DW01 Dragonspawn (13 page)

“Get on with it,” Bagsby interrupted again. “These dwarves found exactly what?”

“They found nodules of gold,” the sage snapped. “They were working deep in the mountains—far north of the foothills that form the border of Parona. They were in the high mountains, where the winter cold stays all through the year, and the snow never melts. That is, on the tops of the mountains. There are valleys where, it is said, the seasons turn not unlike they do here in the temperate regions.”

Bagsby began grinding his teeth.

“All right, all right. They were mining a particularly rich vein of gold when they discovered two large gold nodules.”

“What exactly do you mean by the word ‘nodules’?” Bagsby asked, leaning forward, furrowing his brow.

“The ancient dwarven texts indicate that the find consisted of two large lumps of gold, which the dwarves termed ‘nodules.’ Later, when humans saw them, they called them ‘eggs’ because of their shape. Now, these nodules were entirely smooth and appeared to be made of gold.”

“Appeared
to be?” Bagsby asked.

“Oh, yes. Even the dwarves very early determined that the nodules were, in fact, not solid gold. There is something else within them.”

“What?”

“No one knows.”

“They were entirely smooth?”

“According to the ancient texts, yes.”

“Then they were made by some intelligence,” Bagsby concluded.

“Not necessarily. The dwarves did not dwell much on that point; they were not much given to speculation, you know. But, several human authors who examined the nodules shortly after they came into human hands were divided in their opinion as to the origin of these strange objects. One school held that the gold had been formed into its peculiar shape by the same forces that shape certain solid rocks into perfect spheres. You have no doubt seen these for sale by some of our local merchants.”

“Yes. They are found near streambeds most often, and inside they contain crystals of great beauty but little real value.”

“Precisely!” the sage said, his enthusiasm returning as his listener showed some knowledge. “Now, some say the nodules were formed in the same way as these rocks.”

“And others?” Bagsby asked.

“Others put forth a multitude of theories. Some humans maintain these are part of a long-lost treasure fashioned originally by the elves, but elven authors have always denied this. Other than that, elven records that are available to us contain no mention of the nodules.”

“Very well,” Bagsby said. “The origin of the eggs is unknown. The dwarves found them a long time ago and didn’t know what they were even then. Do the dwarves today have any ideas on the subject?”

“Alas, the Odenite dwarves have passed into history. Their tribe is unknown today.”

“All right. What happened next?”

“We humans being what we are, the nodules soon found their way into human hands. I’m afraid the exact process involved both duplicity and violence that do no credit to our race.”

“Why am I not surprised? Skip the moralizing and give the facts,” Bagsby said.

“Parona, even in the days of the three ancient empires, was a well-consolidated territory with a hereditary ruling house. The nodules became the property of the kings of Parona, and the treasure has remained in their hands from that day until quite recently. Two thousand years ago some modifications were made. Skilled jewelers were hired by a particularly rich Paronan king, to engrave the surface of both eggs with a wide variety of designs. There are numerous drawings of these designs available, even in the most common sources.”

“I have seen them,” Bagsby acknowledged.

“Then you also know that these same jewelers enhanced their designs by inlaying the surface of each of the eggs with a mixture of precious stones—emeralds, diamonds, rubies, sapphires, opals, and the like. Each stone actually has a history—”

“Not important to me,” Bagsby said, “unless they bear on the magical significance of the treasure.”

The sage looked nonplussed. “Magical significance?” he asked.

“Yes,” Bagsby said casually. “What value would this treasure have to a practitioner of magic—especially to one highly skilled in the blackest secrets of magic?”

“I—I don’t know,” the sage said simply.

“Well, surely,” Bagsby pressed, “there must be something in the ancient tales that grew up around these eggs—perhaps in some of the various theories of their origin—that suggest a magical purpose.”

The sage walked back to the reading stand, perused the volume more deeply, closed it, and placed his fist against his bald brow. After a while, he said, “I know of only one reference to any magical powers the treasure may possess, and that reference tells us nothing of their significance.”

“Well, what is it?” Bagsby demanded.

“It is said that there are certain barbarians in the Great Eastern Desert who believe the Golden Eggs confer the power to call down fire from heaven—devastating, devouring fire that could consume the world. But whether this is true or not, no one knows or admits to knowing.”

Bagsby sat silently on the stool for a long while, pondering the sage’s words. The sage during this time stared intently at Bagsby. The protective dagger continued to glow and pulsate atop the reading stand.

