, a man with a great mane of gray-white hair, which exploded around his head, and a wiry white beard that plunged to the middle of his chest. Bagsby rode halfway across the square, halted his column, and dismounted. The Heilesheim warriors, their flag still dipped, formed two lines through which Bagsby approached the steps of the temple. The people of Argolia flooded into the square behind the troops, the throng scurrying to gain positions from which to view and hear the royal reception of their newfound military idol.
Bagsby’s brisk step belied the uneasiness he felt as he clanked up the marble steps toward the outstretched, welcoming arms of the king. Being in the presence of so much purity and holiness made him vaguely anxious; he had not even been faithful in offerings and prayers to Shima, and her most powerful friends, he thought, who in some sense resided here, might not welcome a thief, murderer, and imposter who had tried to use the wealth and power of a kingdom for personal gain and for a personal vendetta.
“Welcome, Sir John Wolfe, in the name of the kingdom and gods of Argolia!” King Harold boomed as Bagsby approached.
The little man stopped about two steps below the broadly smiling king, and knelt, bowing his head. “Your Majesty, I have the honor to return with news of a victory achieved by your forces.”
The king descended a step, reached down, and raised Bagsby to his feet. “Hail to the victor!” the king shouted. “So may all our armies return from encounters with Heilesheim!” The crowd roared. “We go now,” the king shouted, continuing his prepared welcome, “to give thanks to the gods of our land, who have prospered our arms and sent to us this brave knight who has been the first to bring Heilesheim to heel!”
The din from the crowd, which now packed the vast square, made hearing impossible. The king gestured for Bagsby to follow him, and led the way up the steps to the temple entrance. The high priest followed. A small crowd of servants, attendants, and lesser priests followed at a respectful distance.
As Bagsby passed beneath the frieze between the
two center columns of the temple front, he saw a maze of corridors, defined by more columns, leading to a number of different altars behind which stood gleaming statues of the various gods—some painted, other plated with gold and silver and encrusted with precious stones. The sight was a thief’s dream.
King Harold walked with unfaltering step into the maze of columns and shadows. Bagsby had little choice but to follow, and soon was lost in the intricate interior of the temple. From time to time they encountered walls barely higher than a man’s head that formed the back of altars on their opposite sides. Some areas of the temple, Bagsby noted, were roofed, and these areas increased as the king worked his way through the main sites of worship toward one side of the structure. Eventually he came to a corridor at the end of which was a set of plain, six-foot-tall wooden doors. These the king opened and motioned for Bagsby to step inside.
Bagsby entered a small, dark chamber with a simple altar at one end, with light provided by torches in wall brackets. The air was thick with incense from the large burners on each side of the altar. But there was no statue, no sign of the presence of the god. The high priest entered after the king, closing the doors behind him and leaving the three men alone in the small, strange chamber.
Bagsby watched with concerned curiosity as the king approached the altar, knelt on one knee, and bowed his head in silence. After a moment, his respects paid to whatever deity was worshipped in this room, King Harold stood and turned to face Bagsby.
“Well, Bagsby,” the king said, “you’ve done well for yourself and for me.”
“Your Majesty,” Bagsby began—and then froze, as he realized what the king had said.
“I see for once you are speechless,” the monarch said sternly. “I don’t doubt why. Impersonating a noble is a capital crime. So is lying to the king, not to mention betraying his trust and taking command of a portion of his Guard under false pretenses!”
Instinctively, Bagsby’s eyes darted about the room, seeking exits. Save for the double doors, against which the high priest leaned, grinning, there were none. Nor, aside from the torches and the incense burners, were there any items that might be useful as weapons in a brawl. Bagsby wondered if he dared draw sword against a king.
“There’s no escape from this room, thief, if that’s what you’re wondering while your skin grows so pale,” the high priest boomed. Bagsby noticed that his voice, though deep and somewhat somber, was edged with humor.
“He’s right,” the king said, approaching Bagsby with his hand outstretched. “Nonetheless, before we talk more, I’ll have that sword and dagger, if you don’t mind. It wouldn’t do for a successful monarch to be murdered by his most successful general, would it?”
Bagsby kept his silence. He drew his sword and handed it, hilt first, to the king. He did the same with his dagger. Best not to say anything until he knew which way the wind was blowing, Bagsby decided.
“Thank you,” the king said, handing the weapons to the priest, who hid them quickly in his white tunic. This surprised Bagsby, for the tunic seemed to have no folds and no openings.
“Priestly magic,” the priest said, acknowledging Bagsby’s wondering stare.
“Now,” King Harold continued, “what are we to do with you, Bagsby? You have cost me a great deal already. In your absence we learned who you truly are—how does not matter—and of the frauds you have already perpetrated against our subjects. Young Pendargon will doubtless never forget how you parted him from four hundred crowns. No doubt his father will be in my law courts by the morrow, clamoring for justice.”
“Ah, that matter,” Bagsby replied. “There really is no reason to believe that Pendargon even knows who I am. However, I will gladly make restitution if Your Majesty desires,” Bagsby began.
“Do you think old Pendargon blind?” the king demanded sternly. “The entire city witnessed your triumph. It will cost me a great deal more than four hundred crowns to ensure the silence of the Pendargons.”
