DW01 Dragonspawn

by Mark Acres

  No matter, then, my embarrassment, Bagsby thought. I am to die.

  The king turned and faced the kneeling thief. “The use of the truth stone is distasteful to us,” King Harold said. “It engenders hatred, if the one it is used on is allowed to live. We ask your forgiveness for so prying into your very soul. It was necessary.”

  Bagsby stared back at the king silently.

  “Bagsby, thief, you have served us well. Therefore,” the king said, raising his great sword above his head and lowering it toward the thief, “we dub you a knight of realm of Argolia.”

  Bagsby was already cringing in anticipation of the death blow. The words of the king stunned his already numb mind. He felt the flat of the blade slam against first his right shoulder, then his left, as the king continued to speak. “We award you certain estates in the north of our kingdom,” King Harold said, “which you may claim at the conclusion of the current war. We name you, henceforth, John Wolfe. Whereupon, rise, Sir John Wolfe, knight of Argolia.”

  The unbelieving Bagsby clawed the air, as though an invisible arm would be extended to help him to his feet. The priest came to his assistance, and the now-noble Bagsby stood before the King of Argolia.

  “I know not what to say, Your Majesty,” Bagsby humbly confessed.

  “Then say nothing. You will command our entire Royal Guard in the forthcoming battle. And see to one thing: should your elf use magic again in our cause, be certain its use is imputed to you.” The king winked at Bagsby and smiled, the smile of one thief to another.

  “Your Majesty can make light of such an important matter?” Bagsby asked.

  “I do not make light of it. Neither do I refuse aid against so powerful a foe as Ruprecht, even if that aid comes from the elves.”

  “I will keep it secret, be well assured,” Bagsby said. “The elf fears the revelation as much as we do.”

  “No doubt. Well, Sir John, honor among thieves, eh?” the king said, jesting.

  “Your Majesty is no thief,” Bagsby said solemnly.

  “All rulers are thieves,” the king replied. “We simply legalize our thefts and call them taxes.”

  The sputtering flame of a single oil lamp threw occasional illumination on the yellowed, wrinkled face of Valdaimon as the old wizard stared into the dark, hard eyes of Nebuchar, the leader of all thieves and assassins in the land of Kala. This Nebuchar, Valdaimon decided, does not scare easily.

  “You have not explained to my satisfaction why four professional assassins cannot accomplish the death of one insignificant man in the middle of a minor kingdom undergoing all the confusions of war,” Valdaimon hissed.

  Nebuchar leaned forward across the plain wooden table and stared back into Valdaimon’s rheumy eyes. “I owe no explanations to you, wizard,” he replied. “Take care. Your king may rule here now, but no king truly rules the streets of Kala. There I alone am king.”

  Valdaimon studied this man carefully. He was arrogant and stupid, like all humans, but with more reason than most. His power could not be disputed. Even in far-off Parona, Nebuchar was famous as the one man who could cause anything to be done, regardless of law and custom, and the one man who could supply anything, regardless of its rarity. The only thing Nebuchar was said to care about was money. But, to maintain his ability to make money, Valdaimon reasoned, Nebuchar must also care about his reputation. It was clear enough he did not care about his appearance: he was fat, with short greasy black hair, flabby jowls, and a scar across his forehead which he made no effort to hide.

  “That is why I engaged you in the first place,” Valdaimon replied. “You are the king of assassinations. I paid my money. I want results. If you cannot deliver, no matter. I will not even ask for my money back. I will simply pass the word that you have become... unreliable.”

  “I am reliable,” Nebuchar snapped. “I want Bagsby dead as much as you do—whatever your reasons may be. He’s the only man who ever crossed me and lived to talk of it. Taking your money only assured me of a profit for a job that was going to be done anyway.”

  “Yes, but when?” Valdaimon goaded.

  “You could help, wizard,” Nebuchar said. “You are supposed to be so powerful that no human can resist your spells. Do him in with your magic, and I will pay you.” Nebuchar stabbed his dagger into the wood table top to emphasize his point.

