DW01 Dragonspawn (11 page)

The results were decisive. The savage horsemen thundered into the scattered, fleeing men, sowing death and devastation with lance and sword, mace and morning star. A few of Dunsford’s braver knights turned, swords in hand, and tried to stand against the charging horsemen; but such gestures were hopeless acts of courage. A few managed to get in a symbolic sword stroke at an enemy as he galloped past, then dropped their swords and offered cries of “I yield!” to the next passing knight.

Such as tried this time-honored course were stabbed and trampled as the knights of the Fifth Legion reminded themselves of their training with shouts of “No prisoners! No prisoners!” The mounted knights hacked, slashed, stabbed, and clubbed their way through the mass of fleeing men until at last they gained the crest of the opposite hill, where they dismounted and began systematically looting the enemy camp.

On the field below, the foot soldiers were doing the same, stripping the dead of Dunsford’s force of anything of value, leaving the corpses to lie naked in the cold spring sun. George, having single-handedly killed a knight—and a rich one at that—did very well for himself.

“Lookie ‘ere, Frederick!” he called across the field as the soldiers of the first battle, having reaped the fruits of victory, lolled about on the field, resting, making fires, and hacking steaks of horsemeat from the mounts of their slain foes. “Lookie ‘ere!”

“What did you get, George?” Frederick asked, his eyes wide as George approached with his arms laden with a pile of glinting loot. “Show me!”

“First, there’s this here cloak. A fine one, see, thick and heavy, made of wool, with gold and silver thread worked into the seams at the edges and a fine coat of arms,” George said, tossing aside his pile and spreading the cloak on the hard ground. “Look, ‘ere’s where my sword went through—a big slash, but I’ll wager some fat Dunsford cow can fix it.” George turned his head, staring for a moment at the source of a continuous wailing moan. “What’s he on about? Why don’t you kill him?” he asked, pointing.

Frederick followed George’s finger to where a large man, stripped naked to the waist, lay trapped under a dead horse. The man sweated and moaned and cried out, but all ignored him.

“Oh, that’s old Dunsford. Nobody dares kill ‘im; the higher-ups’Il want him, I wager.”

“Yeah, yeah, I see,” George replied. He grabbed another item from his pile. “And this clasp for that cloak—it’s gold, Frederick!”

Frederick seized the clasp in his rough, blood- and dirt-covered hands. He raised it to his mouth and bit at the thinnest part. “By the gods, it is gold, George; it is!”

“Aye, and that’s not all. Look at this.” George retrieved the late Sir Richard’s sword from the treasure heap. It was a finely made longsword crafted in the Rhanguild lands, with a blade honed to razor sharpness. The pommel was ebony, ending in a large ball with a ring of tiny, gleaming stones that fractured the sunlight into a rainbow.

“Diamonds!” Frederick exclaimed. “Them’s diamonds.”

“Aye. And there’s this armor, which might be mended, a good tunic I could wear to any temple, and a fine suit of woolen unders.”

A loud scream of agony from Dunsford interrupted George.

“Shut up, you bloody damned cripple!” George shouted. “You’ll be dead soon enough.” He turned his attention back to his loot. “Now these mailed boots,” George said, rummaging through his pile, “don’t fit me—too little. See if you can use ‘em. If you can, you can have ‘em.”

Awed, Frederick scrambled after the boots and, with a mighty shove, forced one foot into one. “They fits good, George,” he said hopefully. “Say, ‘ere, ‘ave a bit of this horse steak with me,” he added, pointing toward the hunk of meat hanging from a stick over the fire he had built.

“Thanks, Frederick. I’m a bit hungry after this morning’s work.”

George pulled out his dagger and roughly cut a hunk of the rare, juicy meat. He popped it in his mouth and chewed vigorously. The hot red juices streamed from the sides of his mouth down his stubbly chin. “Hmm, not bad,” he commented.

A fanfare of trumpets interrupted the feasting and looting of the Fifth Legion. The drummers were the first to their feet, running for the large kettledrums on which they beat the march and command cadences. A second trumpet blast sounded, and drummers formed a rough line and began beating the signal for “stand to.” All over the field the happy, if tired, warriors of the Fifth obediently, but with a bit of grumbling, dropped meals and piles of loot. They grabbed their weapons and began falling in. In less than two minutes the entire legion was back in block formation, and Karl of Sudland, mounted on his charger, stood at its head, looking to the rear and watching the approaching riders.