“Now, sage,” Bagsby said quietly, breaking the long silence, “what do you know of me?”

“You are a thief,” the sage replied, just as quickly. “You desire to steal the Golden Eggs of Parona as they pass through Argolia on their way to the Kingdom of Heilesheim in the south. Why you desire to do this, I do not know.”

“What else?”

“You have enemies. The assassins you are credited about town with killing were sent for you, not for the Viscount D’ Alonzo.”

“What else?” Bagsby demanded.

“You do not know whether to kill me, buy my silence, or leave it to the gods and fate to determine what happens to me.”

Bagsby smiled and nodded. He stood, took out his coin purse, and counted out ten gold crowns. These he pressed into the sage’s palm.

“I will leave it to fate,” he said.

Bad Eggs

“AND THUS,
Your Majesty,” the Viscount Marco D’ Alonzo declaimed, “my own life was saved by this man, whose courage and noble character were proven to be above reproach. It is with great pleasure that I present to Your Majesty my guest, our guest in this our Kingdom of Argolia, Sir John Wolfe, son of the noble Count of Nordingham in the distant land of Pantania.”

Bagsby stepped forward, and with a flourish of his large, black, feather-bedecked hat, bowed deeply. He looked, he hoped, resplendent in his new red velvet doublet, trimmed with gold piping, that fit snugly and comfortably over his silver silk-over-linen tunic. His breeches, yellow with green stripes, extended down and tucked neatly into his high, shining black boots. He wore a stiff, white, full ruffled collar, and at his side hung a slim rapier. He was, he believed, the perfect court dandy in this new attire, one of several rewards extended him by the grateful, if somewhat mislead, viscount.

“We are not familiar with Pantania, Sir John,” King Harold of Argolia said in his deep and gracious voice. “If you are a fair example of the nobles bred there, we must establish relations with this kingdom.”

“Your Majesty is too kind,” Bagsby said, his head kept lowered. “I am grateful to receive such a welcome, for as a stranger far from home, deprived of my sustenance by thieves, I had no right to hope for such graciousness as Your Majesty and his loyal servant, the Viscount D’ Alonzo, have shown me.”

“Thieves and assassins are not welcome in our kingdom,” the king replied. “We are grateful to you for ridding us of two such and for saving the life of a servant dear to our heart.”

“Sadly, Your Majesty, it was necessary to kill the brigands before they could be properly interrogated.”

“Yes,” the king agreed. “That is sad. And where, did you say, exactly is the Kingdom of Pantania?”

The old boy is no fool, Bagsby thought, though at first glance, it would be easy enough to mistake him for one. The great audience hall was packed with personages of importance in the minor kingdom. Bagsby had already classified them into three groups. There were the courtiers, such as the viscount and his friends, who had money, influence, beautiful clothes, and fine houses. There were the military, the knights and lords tied to their rural lands, who still wore armor into the king’s audience chamber. From what Bagsby could tell, most of these were barely articulate, although he did not doubt their personal courage or brutality. Then there were the women, lots of women, young, beautiful, amoral, and scheming—the kind of women created by a society such as Argolia’s and the kind of women Bagsby loved. Yes, Bagsby thought, this king is surrounded by sycophants and dandies on the one hand, and armored louts on the other, but he’s no fool himself. Better be careful….

“I did not say, Your Majesty. I fear Pantania lies so far distant from Your Majesty’s fair land that there is little cause for intercourse between our two kingdoms. However, be assured that the nobles of my land share Your Majesty’s values, and that any future relations between us, limited though they may be, will be of the most cordial and courteous nature.”

“I perceive,” the king said, “you are a man of action, of wit, and of courtesy. We are pleased to have you join us in council this day, for a matter has come to our attention that will require action and wit, coated with the sweetness of courtesy.”

The king rose from the hard, uncomfortable cherry wood chair that served as a throne in his audience chamber. The court bowed as one. Brightly dressed pages scrambled to open the side doors, which led to the king’s council room, and the huge, tall doors at the far end of the audience hall, through which most of the court were expected to exit.

Bagsby could feel scores of pairs of eyes burrowing into him. The dandies, he knew, would be impressed by his costume and not a little afraid of his now-reputed prowess. Of course, he was already well regarded by the Viscount D’ Alonzo’s party. The rural lords, on the other hand, would no doubt disdain him as a dandy but grudgingly respect the fact that he had, at least, killed two villains in personal combat. Now it was time to capitalize on his position. With a nod to the viscount, he strode boldly behind the king toward the council chamber.