  “Those who do not practice magic can hardly appreciate its limitations,” Valdaimon answered. “My powers are needed for the support of the war effort now.”

  “You lie,” Nebuchar stated.

  “I cannot get at him at long range. He has protections against magical attacks of certain types,” Valdaimon admitted.

  “Then use another type,” Nebuchar said, shrugging.

  “Then you use another type of assassin,” Valdaimon snapped back.

  Nebuchar grunted. “I don’t want unhappy customers. Let’s work together. I’ll return your money, but let’s work together to see that little monster dead.”

  “I could provide information about his whereabouts. Do you get along well with animals?” Valdaimon asked, grinning.

  “What kind of animals?” Nebuchar asked. “I’ve got a lot of the human kind working for me now.”

  Valdaimon reached into the folds of his tattered robe and produced a vial of clear, blue fluid. He set it carefully on the table and smiled. “A crow will come calling on you. When he does, drink this,” the wizard said.

  “How do I know it’s not poison?” Nebuchar asked, looking skeptically at the wizard.

  “You don’t. Welcome to the new regime in Kala. There will be other changes in your business operations in the future—but for now, we’ll work together for our common good.” Valdaimon wheezed. The wizard pushed back his chair and rose. “Our business is done. We will speak again when Bagsby is dead.” Using his great staff for support, the old mage trudged toward the door of the small, dark room.

  “Where will you be if I need to speak to you?” Nebuchar asked.

  “I will be at Lundlow Keep—my new personal estate here. But you will not need to speak to me. I will know when the deed is done, and if it is not, you will not want to speak to me.” The wizard made his exit.

  “Valdaimon,” Nebuchar called after him, “you stink. Don’t come again yourself—send your damned crow instead!” The fat man broke into laughter at his own taunt.

  Valdaimon merely shrugged and made an indistinct gesture with one hand. He didn’t smile until he was making his way out through the dimly lit main room of the cheap dive that served the powerful, wealthy Nebuchar as his headquarters.

  Though from the outside the place appeared to be like any of a score of other cheap taverns, none entered here without invitation. Here, swilling cheap wine and ale, debauching with some of the ugliest women of Kala, were the most ruthless cutthroats, the cleverest thieves, and the vilest assassins of the Land Between the Rivers. To enter here without invitation—and sometimes with—was to condemn oneself to the most ignoble death possible. Valdaimon realized it was a testament to his power that the room became silent as he entered and that not a single eye turned to gaze upon his person as he slowly dragged himself toward the only door. These, the worst of the worst, feared him. Only Nebuchar did not fear him—yet.

  Valdaimon paused by the door. A scream came from the tiny back room, a blood-freezing scream that caused all the scum of Kala to exchange frightened, worried glances. Yet not one of Nebuchar’s followers dared move toward the tiny room, where the voice of their leader called again and again for aid in the high-pitched screams of a man totally overcome by terror. At the sound of those screams, Valdaimon chuckled. Now, Nebuchar, too, would fear him. The delayed fear spell he’d cast would wear off in less than an hour, but the memory of that fear would haunt Nebuchar for the rest of his mortal life.

  Valdaimon’s chuckle broke into a full laugh as he stepped through the door out on
to the dark street. The rambling tenements and taverns of the Thieves’ Quarter of Kala were illuminated by the flames that leapt skyward from the rest of the city. Shrieks, screams, and cries for help echoed through the dark streets as the troops of Heilesheim burned, pillaged, and raped their way through the once-great city that had dared to resist the will of Ruprecht. The sight gave Valdaimon a cold thrill; like Nebuchar’s screams, it was a testament to his power—power that soon the entire Land Between the Rivers would acknowledge.

  But first there was more work to do. The old mage shuffled down the narrow street—really no more than an alleyway—ignoring the drunks, the staring thieves who did not yet know him by sight, and the blandishments of hookers. The Thieves’ Quarter, of course, had been spared the fate of the rest of the city on Valdaimon’s orders. There was no point in destroying people who by their very existence would undermine any resistance to Heilesheim’s rule—and thereby, his rule.