He recognized Culdus first; then he made out the smaller figure, magnificently clad in gleaming, full plate armor with a tunic of snow-white satin overlaid with the arms of the House of Heilesheim in threads of scarlet, blue, black, silver, and gold.

“Men of the Fifth, prepare to salute!” Karl shouted. “The lord general comes! The king comes!”

A great shout arose from the Fifth. Their huge spears were lifted high in the sky, and a celebratory volley of arrows was loosed. Culdus and Ruprecht galloped up to Karl, their right arms raised in acknowledgment of the legion’s clamorous salute.

While the shouting continued, Culdus extended his right arm to Karl, who grasped it at the elbow.

“Well done! Well done, indeed!” Culdus said with enthusiasm. “Your triumph on this field was witnessed from yon hill not only by myself but by His Majesty.”

“Yes. We are most pleased,” Ruprecht said with a cold nod. The king turned his mount to face the center of the legion’s front line and lifted both arms high, a sign of celebration and also a call for silence.

“Men of the Fifth Legion,” he shouted, “hear me!”

The tumult was quickly replaced by silence, broken only by the continued wailing of one wounded man who lay beneath a dead horse a short distance from the king.

“You have done well. Victory is yours. As your king, I award you the spoils of this field.” This announcement was greeted with another clamorous shout.

Again the king called silence, and again the tumult died down.

“The armies of Dunsford are broken forever,” the king declared. “This land is now a conquest of Heilesheim and shall be part of our realm. But as punishment for its resistance, it shall suffer. Hear me well, soldiers of the Fifth; for your role in this conquest, Dunsford shall be yours. You may take what you will of food, wine, ale, and women. And each may take as much loot from any house or any village as that one man can carry!”

Not even the king’s repeated calls for silence could still the cry that arose from the foot soldiers upon hearing that announcement. It was a soldier’s dream: an entire province laid open for their plunder.

But still the wails and moans of Dunsford himself threaded their way through the shouts to the king’ s ear. He leaned forward to Karl.

“Who is that moaning knight over there, and why is he alive? Did I not order that all were to be put to the sword?”

“Aye, Your Majesty,” Karl replied. “That is the Count of Dunsford himself. I spared him only so that Your Majesty could have pleasure as desired before he is dispatched.”

“Ah,” Ruprecht answered. “Well done.” The king guided his steed over to the fallen, wounded count and looked down at his agonized countenance. “You rejected my demands, and now you are beaten,” the haughty youth said. “What last requests, old warrior, would you make?”

Blood and white foam already flecked the count’s lips as he spat his reply. “A quick and honorable death.”

“I grant you a quick death,” Ruprecht said. “But...” He paused, thinking. “Honorable? I think not.”

Suddenly inspired, the king rode back to his legion and pointed a finger at a random soldier. “You there! Yes, you!” the king called. “Go kill me that rebel!”

George the miller’s son shrugged off his fear and broke from the ranks, running at the side of the king’s horse over to the fallen count.

“See, Count Dunsford, you shall die at the hands of a commoner!” the king crowed. High-pitched, squealing laughter erupted from the pale youth’s mouth. “Kill him,” he shouted at George. “Stick him like a pig!”

George nodded. He gripped his huge spear high up, nearly five feet from the butt end of the shaft. He raised it so the back end rested on his shoulder and pointed the tip slightly down. Then, lunging forward, he rammed the business end straight into the count’s skull. The point penetrated all the way into the cold ground, impaling the broken head upon the earth. Brains oozed out around the shaft of the spear that protruded from the hole in the man’s head. George released his grip on the spear; it stood upright on its own, as if to direct the eyes of heaven toward the brutal scene upon the earth.

The king’s shrieking laughter grew even louder, and a cheer went up from the Fifth Legion. George drew his breath in shallow pants. He had killed a count. Today, he had killed first a knight and now a count! A broad smile broke over George’s face, and he raised his countenance to his laughing king.

“Lookie ‘ere, Your Majesty,” he shouted above the tumult. “These ‘ ere nobles bleed and die just as easy as any soldier!”