“Silence?” Bagsby asked, hope rising.
“Don’t play the fool with me, thief,” King Harold snarled. “You know as well as I that I can ill afford to publicly proclaim that my great general, the bringer of the first victory against Heilesheim, is a thief and a fraud.”
“Oh, my,” Bagsby replied. “Oh, my, indeed, that would be somewhat embarrassing. Well, then, perhaps it would be best if I simply disappeared from Your Majesty’s realm.”
“No doubt it would be best were it not for one thing,” the king answered. “You are a war hero. Genuine war heroes are hard to come by. You are useful politically. Otherwise, I assure you Bagsby, you would have already disappeared from our realm. If not by my own hand, then by the hands of the assassins that our spies tell us roam the streets seeking you.”
“Certainly, I may be of further service to Your Majesty,” Bagsby began broadly, “I would only be too happy—”
“Silence!” the king commanded. “You have two options. Death and disappearance, which we could tolerate but which would not serve our greater end, or military service to us for the duration of this war in return for a pardon for your previous frauds against our person and our kingdom.”
“I’ll take the pardon,” Bagsby said flatly.
“All in due time. First, you will kneel before this altar and place both hands upon it,” the king commanded.
“What is this?” Bagsby said, allowing his natural disrespect for authority to show through. After all, he reasoned, he had little to lose at this point. “Some kind of religious initiation?”
“Not exactly,” the priest interjected. The large man walked up to the altar and extended his hands, palms down, over the flat, plain stone.
“Gods of Argolia, seen and unseen, grant us now the use of this truth stone,” the priest intoned. “Let the lips of him who touches this, thy sacred altar, speak only the truth. Let all ability to dissemble flee his soul. Make pure the words of his mouth.” His incantation completed, the priest turned to Bagsby. “Kneel and place your hands on the altar,” he said.
“Now, just a minute,” Bagsby objected. “There really isn’t any need for all this religious—”
The priest, who despite his age was a man of immense physical strength, grabbed Bagsby around the neck and clanged his helmeted head down upon the stone. Without thinking Bagsby placed his hands on the stone in order to push himself up. But no sooner had he touched the stone than a strange kind of dizziness overcame him, and a nausea made him sink to the floor. Vainly he ordered his arms to raise his hands from the slab of granite, but to no avail; the muscles of his arms would not obey.
“Now, Bagsby,” said the king, “tell me this. If I spare your life, will you give me loyal service as befits a pure knight? Or will you betray me to the vile forces of Heilesheim?”
Bagsby’s head swam. He understood the king’s words. In normal circumstances, he would have eloquently sworn loyalty to the death to Argolia and the king, and not thought twice about breaking such an oath when the occasion demanded. But now he found he could not glibly lie—only the truth would come from his lips. And Bagsby found, as he searched inside his nauseated, dizzy soul, that he did not even know what that truth really was.
“I don’t know,” he replied, the words coming slowly, as though he might gag on each syllable.
“Explain yourself,” the king demanded.
“I—I wish no harm to Argolia,” Bagsby stammered slowly. “I wish harm to Valdaimon, the royal wizard of Heilesheim. If I could harm him by betraying you, I would. If betraying you was necessary to preserve my life so that I might harm him, I would.”
“What enmity have you for Valdaimon?” the king asked.
“He killed my father!” Bagsby screamed. Hot tears poured down the little man’s cheeks. “He killed the only person I ever truly loved. And I have never had a chance for revenge until now.”
The king ignored the misery o
f the thief and pressed for more. “Tell me, Bagsby, what chance for revenge have you now?”
“I can steal the Golden Eggs of Parona,” the thief wailed.
“How will that harm Valdaimon?” the king demanded.
“I don’t truly know, but it will deprive him, somehow, of some great power he seeks. It will spoil his plan and bring his efforts to dominate the Land Between the Rivers to nothing,” Bagsby screamed. “At least,” he added, beginning to gasp for breath, “that is what I believe.”
“And why do you believe this?” the king asked quietly.
“The elf told me,” Bagsby whispered. He collapsed with a clatter on the floor, his hands above his head, still glued to the truth stone.
“What is the relationship between you and this elf,” the king pressed.
“I don’t know. I may be falling in love with her, even though she is an elf. How she feels about me, I do not know,” Bagsby muttered, his voice barely audible.
The king stared long at Bagsby’s body as it lay on the floor. He neither smiled nor frowned; he simply stared and pondered. At length, he raised his gaze to meet the questioning eyes of the high priest. The king cocked his head, as if asking a question of his own, and the priest, pursing his lips, slowly nodded his head. Then the big man extended his right arm and passed his hand, palm down, over the altar stone. Bagsby’s hands slid off the chunk of rock onto the floor.
“Help him to his knees,” the king ordered. The burly priest slipped his arms beneath Bagsby’s shoulders and hefted the bulk of the little man up. Bagsby felt strength slowly returning to his body at the cleric’s touch. Still, he burned with shame, as his deepest feelings had been revealed, not only to himself but also to these strangers. He raised angry eyes to the king, whose back was to him, and saw the monarch draw his great sword.