  Malak, Orgon, and Barak, the three chief wizards of the League of the Black Wing, other than Valdaimon, stood at the end of the alleyway, their solemn, dark forms silhouetted by the orange flames from the square into which the street emptied. They watched as Valdaimon shuffled toward their planned meeting, a meeting that they, with some fear, had demanded. Anxiously they peered into the dark, trying to read the mood on Valdaimon’ s face as he approached. It was not an easy matter to force an issue with Valdaimon, especially an issue that might call forth his rage.

  “I can’t tell what his mood will be,” Malak commented, straining to see. “He’s coming from talking with Nebuchar, who is truly an evil fox; usually people like that amuse him.”

  “His mood doesn’t matter,” Barak responded in a whisper. “It can change as quickly as a cloud can cover the sun.”

  The threesome fell silent as Valdaimon came within earshot. The old wizard slowly trundled his way to the end of the street, and, ignoring his longtime followers, gazed about the square, a broad smile on his ancient face, which glowed more yellow than usual in the orange flames.

  “A burning city is a fine sight,” Valdaimon commented at length. “So, of course, are loyal friends. You requested a meeting, Malak. Speak. My time is short, and I have much to do.”

  Malak removed his cap and shook his bushy white hair. He straightened his back from its usual stoop, brushed a bit of soot from his scarlet velvet cloak, and cleared his throat with a raspy grunt. Then the lean, thin-faced old man looked straight into Valdaimon’s face and said simply, “There is trouble within the League.”

  “What kind of trouble?” Valdaimon asked calmly. “And do you speak for all three of my most trusted lieutenants or only for yourself?”

  “He speaks for us all,” fat Orgon interjected. The rotund, balding figure, overdressed in a gaudy silk print tunic and a shimmering cloak of yellow satin, rested his hand on his protruding belly and smiled benignly. “We have all heard the same things from the mages of our sections of the League. For each of us to report the same... concerns would be to waste time and breath,” he said with his throaty, soothing voice.

  “You waste both already,” Valdaimon replied, smiling with fake sweetness. “And you, Barak, does Malak speak for you as well?”

  Barak, youngest of the three senior mages, nodded once, sharply. Quickly removing his ostentatious green hat, adorned with blue and yellow feathers, he made a short bow and spoke briefly. “Malak speaks for us all,” he said. “Our problems are the same.”

  “Well, Malak, tell me of these… problems,” Valdaimon responded. “Ah, but a moment…” he added, looking suddenly playful. He quickly raised his huge staff and pointed one end toward a young man running from a burning building with two drunken soldiers in pursuit. Valdaimon breathed a single word, and a tiny yellow ball shot forth from the end of the staff, striking the man in the head. The man exploded in mid-stride. The astonished soldiers nearly fell over in their attempts to come to a halt, and gaped in astonishment at the foursome.

  “Just helping you tame the locals,” Valdaimon called. “Carry on with your work.” Valdaimon flicked out his narrow tongue, wet his thin lips, and turned back to Malak. “You were saying?”

  “This is a serious matter,” Malak said, thrusting his defiant jaw forward, his old rheumy eyes suddenly aflame with anger. “It is not something to be settled by a few intimidating spells. The League now numbers more than two hundred, all trained in magic, all intelligent, ambitious, and eager for the fulfillment of those promises with which you bound us all together many years ago. Your threats and intimidation have kept discipline up until now, but not even your power is sufficient to contest the entire League!”

  “Is this rebellion, then?” Valdaimon hissed.

  “This is loyalty—we three come to warn you before there is rebellion,” Malak rasped back. “The League grows restless. Our armies move forward relentlessly, carrying all before them. But the League does not participate in either the victories or the fruits of victory. The nobles gain glory and lands; the League is snubbed. Not once have the mages marched, as practiced, in the center of the formations of the legions. Not once have they been called upon to mount their wyverns and attack from the air, as we practiced and studied to do for many years. And while the nobles reap lands, we reap nothing.”

  “Is that all?” Valdaimon said disdainfully. “Are you children to come to me with these petty complaints? Discipline the offenders, if need be; kill one or two of them in some spectacular way, and the rest will fall back in line.”

