by Mark Acres
“Now! Now is the moment!” King Harold shouted over the cheers of his knights. “All but the Guard—charge!”
Culdus ran through the mass of his disorganized troops, trying to gain sight of the Seventh and Ninth legions and trying to find the contingent of wizards who marched with the Eighth. He feared that the Eighth was doomed; in their current state they could not possibly stand against the charge of twelve thousand horses that at this moment were flying across the field toward them. At last he thrust his way through the last of his pike-men. Overhead, the clouds began to slowly dissipate, and Culdus saw with relief that the Seventh and Ninth were still advancing, relatively intact, still in their block formation.
Now to save the Eighth, he thought. He whirled around, searching wildly for his wizards. For the first time in his long life, he was actually glad to see one. They were still an intact mass, and had even seen the danger descending upon them. They chanted and muttered strange sounds and waved their arms in the air in the manner Culdus had seen Valdaimon do countless times.
None too soon, Culdus realized, for he heard the mighty crash of the first line of Argolian cavalry plunging into the milling, unformed ranks of the pike-men of his center legion. Without their tight formation, the pike-men were nearly helpless against the mounted foes, for their horses could weave their way between the individual men. The knights began with relish their task of hacking down the enemy foot.
The second line followed hard upon the first at a distance of only fifty yards, but before it could tear into the front of the Eighth, the Heilesheim wizards’ spell was completed. Culdus stumbled and fell as the very earth trembled. There was another deafening crash, deeper than the sound of the thunderbolts, and the earth itself began to rip open in a huge crack along the Heilesheim front. Into this widening ditch the Argolian horse galloped. Some made the leap and crashed into the enemy lines; more did not, and horses and armored riders tumbled screaming and neighing into the very bowels of the earth.
From the small rise at the center of his original line, King Harold looked on aghast as some of his cavalry made good progress through the enemy but even more seemed to disappear, swallowed by the ground itself.
“Priests!” he shouted. “Do what you can!”
“Majesty,” the high priest responded, “our power is spent. One can only tax the gods so much, and then...”
“Sir John Wolfe, what do you recommend?” the king demanded, his voice beginning to be edged with despair.
Bagsby looked out on the field of battle where some of the Argolian mounted knights had broken through the lines of the center legion, only to begin swirling helplessly about the great block formations of the flanking legions.
“Before you answer,” Shulana whispered in his ear, “listen.” The slim elf pointed beyond the far right of the Argolian’s original line.
From the distance, straining, Bagsby could just hear the sounds of drumming.
“Majesty, the enemy’s two legions from the west are approaching,” Bagsby said. As he spoke the first banner of the enemy force became visible, protruding above a distant rise. “Our main force will be flanked and trapped. There is no way for cavalry to break those blocks without magic or bow-fire.”
“Then our Royal Guard will charge the flanking force,” King Harold said, his eyes wide with rage, frustration, and despair.
“”No, Majesty,” Bagsby said quietly. “Honor has been served. Save the Guard and yourself. Retire to the north of Clairton, pray for aid from Parona, and have a force left to join with theirs when they come.”
The king sat silently, not responding to Bagsby’s advice, but not ordering the Guard to charge, either.
The battle raged on for another full hour, as the inevitable doom of the Argolian force was played out. The Fifth and Sixth legions closed on the Argolian flank, leaving the surviving knights no avenue of escape. Still they fought on, many dismounting and managing to dodge between and amid the spear-points to land a blow against a foe, but their struggle was doomed. King Harold sat silently, with Bagsby beside him, until the last Argolian banners, save those of the Guard, had fallen to the ground.
“Sir John Wolfe,” the king finally said, his voice heavy as lead, “the Royal Guard will retire to Clairton.”
“Your Majesty,” Bagsby replied, “I have fought with you as you required. Now I must beg your leave. For there is a task I must do, and do alone, in the enemy country. If I am successful, my success will redound to your benefit. If I fail, I will be but one more knight slain in this war, which now it seems will engulf the whole earth.”
King Harold stared numbly at Bagsby, the color draining from his face, his spirit broken. “Go then, Sir John Wolfe, and the gods of Argolia grant you fairer days than this has been for me.”
“The gods keep Your Majesty until my return,” Bagsby said. With a glance at Shulana, Bagsby gently spurred his mount and began riding slowly onto the field of battle, making for the extreme left.
“Dull work, eh, Frederick?” George said as his rank of pike-men advanced behind the Argolian horse. The only opposition they had encountered was in the form of dead men and beasts strewn about the field and the crumbling edges of the great gash in the earth which the legion cautiously avoided.
“True, I’ve seen hotter battles than this,” Frederick responded. “But say now, look there!” Frederick inclined his head to the right, where three dismounted Argolian knights stood, swords in hand, desperate resolve written on their dark, sweaty faces. They were three against thousands, but they would die as men.
“Right!” George cried, and with a shout lowered his great pike and charged forward. About a dozen other men, Frederick among them, broke ranks and followed him. In fifteen seconds the three knights were dead, one of them impaled on George’s pike.
