DW01 Dragonspawn (21 page)

Again treading cautiously, taking care lest he trip or stumble on the uneven stones that formed the floor of the room, Valdaimon moved into the circle. He bowed to the four cardinal points of the compass, indicated by sigils. Then he turned to face the golden eggs and bowed again. He stooped down and laid the wand on the stone floor. Rising, he grasped the book in both hands.

A thrilling chill of pure cold ran through Valdaimon’s body as he began the casting. It had taken almost one hundred years of study, experimentation, thought, and research to determine the appropriate magical concepts that had to underlie the spell he now began. The precise wording of the spell had taken over two hundred years to develop. Ingredients in the foul potion that dripped from the eggs had been carefully aged for decades, including a great deal of Valdaimon’s own blood.

Although his mind was focused intensely on the spell as he read aloud the words he had so carefully crafted, his heightened senses conveyed to him all that was transpiring in the castle. He could hear the breathing of the two guards posted outside the only door to the tower room. He could hear the snoring and grunting of the garrison in the main chamber far below, and the snorting of their horses, some inside with them, others stabled in makeshift lean-tos on the hillside outside the castle walls. In all, a guard of one hundred men secured the castle, and this hour, against any interruption. Every man of that guard knew that no one was to enter the tower room on pain of instant death.

As he finished the first, and simplest, portion of the grand spell, Valdaimon noted with satisfaction that his entire body was glowing with its own magical energy. He had successfully invoked the power of the elements, the planets, the stars, and several beings whose names alone were too terrifying to be spoken by mortal wizards. The raw energy roiled around his feet and flowed up his body, bathing his trunk, arms, and hands, blending with the aura of the book to create a dazzling chromatic display of ever-changing color.

Next, he began to fashion and shape the energy thus acquired. His singsong chanting became punctuated more and more with grunts, groans, rasps, and hacking, coughing sounds as he verbalized words of a magical tongue unheard by human or elven wizards for five thousand years. Streams of energy formed themselves, streaking out from his lips and his fingertips, darting toward the pulsating red aura of the eggs. Sparks like sparks of flame erupted as the opposing energies met. The red aura of the eggs flared, then subsided, then flared again, as the streams from Valdaimon grew in size and intensity.

The casting went on and on, as each particular type of magical energy was brought under control, shaped, and tested in contact with the magic of the golden treasure. The reading of this portion of the spell took fully an hour. At length the wizard, his concentration perfect now, was content that the magical energy was properly honed and shaped.

Now, at last, to channel it, he thought. Without a single pause in his incantation, the wizard stooped over and grasped the wand, laying the book open in front of him on the floor. He remained kneeling, so as to see the magical text, and aimed the wand toward the golden eggs.

But before speaking the words of power that would force the summoned, shaped energy through the wand to achieve his ultimate aim, Valdaimon spoke the words that would activate the sigils of the circle. He called upon every spirit that served him, every elemental force, every force of the dark night sky, to protect him from the explosion of magical energy that was about to occur and from the wrath of the beings it would bring forth. The white-painted sigils began to glow with a silvery, moonlight quality, indication that Valdaimon’s protection was complete.

At last, all was in readiness. Valdaimon paused in the casting for an instant. It was a planned pause, for he had known that at this crucial moment he would need to summon all the force of his own will to augment every last reserve of power at his command. Valdaimon stood, extending his left arm full-length, with the silver wand pointed directly at the fabled treasure of Parona. With a great shout that woke the sleeping guards in the castle’s main room a full sixty feet below him Valdaimon uttered the final word of power that he had researched and fashioned, based upon a language almost as old as the gods themselves.

Chromatic streams of magical power flowed over Valdaimon’s body, down his arm, and through the wand to crash with the force of a thousand lightning bolts into the red aura of the eggs. Valdaimon reeled backward involuntarily as the resulting explosion rocked the castle. His legs pumped up and down as his feet sought solid footing, for the floor stones were loosened and several jolted upward, out of place. Beneath the roar of the blast that would have deafened any mortal man so near to it Valdaimon could hear the shouts of the garrison, now fully awake. Already he could tell many of the men were near panic, and the very stones of the castle walls continued to shake.

The great wash of magical energy filled the entire room, save for a cylinder of space whose base was Valdaimon’s protective circle. The blinding flash of the explosion remained for a full ten seconds before the last of the energy was dissipated, most of it eventually seeping out the arrow slits that served the room as windows.

Valdaimon regained his balance and allowed his eyesight to readjust. On the workbench behind the eggs, several parchments smoldered, and the array of beakers and vials was in a shambles. But on the slab of white marble the two Golden Eggs of Parona stood, unchanged, unscathed, untouched, still surrounded by their pulsating red aura.

