DW01 Dragonspawn (17 page)

“Lead on to glory, Sir John!” Bagsby howled above the din of the charge.

Sir John nodded, his face aglow with battle lust. He spurred his mount to even greater speed, and tilted the great banner slightly forward. Bagsby slowly reined back his own mount, letting the three waves of knights overtake and pass him. It’s their show now, he thought. But, by the gods! He wished he knew the meaning of that continued, damnable drumming.

From the rear of his own lines, where he finally brought his mount to a halt, Bagsby could see little of the battle that quickly developed. As his charging lines approached to within two hundred yards of the enemy, he heard a second great shout rise from his own men. From the rear, he saw his own lines surge forward with even greater speed, as the knights pressed their horses for the last measure of speed. Abruptly, the sound of drumming from the enemy’s side of the field ceased. His knights continued to surge forward, and Bagsby held his breath, awaiting the sound of the great clash that must come momentarily.

Instead, he heard screams, shouts, and curses. From the rear of his own lines, he saw his knights charge forward, then suddenly slow and begin to mill about in a confused mass. Some steeds reared on their hind legs, throwing riders to the ground. Knights disgustedly tossed their lances to the ground, drew their swords, and disappeared into the mass of horses and men, only to emerge again, cursing, raging, and furiously spurring the flanks of their horses, but with no response. Something, Bagsby realized, was very wrong. Then that drumming began again, slower this time, and the mass of Bagsby’s men—a confused swirl of horses, men, and weapons—began slowly backing toward Bagsby.

Bagsby considered his options. He could ride forward, see what was the matter, and try to correct the situation. He could flee; neither the war nor Shulana was likely to follow him if he made it as far north as Parona, where he could continue his life very much as he’d lived it so far. He could order a retreat, fall back a few miles to the next open field, and try again. What to do?

Without even making a conscious decision, Bagsby dug his spurs into the flanks of his horse and rode forward, angling toward the left of the melee. As he trotted around the line of his own men, he saw at a glance the entire problem.

“A thousand demon’s tricks!” he exclaimed. His horsemen were not in melee with knights: the enemy knights had retreated, and waited now in a single line, far behind the line of battle. As Bagsby’s men had charged, the enemy mounted force had turned and run, revealing the impregnable force of footmen that had formed behind them. The footmen, who now surged forward as a solid mass against his helpless knights, were formed in a great block that bristled with the points of spears extending fourteen feet or more beyond the men in the front ranks. Bagsby’s knights would approach that bristling wall and attempt to strike, but they had no weapons that could reach the foe, and their horses refused to advance against the spear points.

“Withdraw!” Bagsby bellowed. “Withdraw! Retreat!” Again without thinking, he guided his steed into the mass of his knights, waving his sword in the air, crying his order for the retreat. One knight looked at him, incredulous, not believing that a retreat order could even be issued.

“Retreat, you fool! We’ll re-form and hit them again! Retreat!” Bagsby screamed. Tears of frustration began to flow down the little man’s cheeks.

Bagsby saw the light of understanding flash in the man’s eyes. For an instant, the lord general felt a sense of relief. Then the pointed, hooked blade of huge spear split through the man’s cuirass and lifted him from his horse. Blood gushed from the knights’ mouth, and his legs kicked helplessly as he dangled on the ear of the broad spear before crashing dead to the ground.

“Get back! By all the gods, get back!” Bagsby cried in even greater rage. He spotted at length the great banner of the company, still held aloft by Sir John, whose armor was stained with flowing blood. Bagsby galloped up, grabbed the banner, and cried, “Follow your flag! Follow your flag!”

That seemed to gain some attention from the bulk of his surviving men. Slowly at first, then more hastily, Bagsby began riding toward the rear, holding aloft the emblem of the company. In scattered clusters, his knights began to follow, until within a minute the Second Company of the Royal Guard of Argolia was a scattered mass of knights, strung out across the battlefield, riding at the best speed their winded horses could manage toward the rear.

Now was Sir Otto’s moment. With the enemy in ragged retreat, they would be helpless against a formed charge. With a shout and a wave of his sword, Otto ordered his knights forward. They came first at a slow trot, the line splitting to weave its way around the block of footmen, which now halted its advance. Re-formed in front of the foot force, the cavalry dressed their line on the move, then, knee to knee, tightly disciplined, advanced their mounts’ gait to the canter.