“Let’s see what we got ‘ere now!” George shouted with glee.
“George son of the miller get back in ranks,” barked the leader of a score. “No one gave you the order to fight at will!”
“You get back in the ranks, then,” George snapped. “Nobody ordered you to come after me!”
“You there,” a third voice boomed, “get those men back in their ranks.”
An armored Heilesheim knight rode up, his face red with fury. “Officer, get these men back in ranks, and see they’re flogged when this day is done.”
“I thought we were here to kill the enemy,” George shouted at the knight. “Well, I done my bit, see, and I’m takin’ a bit o’ this plunder.” He bent over the slain foe’s body and began removing the man’s scabbard.
A mighty blow caught George on the back of the head and sent him sprawling facedown in the blood-soaked earth.
“Hang this one,” he heard the mounted man say.
Rage rose in George’s bosom even faster than the pain spread through his head and body. With a sudden great effort he pushed himself off the ground, grabbed his pike, and pulled it from the dead man’s body, blood dripping from its point and hook.
“’Ang me? You goin’ to ‘ang me, your lordship?” he shouted. “You ain’t goin’ to ‘ang nobody!”
With a mighty heave, George plunged the pike into the back of the rider. The sharp blade of the hook sliced through the man’s armor and the point bit into his back so deeply that it emerged through his cuirass in the front. The man turned in his saddle, blood spurting from between his lips, as George wrestled the pike around and brought his kill to the ground. Quickly, he pulled the great spear free and whirled to face his former companions.
“Anybody else want to ‘ang me?” he bellowed.
“You men go on,” the leader of a score ordered Frederick and the others. He then cautiously backed away from George. “Now, as for you, George, go on about your business, and we’ll settle all this back in camp after the battle.”
“Aye,” George said, grinning with understanding. The ranks of the Fi
fth continued to parade past, while George, shedding bits and pieces of his armor as he went but still clutching his great pike, wandered into the chaos of the battlefield, making his way east and south, headed for freedom.
Bagsby rode carefully, keeping a sharp eye out, as he led Shulana around the field of the lost battle. Still the conflict raged in isolated spots, even after King Harold had quit his post on the hillcrest and the Royal Guard had begun their long march back toward Clairton and ignominy. Bagsby began to shed his armor, not wanting to be taken for an Argolian by some band of wandering Heilesheim soldiers. For now the tight formations were breaking up, and bands of armed men were beginning to roam the field, stripping the dead, fighting for loot and plunder, and chasing down any Argolian unlucky enough to still be alive.
He made for the far hill, hoping that beyond it he could find a bit of woods for shelter and cover. As he rode, his cares began to evaporate, and despite the carnage within easy sight and the magnitude of the victory won by Ruprecht, Bagsby felt suddenly and strangely lighthearted. He began to whistle as he rode.
“You’ve not done that for a great while,” Shulana called to him as she rode by his side.
“Not done what?”
“Whistled.”
“I’ve not felt like it until now!” Bagsby gleefully shouted back. In fact, he thought, I do feel better. I don’t much like being a knight and a general, but a good sneaky job—that’s more my style. And with a beautiful woman by my side—elf, Bagsby reminded himself—I feel glorious. It’s a wonder to be alive!
On the pair rode, past the field of battle until they came, as Bagsby had hoped, to a place where a small stream flowed out of a copse.
“Over there,” Bagsby directed, and Shulana gladly agreed. The two guided their mounts in among the trees, out of any possible sight of the Heilesheim troops who were still coming and going across the field and up and down the great highway.
No sooner had Bagsby reined his steed to a halt than he thought he had made a mistake.
“Die, you Heilesheim dog!” a clearly female, though very loud, voice was screaming.
“I’ll die soon enough, wench,” came the laughing reply. “But give us a kiss first. Hah!”
There was a great crash in the bushes and out from between two trees tumbled a large man, his right hand still gripping a great Heilesheim pike, with an even larger, most bizarre woman riding him down. The man fell onto his back with a loud thump and an oath, while the woman, who was dressed in scorched men’s clothing, clouted him about the ears with all her might.
George the miller’s son got his kiss, but his left ear was bleeding by the time he finally managed to hurl fat Marta off himself. The hefty would-be warrior staggered to her feet, then her gaze took in the little man and the elf who had blundered into them.
Marta formed her fists and turned slightly, her feet spread wide apart, so she could face both George and these newcomers. “Friends or foes of Argolia?” she challenged.
“Friends,” Bagsby called back, breaking into laughter despite himself. “And who might you be?”
“My name is Marta from Shallowford in Dunsford, and this is a Heilesheim beast!” she said, shaking a fist in George’s direction.
“Not no more I ain’t,” George declared.
“How’s that?” Bagsby inquired.
“I killed a Heilesheim noble and earned myself an ‘anging, that’s ‘ow,” George said.
“What?” Marta asked, her face forming a scowl.
“That’s what I been tryin’ to tell you,” George said. “I’m a deserter. I got no more love for Heilesheim now than you do.”