Valdaimon stood motionless, stunned. For a brief moment he waited, reserving judgment; perhaps the effect would be delayed; perhaps his pure will could still prevail; perhaps the eggs would yet crack open, revealing the leathery shells he knew were inside; perhaps yet they would do what above all else he wanted them to do: hatch.

They did not. The castle guards years later would recount that the scream of rage emitted from the tower was far more frightening than the explosion had been.

The Battle of Clairton

CULDUS BEAMED
with satisfaction as he detailed the latest troop movements to King Ruprecht, sweeping his big hands in broad arcs over his maps, occasionally stabbing at a critical point with his thick forefinger.

“The Fifth and Sixth Legions have already crossed from the County of the Wyche into Argolia. They’re making their way along the border of the Elven Preserve northward, where they’ll be in position to turn eastward toward Clairton—and into the flank of any army south of that city,” Culdus explained. “Fortress Alban is already besieged by the first four legions. How long it will hold out I’m not sure, but the latest dispatches indicate that the enemy’s morale is failing rapidly.”

“Yes, yes,” the bored Ruprecht replied, barely glancing at the maps. The young monarch popped another cluster of sugared nuts, sprinkled with gold dust, into his mouth, and with a wave dismissed the serving girl with her tray of delicacies. “Everything’s going according to our plan. I never thought conquest could be so boring.” Ruprecht rubbed his fingers together, frowned, then disdainfully wiped them on his white shirt. “Damned hard, these camp conditions,” he said.

“Your Majesty will be pleased to learn,” Culdus continued, as enthusiastic as ever, “that the Tower of Asbel has surrendered without prolonged siege.” That ought to get the whelp’s attention, he thought.

“We
distinctly recall,” Ruprecht replied, sauntering over to look at the map more carefully and emphasizing the royal plural, “your prediction that the siege of Asbel could occupy several months.”

“I attribute this unexpected success to the terror inspired by our ruthlessness toward those who resist. The garrison of Asbel hoped to avoid the fate that befell Kala,” Culdus explained.

“Ah, I see,” the king said. “Well, go on.”

“The fall of Asbel frees four legions. The Tenth we’ll use to garrison Kala and guard our lines of communication and supply.”

“Yes,” the king interjected, “We learned the importance of these from that unfortunate incident in Argolia.” Ruprecht smiled; he loved discomfiting the stodgy Culdus.

“That was militarily insignificant,” Culdus insisted.

“But not politically insignificant,” Ruprecht rejoined. “King Harold is whipping all of Argolia into a war frenzy, and our agents report that the remaining members of the Holy Alliance are rallying to his assistance. How soon can we seize Clairton?”

“The legions are already marching. The Seventh, Eighth, and Ninth are passing through Kala as we speak, picking up the detachments there that were charged with the sack of that city,” Culdus said. “In another day they will cross the border on the main highway. I expect a battle in three to four days, somewhere south of Clairton where Harold is gathering his forces.”

“Another easy victory?” the king asked, throwing himself onto his large camp bed.

“Our system has proven invincible thus far,” Culdus answered carefully. He made it a policy never to promise more to the king than he was certain he could deliver.

“Except in Argolia.” Ruprecht pouted. “The defeat of our detachment there, by this upstart knight, was humiliating beyond endurance. I’ll not tolerate such failure again.”

“I understand, Your Majesty,” Culdus responded stiffly.

“To insure our victory in the upcoming battle, you will make full use of Valdaimon’s assistance. The League of the Black Wing is assembling in Kala. They will join the army there. As you leave, be so kind as send back that wench with my sugared nuts, will you?”

Culdus nodded curtly and left the king’s tent. Valdaimon again, he mused. Every day his influence grew more powerful. Someday, Culdus thought, for the good of the kingdom that influence would have to be ended, permanently. Then, to his surprise, Culdus realized he had not yet seen the wizard today. He wondered what the old crow was up to this time.

Valdaimon sat in his circle of protection, his head held wearily in his hands. Not even his power was great enough to hatch the eggs of the Ancient One. His memory stretched back through the centuries; it was some six hundred years ago that he had first realized the true nature of the Golden Eggs of Parona. From that day to this he had dreamed of the power he could wield as commander, ruler of the only dragons on the earth. With the dragons under his command, he would be invincible. Without them, he would have to continue this charade of mortality and his association with, even dependence on, mere men.

The failure was devastating, even more so because of the demands made on his power. I am exhausted, he thought. For the first time in a century, I must rest. And yet—the secret must be hidden in some scrap of legend, some verse or tome I’ve overlooked.

Then he remembered. The shaman of the desert people! The shaman he had sought in Laga! Those verses, those scraps of the puzzle, must contain the secret that was needed to make the eggs hatch!

The wizard knew what he must do. He would rest here in Lundlow Keep and guard his treasure, but at the same time he would send a portion of himself to Laga. This time, no thief, no Bagsby, would prevent him from obtaining the information he so desperately needed.