  Malak’s stomach tightened and his palms felt damp for the first time in years. “The rest—” he began, then fell into a coughing fit.

  “The rest,” Barak said flatly, taking up Malak’s sentence, “will fall upon us with all the magic we have taught them if we don’t give them some response other than violence and terror. They are no longer frightened, and they do not trust you, who alone have the ear of the king and of Culdus.”

  Valdaimon raised his thin, pale, sooty hand high into the air. Barak visibly flinched. Then Valdaimon, grinning, brought the hand down on the top of his head and scratched his yellowish scalp with his dirty, scraggly nails.

  “Well, then,” the old mage said, “I suppose we shall have to do something. Tell the League a great battle is brewing. It will take place within the next four days south of Clairton in Argolia. At that battle, the League will take its rightful place as the greatest force for war and magic the world has ever seen. It shall share fully in the spoils of victory. And more, the League shall soon thereafter share in the greatest treasure in the entire world. For I shall make available to the league the fabulous riches of the Golden Eggs of Parona.”

  The three wizards stared at one another in surprise, then at Valdaimon. “That is truly wondrous news,” Malak croaked.

  “Tell me,” Barak said, a note of challenge in his voice now, “how the riches of the Golden Eggs of Parona can be shared with anyone. Do you propose to melt them down and dole out the gold and gems of which they are made? Such a course would be foolish.”

  “I will share the magical riches, young Barak, of which you know nothing,” Valdaimon replied. “You three think you are powerful wizards, and as men judge such things, you are. But you do not yet know what power is. Soon, you shall. Now go. Assemble the entire League here, at Kala, with the wyverns. Be ready to march north at Culdus’s order and to join the army in battle.”

  Without awaiting a reply Valdaimon began to shuffle his way through the burning square.

  “Take care, Valdaimon,” Orgon called after him. “The streets teem with the vermin of Kala eager for vengeance against us.”

  The three men heard Valdaimon’s laugh; he did not turn his head to respond. They watched in silence until Valdaimon passed through the square and into the darkness of the street on the far side, where spurts of flame from the burning buildings occasionally allowed them a glimpse of his stooped, slowly moving form.

&n
bsp; “That went well,” Orgon suggested. “We got what we asked for.”

  “We received the promise of what we asked for,” Barak said, correcting him.

  “You grow too bold,” Malak snapped, rebuking the younger man. “Valdaimon could have turned you to stone or, worse, to some undead thing, with a mere flick of his fingers. I’m surprised he showed such restraint.”

  “Despite your fears and his boasts, Valdaimon knows he cannot fight the whole League,” Barak retorted. “Let us see if Valdaimon delivers on his promise. If he does, all is well. If not, perhaps the League should consider new leadership.”

  Once out of sight and hearing of his rebellious underlings, Valdaimon cursed them aloud. Soon, soon, he reminded himself, there would be no need for the League, no need for Ruprecht, no need for Culdus, no need for the army, no need for anything that he did not want. And soon, soon, there would be no need to maintain this merely human guise, appearing to be a mortal with mortal concerns, even mortal fears, in order to make them his foils. With a disgusted grunt, Valdaimon waved his feeble hand in the air and vanished from the street.

  In the next instant, he was standing in his study, high in the tower of Lundlow Keep, a modest stone castle only three miles southwest of the now ruined city of Kala. No candle or torch provided light in the dark, round tower room, for its user needed no light to see. His keen eyes saw every parchment, tome, vial, and beaker that littered the long wooden worktable in the center of the room. They took in the great white circle inscribed on the floor several feet away from that workbench—the circle where he would stand while casting the spell that would be the culmination of his existence, the fulfillment of his desire. He could read every sign and sigil inscribed around the interior of that circle, signs and sigils that would protect him from any form of attack. He glanced toward the hearth, where normally a fire would roar. The ashes were cold, but it did not matter to Valdaimon; unlike the mortal whose castle this had been until the arrival of Heilesheim’s armies, Valdaimon had no need for warmth. In fact, he preferred the cold.