DW01 Dragonspawn (18 page)

“I’m to send you to the front, now! Start marching! The lot of you—go on now! Sir Otto’s orders!” Bagsby bellowed.

“Wait a minute, wait a minute!” the first guard rejoined. “That treasure ain’t gone nowhere, see? It’s right ‘ere in this wagon.” The guard’s firm declaration elicited a chorus of affirmations from his fellow guards, who had now approached Bagsby in a cautious ring, their long spears pointed skyward as they relaxed their guard to see the outcomes of this conversation.

“Then maybe you can explain why the enemy is riding off the field of battle with them golden eggs, plain as day, throwing taunts back at us,” Bagsby said sarcastically. “Maybe you’d like to explain that to Sir Otto yourself.”

“Well, maybe I would,” the guard shouted back. “I’m telling you, that there treasure is ‘ere in this wagon, right where it belongs, where we been guardin’ it, and it ain’t gone nowhere.”

Bagsby threw his hands in the air as if exasperated by dealing with a complete fool. “All right, all right, have it your way. You say the treasure is safe inside that there wagon?”

“That’s right. It’s right ‘ere, inside this ‘ere wagon.”

“All right, all right. I’m a reasonable man; I don’t want to see you boys ‘anged for no good reason—although them is me orders, you understand, to bring the lot of you to the front for an ‘angin’,” Bagsby said. “Show us the treasure, then,” he demanded.

“An ‘angin’?” the chorus of guards echoed. Exhortations broke out among the suddenly white-faced men.

“Go on then, show ‘im, Alfred,” pleaded one man. “Right, show ‘im, Alfred. That treasure is in that wagon.” Similar cries were echoed by all the guards, until Alfred, both frightened and angry, held up his arms for silence.

“Right then, right!” he said. “I’ll show ‘im the treasure, all right. C’mon back ‘ere, you, and just you take a look inside this wagon.” The guard stomped back to the rear of the wagon, loosened the iron chain that held the back gate shut, lowered the gate, climbed up on it, and threw back the flap of the canvas top. “C’mon, it’s right in ‘ere,” he called to Bagsby.

Bagsby hopped up onto the gate and peered into the wagon. The interior was loaded with wooden barrels, reinforced with iron hoops.

“I don’t see no treasure,” Bagsby said, folding his arms and looking the guard coldly in the eye.

“Of course not,” the guard said, with a look that indicated Bagsby must be the stupidest man in Sir Otto’s service. “You don’t think we’d leave it lyin’ about out in the open, now, do you? It’s in them two barrels in the middle. ‘Arder to get at, that way.”

“Well, then, let’s go open ‘em,” Bagsby said, stepping into the wagon bed.

“Aaaggghhh,”
the guard grunted. He tossed his great spear down to another guard, raised his hands, and rolled his eyes, as if to say to the large crowd that had gathered around the sight, What does it take to convince this fool? Then he turned and followed Bagsby into the wagon.

Bagsby already had his dagger out, digging at the lid of the first barrel. The guard joined in the effort, prying at the iron hoop that held the lid tight, until at last the slab of wood rattled loose. Then the two dagger blades slid between the lid and the side of the barrel, and the top lifted off.

“There!” the guard said, triumph on his face. “There’s one of them golden eggs.”

Bagsby stared at the contents of the barrel. The sides and bottom were lined with loosely packed cotton to cradle the contents. And poking up from the packing was the gleaming gold top of what appeared to be a large, golden nodule in the shape of an egg, fully three feet tall when stood on its end. A ring of gemstones was set near the top of the egg, and fine lines of some design were etched in the gold. Bagsby caught his breath. This was it! Then he noticed the play of the faint light from the rear of the wagon in one of the diamonds.

“Bring that out on the gate where I can see it in the light,” Bagsby ordered. He turned and walked back out to the gate, leaving the exasperated guard to obey.

“All right, you bloody bastard, I’ll lug it out there. Don’t think to give me an ‘and; I’ll manage all right by me self,” the guard groused. Tugging and straining, the guard worked the large barrel through the narrow wagon bed to the lowered gate.

As soon as the open barrel was in the clear daylight Bagsby knew the mission was for nothing. He glared at the top of the egg and the gems embedded in it, thinking quickly. Was it better to accept the guard’s “proof” that the treasure was here, or was it better to create chaos? His own recent experiences in command led Bagsby to opt for chaos.

“See, the treasure!” the guard was proclaiming to the crowd and his very concerned fellows.

“That ain’t the treasure,” Bagsby said indignantly.

“What!” the guard screamed. “You can see it! What in all the bloody ‘ells of a ‘undred gods do you mean?”

“I mean, that ain’t the treasure,” Bagsby said, drawing his dagger again and gripping it around the pommel with the blade pointed upward. “See them diamonds there?” he asked the guard.

“Yeah, I sees ‘em,” the guard replied.

“Watch,” Bagsby said. He lowered the dagger in a savage blow, using the pommel like a hammer to strike one of the large gems. The alleged diamond shattered into a hundred fragments. “You ever see a diamond break from a man’s blow?” Bagsby asked. “That’s glass. These gems is fake, and so is this egg. That ain’t even real gold, not more than a tiny bit thick,” he added, scratching the surface of the egg with the dagger blade. The gold plate, thinner than a hair, peeled off, revealing dull iron. “No wonder that barrel was so ‘eavy, mate. That there egg is iron, not gold.”

“By all the gods,” the stunned man said, “it’s true.” He looked up, casting helpless eyes on his fellow guards. “This ‘ere egg is a fake,” he said simply.

Bagsby struck his dagger pommel again against the side of the egg, which emitted a metallic ring.

“‘Ollow, too,” he said. “Now, you lot ready to come with me?”