Bagsby reached the crest of the hill on his own side of the field as the line of enemy horse began its canter. He stopped, looked back, and saw that the enemy force would overtake a good third of his own men, whose winded horses could not possibly outrun the fresh force. Tears began to flow freely down Bagsby’s face; his men would be slaughtered, and there was nothing to blame for it but his own folly and arrogance.

It was then that a flashing line of flame shot forth from among the fir trees off to the east side of the highway at the top of the hill. Longer and longer the streaking line of fire grew, arcing out across the plain, flowing through a seam in the ragged, scattered mass of retreating men, flying with increasing speed toward the line of charging horsemen.

Bagsby watched in silent awe and wonder as the line of flame went on and on until suddenly, it disappeared in a great, blinding flash, replaced by ball of fire some thirty yards across that exploded in the middle of the charging enemy line.

The concussion from the blast knocked down horses for a distance of sixty yards, friend and enemy alike. Those who retained their mounts saw flaming pieces of men and horse raining from the sky, and some quickly began attempting to beat out the flames the heat had ignited in their own blankets and tunics. The enemy charge dissolved; the survivors of that blast quickly reined their mounts and milled about in stunned, frightened confusion.

“I’ve bought you time,” said a voice simply.

Bagsby turned his stunned gaze back from the field of battle to the woods from whence the line of flames had shot. Shulana emerged from between the trees, a look of deep sorrow and even fear on her pale elven face.

“What was that?” Bagsby gasped.

“Magic,” Shulana answered. “Protect me. I have broken the Covenant.”

“Protect you? Lady, I will protect you to the day I die,” Bagsby replied, carried away with admiration and some other emotion he could not quite identify.

The retreating mass of Bagsby’s force began to crest the hill now, turning in toward the highway. The mounted men looked stupefied; their eyes turned to Bagsby for answers as their winded mounts trotted by.

“Fall back to the next clearing and re-form,” Bagsby shouted confidently. “Fall back to the next clearing and reform.” Then, in a flash of insight, Bagsby added, “I’ll join you there. I’ll join you there.”

As Sir John, raging and shocked, trotted past, Bagsby extended to him the great banner. “Fall back to the next clearing and re-form the men. Do not attack. I will join you there. Victory will yet be ours,” Bagsby said.

Sir John nodded, too tired and bewildered to answer. He took the standard and stood in the center of the spot where the highway crested the hill, waving on the remainder of the retreating force.

“Sir John,” Bagsby called as he began to ride back down the hill, “protect the elf on pain of your life!” Then Bagsby galloped away, back toward the field of battle, shedding his armor as he went.

“Give me water,” the panting soldier called as he approached the halted line of large, wooden wagons. “You there,” he said, pointing a weary arm vaguely toward a wench who lounged on the ground, leaning her back against the front wheel of the lead wagon, “get me some water.”

“What’s going on up there?” the wagon driver called down from his seat, where he half reclined, puffing on a pipe. “Is the way clear yet?”

The soldier shook his head. “No, Still fighting going on. Shouldn’t take much longer though. Those Argolians are a stupid lot—charged right into us, just like Sir Otto said they would.”

The driver chuckled, then leaned back again, reassured that his rest could continue and that no danger lurked in his future.

“Aren’t you the lucky one, sent back here—for what?” the wench asked. “Why ain’t you up there if there’s still fightin’ goin’ on” She cocked her head and stared at the man with her hard blue eyes.

“Orders,” the soldier replied. “Them lords left some papers in with Sir Otto’s stuff—maps, I’d reckon. The enemy is retreating off the main road—I’m to fetch Sir Otto’s charts. And you, wench, had better fetch me some water or feel my boot on your backside.”

“Ain’t we proud?” the woman said with a sneer, but the soldier noted with satisfaction that she sauntered off to fetch the water.

“Say, driver,” the soldier called again, “where here is Sir Otto’s gear stored?”

“What, didn’t he tell you?” the driver replied. “Just like them lords; expect us common men to know everything, do everything, and then kick us when we don’t do it right ‘cause we don’t know any better.”