The king continued to laugh, ignoring the man’s remark. But for an instant, Culdus felt icy tongs grab at his heart, and a thrill of terror ran through him. The feeling lasted only an instant, and he could not understand its origin. He shrugged it off, but later, he would ponder that moment deeply.

Sir John Wolfe, the son of the Count of Nordingham in the distant kingdom of Pantania, known to most of the world outside Clairton as Bagsby the thief, laughed heartily, slapped the giggling serving wench on her plump behind, and drained another mug of wine in three great gulps. A cheer went up from his dozen noble companions, a lusty cheer led by the Viscount Marco D’ Alonzo, who believed he owed to this multitalented visiting gentleman nothing less than his very life.

The viscount’s misguided belief had resulted in a great windfall for Bagsby. In gratitude, the viscount had opened his own credit in the best gambling clubs of the city to Sir John Wolfe’s draw, and he had done the same with the finer merchants. Bagsby, in his role of Sir John, was meeting the highest nobility of the city, enjoying wine, women, clothes, gambling, and all the pleasures of the idle rich. He had only to stay alert enough to foil the next troop of assassins sent by Nebuchar.

For that reason he sat at a long table in a far corner, his back against the join of two walls, so that the natural direction of his gaze took in the main entrance to the establishment. He had, as a matter of routine, already planned three routes of exit for himself in the event of trouble. But the evening was merry, and thoughts of trouble were flying further and further from Bagsby’s mind.

The viscount was not a bad sort, Bagsby thought. He was typical of the higher city nobles. His family had made a fortune about a century ago in the merchant banking business. Kings always needed money, and they were willing to exchange titles for it. Hence there had arisen, in Clairton and other wealthy cities throughout the Holy Alliance, a breed of idle, wealthy courtiers, living off inherited wealth and enjoying purchased titles. These men provided a few services to their kingdoms; as far as Bagsby was concerned, they were worth having simply for decorative purposes at court. A few, like Marco D’ Alonzo, were actually educated—they could read and work numbers, and they could tell stories about the great empires of the past gleaned from their youthful reading of ancient books.

But most of all, these men were fun. Bagsby glanced around the table and loved what he saw: laughing men, men of polish and wit, men clothed in brilliant silks and rich furs, men interchanging sly allusions to the classics with a touch of bawdy wit. By the gods, Bagsby thought, it is good to be alive!

And it’s good to be a hero, he noted to himself.

“Another toast to this noble gentleman who combines wit with decisive action,” D’ Alonzo was saying, raising aloft his mug. “Sir John, I salute you with gratitude.”

“No, no,” Bagsby interjected, leaping to his feet and swiping the viscount’s mug from his hand. “I forbid any more tributes to my humble self. I am but a grateful guest of your lordship, and did no more than any honorable man of any station would do in the same situation.”

“Hah!” the viscount interrupted. “My servants told me you were swinging from window to tree to balcony on a rope improvised from the sheets of your bed. A dagger toss dropped one assassin, and the second you wounded with the first’s bow—and all in the blinking of an eye. No false modesty, Sir John.”

Bagsby raised his hands with palms forward and tilted his head to one side, averting his eyes from the approving stares of the assembled lords. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I risk an accusation of ingratitude by daring to disagree with my gracious host. But I must insist that this salute go to the Viscount Marco D’ Alonzo, a man of distinguished family, whose services to the crown of Argolia are such that some enemy, as yet unknown, thought it essential to slay him. A man whom the enemies of his country would slay should be honored by his countrymen.” Bagsby raised the mug in the viscount’s direction and smiled. “I give you that most valuable servant of His Majesty, the King of Argolia, the Viscount Marco D’ Alonzo. Long life and noble service!”

“D’ Alonzo!” came the joyous answer from the lords, and more draughts were drained.

“It may be, Sir John,” wagged one of the looser tongues of the assembly, “that the unknown enemy you name has shown his hand and his identity already.”

“Eh?” Bagsby responded. Concerned glances shot back forth and up and down the table. The idle rich did not welcome serious talk in the midst of their carouses. Still, Bagsby knew it was essential for him to know everything relevant to his cover story. “What enemy is that?”

“Have you not heard? The Black Prince of Heilesheim has marched an army against the Count of Dunsford. It is only a matter of time until Dunsford’s envoys arrive at our court to ask for aid under the terms of the Holy Alliance,” the drunken lord explained.