Howls of protest emerged from the guards, who expressed their dismay, their disbelief, and their protestations of innocence. Bagsby let the din continue while the crowd listened with growing horror. At length, he held up his hand for silence.

“All right, then, I know what you’re startin’ to think. But killin’ me won’t make that iron egg into a gold one, will it? An’ if I ain’t back to the front soon with some kind of report, there’ll be ‘ell to pay, there will. Them lords’ll come back ‘ere soon, lookin’ for their golden eggs, and when they sees ‘em gone, they’ll think somebody ‘ere swiped ‘em. They’ll blame the lot o’ you,” Bagsby declared. He gestured broadly out over the crowd of camp followers. “Not just these guards, mind you, but the lot of you!”

As Bagsby had hoped, the result was pandemonium. The crowd of camp followers turned into a frightened mob, screaming, running, looting the wagons, and scattering into the forest with whatever their arms could carry. The guards looked at one another, then at Alfred, then at Bagsby.

“Well,” Bagsby said. “Go on then. It’s better to disappear than to ‘ang. I know you lot didn’t do it, and I’m an okay sort, see? You take off, and I’ll cover it some’ow.”

The guards scattered. Within ten minutes the wagons were stripped of the bulk of their goods and Bagsby sat alone on the tailgate of the treasure wagon, with not another human soul to be seen or heard.

The instant he was certain he was alone, Bagsby ran to the already ransacked third wagon. As he had expected, the personal papers of Sir Otto—his maps and a large book of loose sheets covered with Sir Otto’s scrawl—were untouched. Bagsby picked up this loot and began walking south. A glance at just a few pages of Sir Otto’s notes were enough to prove to any sane man that the Heilesheim troops were also spies. Bagsby closed the book and picked up his pace. He had to make his way back through enemy lines, catch up to the remains of his own force, and get word to King Harold to close the borders.

Of course, he thought, he’d been a fool. It was too obvious for the treasure to be in a heavily guarded convoy. A snake like Valdaimon would never have done anything so risky and so simple. No, Bagsby thought, the treasure is right now somewhere where no one would think to look for it; probably near the southern border of Argolia on its way to Valdaimon’s hands. The little thief shook his head in disbelief. He must be getting old, he thought. He’d been duped twice in one day, and lost both a battle and a treasure.

Surprising Outcomes

BAGSBY’S
victory parade through Clairton was as great a surprise to him as it was to the four assassins, paid by Nebuchar, who had been scouring the city for him. The family Pendargon, too, privately voiced considerable shock when, as the triumphal procession of the Second Company of the Royal Guard marched through the square nearest their spacious home, young Reynaldo recognized the Guard commander as none other than the swindler who had conned him out of four hundred crowns not many days ago.

The victory had been even a greater surprise to Bagsby. It had taken Bagsby almost a day to circle the enemy forces and return safely to his own small command; by the time he arrived, Sir Otto von Berne had negotiated terms of surrender with Sir John! The Heilesheim force, having discovered themselves deep in what was clearly now enemy territory, with no supplies and with a major army gathering south of Clairton, was forced to seek terms. The only alternative would have been to try to survive in hostile territory without food or vital supplies, surrounded by a vastly superior foe. Sir John, valiant in battle but not overaggressive at the negotiating table, had agreed to accept the surrender of the Heilesheim force’s arms. In exchange he extended a promise that the entire force could march unmolested out of Argolia. Further, each Heilesheim man-at-arms and knight was made to swear an oath before Wojan that he would not bear arms against Argolia for the duration of the current conflict. Bagsby had merely ratified the agreement upon his return to his own force, where he had been hailed as a hero, revered as something of a military genius, and suspected of being that rarest of rare things, a human wizard with prowess in physical combat.

Sir John of Elamshire, who had pondered as hard as his sore knightly brain would allow on the strangeness of his commander, found the courage to give voice to the new assessment the knights had of Bagsby. When he had returned to camp, Bagsby had set things in order to his satisfaction, dispatched a rider to the king with the captured documents and instructions to quickly close the southern border, and retired to his tent for the night. Sir John had begged permission to enter.

“Come,” Bagsby had called in answer to Sir John’s entreaties.

The knight, still in full battle gear, had stepped hesitatingly into the tent, where Bagsby sprawled, exhausted, on his bed, with Shulana seated cross-legged on the floor by his side. “My lord,” Sir John had begun.

“Speak your speech, Sir John,” Bagsby had said wearily. “I am tired and need to sleep.”

“My lord, on behalf of the company, I have come to... say—to say that... well, we had thought, my lord, prior to the battle, that my lord was, well—”

“You had thought,” Bagsby had interjected, “that I was a fool who knew not what he did. You also doubted my prowess at arms, given that my defeat of yourself in personal combat was, as you thought it, unconventional.”

Sir John’s face beamed. He nodded. “You understand perfectly, my lord.”

“And now that I have single-handedly caused the destruction of the enemy’s supply train and forced his surrender,” Bagsby had droned on in a fatigued monotone, “your estimation of me is quite different.”

“Just so!” Sir John had agreed. “By the gods, you are a man of understanding.”

“A tired man of understanding,” Bagsby had said, yawning.

“Your wizardry tires you,” Sir John had suggested.

“Wizardry?” Bagsby had asked, forcing himself to sit up in bed as the back of his brain felt the approach of danger in that remark.

“The magical fire,” Sir John had explained.

“My lord does not discuss magic with those who do not practice it,” Shulana had said quietly.

Bagsby had quickly nodded his agreement.

“Well, no harm intended,” Sir John had said agreeably.

“None done. And may our future relationship be one not only of commander and his second in command,” Bagsby had said, confirming Sir John’s de facto role, “but also one of friendship. Now go, good Sir John, before I rudely fall asleep in your presence.”

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!”