Bagsby had stopped laughing, for now he recognized this woman, the same one he had seen in King Harold’s council chambers on a day that already seemed long ago. Apparently she had fought in the battle alongside the Argolian footmen.
“Marta,” Bagsby asked, “what are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to kill the Black Prince and all who serve him,” the feisty woman snarled, still eyeing George with no little distrust.
“Then you’d better fall in with us,” Bagsby offered. “There’s no use trying to get back north now.”
“And where are you going?” George asked. “Are you deserters too?”
“Of a sort,” Bagsby admitted. “We’re going south. We’re going to strike a blow against Valdaimon, Ruprecht’s wizard.”
Shulana reached out and grabbed Bagsby’s arm. “Are you mad?” she whispered. “You can’t trust these strange people.”
“There are few people I trust more than those out for revenge,” Bagsby said, gesturing toward Marta, “and cutthroats and scoundrels,” he added, gesturing toward George. “The former have but one purpose and can be trusted to try to carry it out. The latter may have any purpose, but it is always to serve themselves. They too, can be counted on to be most predictable.” Bagsby laughed again. He was beginning, he thought, to feel like his old self.
“Will there be killing and plunder, and will I be under orders from some knight?” George asked.
“Yes to the first question, no to the second,” Bagsby said. “Just a bunch of hardy thieves out to foil an enemy of all men.”
“I’m no thief,” Marta insisted indignantly.
“Oh no?” Bagsby said. “Then where did you get your weapons and armor?”
Marta lowered her eyes. “Sometimes a poor widow is forced to do a few things...”
Bagsby roared with laughter. “Look, Shulana, only twenty minutes back into the thief business, and I’ve a great gang already!”
In the treetops high above, a ragged black crow echoed back Bagsby’s laughter.
Dragonspawn
A SINGLE SHOUT from Nebuchar, who actually emerged from the tiny room, which served him as business office, eating quarters, and even sleeping quarters, stilled the commotion in his tavern. The usual band of cutthroats, thieves, and murderers quickly fell silent when the most powerful leader of all vice and crime in the Land Between the Rivers made it clear that their racket was disturbing his rest. He was even more angry to learn that the ruckus was caused by a bird that had flown into the tavern. Every vagabond and roughneck in the place had tried to kill the thing.
Nebuchar held out his arm and the scraggly feathered, fat crow landed on it at once. The big man retreated to his tiny sanctuary and placed the bird on the small table, where it cocked its head, looked at him, and cawed loudly.
“All right, enough,” Nebuchar growled. “Just a minute.”
From a plain wooden box that sat by the foot of his chair he withdrew the vial of blue liquid that Valdaimon had given him. How badly, he wondered, did he want Bagsby dead? Badly enough to risk being poisoned by Valdaimon? He placed the vial on the table by the bird. His fingers felt cold. He stared at the bottle and rubbed them. He had not become the greatest lord of crime in the human world by not knowing when to trust and when not to trust, he told himself. Valdaimon wanted Bagsby dead as much as he did. Therefore, he probably wouldn’t poison Nebuchar until that job was done.
“Bah!” the man said. He grabbed the vial, yanked out the cork, and downed the potion in a single gulp.
The crow cawed again, but this time Nebuchar heard his name.
“Nebuchar,” the bird repeated.
“Tell me of Bagsby,” Nebuchar demanded.
“He is coming here, to see you.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
“Is he alone?” Nebuchar asked, still hardly able to believe that Bagsby would risk coming to Kala.
“No.”
Nebuchar grunted. Obviously the crow only gave the information you asked for.
“Who is with him?”
“An elf, a soldier, and a fat woman,” the bird said plainly.
“What else can you tell me?” Nebuchar gruffly demanded.
“I’m hungry.”
“Here, sit in my hand, and I’ll feed you,” Nebuchar said.
The crow obediently hopped into the man’s outstretched palm. Nebuchar closed his hand and squeezed. The bird kicked and clawed and cawed, but to no avail. In seconds its insides were crushed. Nebuchar twisted its neck with his free hand to finish it off. That, he thought, would teach Valdaimon a lesson.
Far away, in another realm of reality, entered through a gemstone in this world, the slumbering soul of Valdaimon stirred uneasily. Something, his partial consciousness realized, was wrong. But what? What? Then his soul sank back into the blackness of the rest of the undead.
The journey to Kala had taken three weeks. During that time, Bagsby thought, his little band had molded together quite nicely. George, it turned out, had a strong talent for throat cutting with the dagger and goring with the pike, a talent Bagsby had occasion to make use of more than once. He also had a weakness for women, which was a weakness Bagsby could respect. That George’s particular weakness was for women of stout build had caused Bagsby and Shulana considerable relief and Marta no end of grief, which she had voiced loudly whenever it was safe to do so.
That had not been often. Traveling through the countryside, avoiding the roads, hiding, stealing food when necessary, and fighting the occasional Heilesheim man-at-arms who discovered them was a dangerous business, and there had not been much time for careless chatter. There was even less time now that they were in Kala.