King Harold graciously indicated a seat for Bagsby near the end of the table farthest from the throne. In all, there were only a dozen besides Bagsby invited to join the king. Five were town dandies, six were rural lords. One was a fashionably but conservatively dressed older man who wore around his neck a large chain of office; an appointed chief councilor or administrator, Bagsby guessed.

No sooner were the doors closed and the council invited to sit than the king began.

“The situation, to put it plainly, is this. Heilesheim has invaded Dunsford, putting to the sword all who opposed their large armies,” the king said flatly. “The Count of Dunsford had appealed to us for aid under the terms of the Holy Alliance. Aid which we are honor bound to provide. However, since the time of his appeal a battle has occurred. Dunsford is dead, and his lands seized by Ruprecht of Heilesheim.”

A few murmurs broke out among the rural lords, which were quickly stifled as the king raised his arm for silence.

“There is more.” The monarch paused a moment, raised his hand to his brow, and wiped off the light sweat that had broken out. “Unseasonably hot in here,” he commented. “The window,” he added, gesturing toward the large, double windows of colored glass that opened out on a large garden. One of the courtiers sprang to his feet and threw the windows open. In the garden, flights of birds twittered and flew and hopped about in the branches of large yew trees. A single, large, scraggly crow joined the throng of finches, sparrows, robins, and cardinals, but its presence went unnoticed by the humans in the council chamber.

“Thank you, Lord Gilford,” the king acknowledged as the courtier scrambled back to his seat. The monarch leaned forward, his gaze intense. “We have received information from our scrying,” he announced.

The murmurs rose again, louder this time from the rural lords, and the court dandies twisted uncomfortably in their seats.

“Do not disdain the use of magic to protect your own purses and your own lands, my lords,” the king said, his voice suddenly edged with anger. “Wizards may be vile creatures, but I would use the vilest things on the earth to protect this realm. If you are loyal subjects, you will do the same when I bid it.”

The room fell silent. Bagsby noticed that the very mention of magic made the lords jumpy, and he saw a chance to enhance his own position.

“Your Majesty,” he said, standing and bowing his head. “If I may intrude with a sudden thought...?”

The king nodded his permission.

“I know nothing of magic, save that it often works. If it works to protect your realm, I applaud it. However, I have one worry: if Your Majesty’s wizards can scry the enemy through their great crystal globes, cannot the enemy scry Your Majesty? Indeed, might we not be under magical observations, even as we speak?”

The courtiers exchanged nervous glances as the implications of Bagsby’s words sank in. The rural lords said nothing; each stared dead ahead, their faces grim and growing pale.

“Well spoken, Sir John,” the king replied, “and an intelligent observation. Be assured that our court wizard has given his word that this room cannot be scried, for he has placed invisible magical wards and protections upon it that no form of magical seeing or hearing can penetrate.”

“I should have known,” Bagsby said quickly, “that Your Majesty would have so provided for the security of his deliberations.” He bowed his head again, and sat quietly. He noticed with some pleasure the king’s admiration for his intelligence and the continued discomfiture of the lords, who seemed no happier with the thought that there were invisible “protections” around them than with the thought of enemy scrying.

“Now, thanks to the magic you nobles so much despise,” King Harold said, “I know that the Heilesheim forces are divided into three groups. One group marches west from Dunsford. As we speak it stands on the border of Alban. This force consists of more than twenty and four thousands.”

“Twenty and four thousands!” a rural lord exclaimed, leaping to his feet. “Could there be that many knights in all of Heilesheim?”

“Their number is mostly footmen,” the king said simply. “A force of similar size has already marched eastward out of Dunsford and crossed the border into the County of Kala, where it clearly makes for the Tower of Asbel.”

“Forty-eight thousands,” a courtier muttered.

“But footmen,” one of the rural lords sneered.

“Your Majesty, have Alban and Kala also appealed for aid under the terms of the Holy Alliance?” Viscount D’ Alonzo asked politely.

“Their envoys have already crossed our borders. We expect to receive them by the morrow,” the king replied. “But these attacks on our neighbors are not the greatest threat. A third force, some twelve thousand strong and—” the king turned to glance at the lord who had sneered at the notion of foot soldiers—“the same force of footmen that vanquished an army of four thousand under Dunsford, has struck deep into the County of the Wyche, and even now is approaching its border with Argolia.”