“No soldier can talk like that,” the armed man replied. “Which wagon?”

“Third one back, of course, where it always is. Wagon just before the treasure wagon,” the driver said, as if instructing a doltish child.

The woman returned with a cup of water and handed it to the soldier. “So,” she said, “in a hurry to get back to your battle?”

“No time for you, wench. Not now. But,” he added, removing his helmet and pouring the water over his short salt-and-pepper hair and his bloodied, dirt-smeared face, “maybe later, when the fightin’s done.”

“I’ll be ‘ere,” the woman answered with an attempt at a seductive smile.

No doubt you will, Bagsby thought—for it was he—but there’ll be a few other things missing.

Bagsby sauntered down the line of wagons, smiling, nodding, occasionally rubbing a pretended aching muscle in his arm, thigh, or back, looking for all the world like a Heilesheim man-at-arms fresh from the battlefield. The armor had been easy to come by. He had ridden onto the battlefield, shedding his own armor, then slipped down on the side of his horse as he approached the scene of carnage where Heilesheim knights had been blown to bits by Shulana’s magical ball of fire. There he had simply dropped on the field, letting his horse go free. In a short time he had managed to crawl farther back on the field where some Heilesheim men-at-arms were stripping the dead Argolian knights slain in that first, fatal charge. As Bagsby had worn no armor and no identifying symbols, the Heilesheim soldiers took him for a camp follower who had wandered out onto the field.

“Here, you!” one of the soldiers had called gruffly. “Help me gather up this loot.” The man had tossed a pile of armor toward Bagsby, then begun stripping the tunic off a dead Argolian knight. It had been a simple matter for Bagsby to locate a dagger, isolate the plundering soldier, and quietly slit his throat. Piece by piece, posing as a plunderer, he had dressed in the man’s armor, until he could pass for a Heilesheim man-at-arms. Then he had alternately crawled and played dead across the battlefield until he reached the rear of the Heilesheim lines. A hike down the highway had brought him to the wagons.

The sides of the highway were crowded with the camp followers, all the usual sorts that had so impeded his own progress just two days earlier. None paid him much attention. Soon he came to the third wagon and saw further down the road the fourth. These two were guarded. Five men-at-arms stood slackly around the third wagon, exchanging jokes, gossip, and small talk with the throngs that milled about beside the road. A ring of twenty men-at-arms, Bagsby estimated, stood all around the fourth wagon, where the fabled Golden Eggs of Parona were stored.

The wagons were large—nearly twenty feet long with flat beds that sat a good three feet off the ground. They had wooden sides that extended up about another three feet. Large wooden hoops then arced over the top to form supports for the thick linen and canvas that covered the contents and, presumably, kept them dry. The wagons were made of ash, rather soft and easy to work, and economical. The wheels were solid, not spoked, with rings of copper around the rims to prevent their wearing out too quickly. At the front of each wagon was a driver’s seat, and a large tongue extended, suitable for hitching a team of oxen or mules.

Bagsby’s mind raced over the multitude of problems: how to get in, how to handle the treasure, and above all, how to get it out. Instinctively he positioned himself out of sight of the guards, wandering off the side of the road and losing himself in the crowd of camp followers, until his plan was formed. He paced about, thinking hard, until his stride became more purposeful. A smile spread on his face, and he worked his way through the crowd back toward the front of the column of wagons.

He got back to a point about even with the second wagon in the line and, when no one was particularly paying him any mind, began running as fast as he could, up to the highway, then down the line to the fourth wagon. As he ran, he put on his scowl that had proved so effective on his knights. He hoped it would work as well on lower class men-at-arms.

“You there, guard!” he called to the first of the guards he spotted as he trotted up to the treasure wagon. “What in the name of all the gods of Heilesheim have you and these other fools done?” he demanded.

The guard lowered his spear as best he could. “Who are you?” he demanded, confused. His fellows in line also became alert, readying their weapons.

“I’m sent from Sir Otto himself to ask you louts how you managed to lose the treasure, that’s who I am!” Bagsby announced at the top of his lungs. Murmuring began immediately among the throng of camp followers. Bagsby was confident that before this conversation was over, the entire crowd would know that the treasure was missing, the guards were in deep trouble, and there was danger in store for all.