“For the gods, for the right, and for King Harold!” shouted the lord who had suffered the king’s mild rebuke, standing and drawing his great bastard sword. “And death to the usurper Ruprecht of Heilesheim!”

The rural lords cheered aloud, thumped their fists on the table, and cried out, “War! War!” The city nobles also rose, and with restrained bows of their heads, acknowledged the sentiment of their rural peers. But it was clear from their silent, grim faces that if there was to be war, the city nobles had little enthusiasm for it.

King Harold rose and again called for silence with upraised arms. “My lords,” the monarch said with a nod to the armored, rural contingent, “I appreciate your enthusiasm. But, officially, it is my duty to point out that Heilesheim, too, appeals for our aid, claiming that the smaller counties are to blame for the current conflict for their refusal to certain just and reasonable demands made upon them by the Heilesheim crown.”

The rural lords glowered with anger. The king nodded; they were no more impressed by Ruprecht’s excuses for aggression than he was.

“As for you, my lords,” the king added, turning to stare down the row of city nobles, “I think you should understand what fate awaits your cities and your fortunes should Heilesheim gain a victory in the field.” The king lifted his head toward the far door of the council room. “Guards,” he shouted, “send in the poor wretch.”

Two royal men-at -arms thrust open the door. Through it walked with forced dignity an obese, lower-class townswoman, dressed in a plain white gown that tied behind the neck. She awkwardly made her curtsy to the king as the door slammed behind her.

“I believe,” King Harold said gently, “your name is Marta.”

Fat Marta, her head down and eyes averted as she had been instructed, nodded.

“This woman was the only survivor of Heilesheim’s first act in this campaign of aggression, the seizure of the town of Shallowford on the Rigel in Dunsford,” the king explained. “Marta, kindly tell my lords here what happened to your village and what is now happening throughout Dunsford.”

The fat woman drew a deep breath. She had never spoken in the presence of a king before. But when she raised her head to speak, every man in the room could see the determined hatred burning in her brown eyes.

“They came to Shallowford before dawn,” she began. “Knights, lords, and foot soldiers. Our men had no chance to resist. Most of the villagers were still asleep when the murdering scum fired their houses. When the people ran out into the street, archers shot them down. Except for the three better houses in town. I lived in one of them. These the knights came to. They butchered everyone—men, women, babies. They took everything they could carry. Then they left.”

An embarrassed silence hung in the air as Marta paused to collect her thoughts. That knights should attack commoners was unthinkable to the lords of Argolia; knights should fight only knights. A knight who attacked a peasant would lose his honor. Worse, to despoil a prosperous village was stupidity; who would till the fields, gather the crops, and pay the taxes? Only men who had lost all sense of control over their vilest instincts would conduct war in such a way.

“They were about to kill me, too,” Marta continued, “when one of the knights said, ‘Let’s save this one for the Black Prince’s amusement.’ They beat me, then dragged me by the hair through the burning village to the place where he sat, mounted on his big war-horse, watching it all.”

“Where who sat, Marta?” the king interjected softly.

“Ruprecht, the Black Prince. I’ll be damned to all the torments of all the gods before I call that murdering swine a king,” Marta snapped.

Shouts of “Well said!” erupted from the rural lords.

“Then he said he wanted me to take a message to my lord the Count Dunsford,” Marta went on as stillness settled over the room again. “He said he wanted Dunsford to know what would happen if all his demands weren’t met.” Marta paused and raised her chubby arms. Her fat fingers pulled at the ties of her gown behind her neck. “Then,” she said, turning her back to her audience and letting the top of the gown drop, “he did this to me.”

The eyes of the nobles grew wide with horror as they gazed upon the sign of the dragon branded into the flesh of Marta’s broad back. Bagsby dropped involuntarily back into his chair, his eyes shut tight, his fists clenched, and his taut muscles trembling as a wave of uncontrollable rage swept over him. The sign of the dragon, with its outstretched wings, had been branded on him as well, only his brand was deep within the recesses of his mind in a place where he seldom let his consciousness wander.

Marta stood erect, tied her gown, and turned to face her audience once again. “Now,” she went on in a calm, cold voice, “Dunsford is a wasteland. What happened at Shallowford the Black Prince lets his men do everywhere, to every village. There is nothing but rape, murder, pillage, and waste. Dunsford is made a desert.” Marta paused, thinking. From the looks of the assembled lords, she had made her point. These men were not lazy and were not cowards, she thought. They would do the right thing. It was time to be still, she decided. “With Your Majesty’s leave, that is all I have to say,” Marta concluded.