Carefully monitoring his remaining power, the exhausted mage stood and cast a new spell of invisibility over the marble block and the Golden Eggs. Then, with a terse call, he summoned the guards outside the door.

“In the storeroom off the main chamber you will find a sealed crate,” Valdaimon said to the nervous men. “Bring it up here.”

The guards jumped to obey. While they were gone, Valdaimon sorted through his vials of potions until he found the one he sought.

The two soldiers returned, lugging a heavy wooden crate, so heavy that they’d enlisted the aid of two of their comrades to carry it up the tower stairs. Valdaimon bid them bring it into the room and place it in an empty space up against an outside wall. He studied the men carefully as they lugged the crate to the position he indicated. As they left, he ordered one man to stay.

The soldier looked nervously at the old mage; Valdaimon shut the door and waited until the two extra guards had descended the stairs. He reached into the tattered shreds that passed for his robe and pulled out the vial he had selected just moments before.

“Drink this,” he commanded, passing the vial to the pale soldier.

So terrified was the man that against his own judgment he obeyed. Five seconds later his corpse collapsed to the floor.

Eager for his rest, Valdaimon acted swiftly. With a bit of red powder, he inscribed magical sigils at random around the floor of the room, including one on the first stone a man would step upon when entering the door. Then, with a quick incantation, he rendered these signs invisible. He dragged the soldier’s body over to the crate and laid it out carefully, with the head touching one end of the big box. Then he opened the crate.

A bed of earth awaited him inside the crate—the earth in which his body had been first interred when he had tasted death many hundreds of years ago. The mage stepped inside the box. Already he could feel rest coming upon him. He lay down, taking from within his robe a gold chain with a large diamond set in a pendant. This he clutched tightly in his right hand. Then he reached up and pulled shut the lid of the crate.

Now entombed, Valdaimon began a final incantation. As he muttered the words he’d learned so long ago, the diamond began to glow softly, as if it possessed a life of its own. Into the gem the wizard poured his soul, where, disembodied, it could at last find rest for the period of time Valdaimon set in his spell. But he did not pour all of his soul, all of his will, intelligence, memory, knowledge, and desire, into the gem. A tiny bit he directed through the walls of the crate into the body of the dead soldier.

Moments later, the soldier’s body rose. Animated now by a bit of Valdaimon, the body moved and breathed. He carefully tested the muscles, the coordination, the voice. All exceeded his expectations; he had chosen well. The soldier walked carefully to the door, opened it, and stepped outside.

“What happened in there?” the guard’s breathless companion asked.

“None of your business,” the animated corpse replied.

“No one goes in or out, Valdaimon’s orders. First one in that room dies, no matter what.”

The second guard nodded in dumb comprehension of the order. His former friend began the long trek down the tower stairs. He had a long way to go; it would take him at least a week of hard riding to reach Laga.

Inside the tower room, in the bowels of the crate, the body of Valdaimon the wizard turned to dust.

Bagsby shook his head in near despair. The crowded camp tent of King Harold rang with the shouts of hotly debating nobles, as it had for the past six hours as the king vainly attempted to form some type of order of battle for the slaughter that would surely occur on the following day.

“I cannot serve under Sir Thomas, for he claims rights to the estate of our cousin, the late Sir George of Loomis, to which I have a superior claim,” one knight was shouting to the king.

“Your claim is by marriage; mine is by blood,” Sir George retorted. “I cannot possibly accept a rank equal to or lower than yours.”

Twenty or more similar debates were occurring simultaneously. Armored knights pounded the table, beat their chests, rattled their swords, clanked their armor, beat on their shields, rolled their eyes to heaven, and invoked the gods to judge the justice of their claims. Compounding the difficulty were the claims of nobles from the surrounding counties and baronies, including a scratch force hastily sent south from mighty Parona. The result was that an organization for battle was being slowly cobbled together based more on arguments about genealogy going back for four generations than on the hard facts of military necessity.

Maybe Shulana had been right, Bagsby thought. She had urged him to forget the nonsense of battle. It was obvious that the Golden Eggs were already far south, somewhere in Kala; there was no reason for Bagsby to stay to fight a battle for Clairton.

“But,” Bagsby had argued, “the king made me a knight, a real knight. Now I have lands to defend, honor to uphold. By the gods, what a burden!”

“The king played you for a fool,” Shulana had said coldly. “You’re a symbol for the people, nothing more, Sir Bagsby. Our business lies in Kala.”

Bagsby hadn’t mentioned that aside from upholding his knightly honor and defending his estates, the locations of which he did not even know yet, he’d rather be flayed by a professional torturer than go to Kala, where everyone in the Thieves’ Quarter would know him on sight and be happy to collect the bounty Nebuchar had declared on his person. Thus far, Shulana’s magic and his nearness to the king had prevented assassins from acting, but Bagsby knew that political favor was fleeting, and he didn’t know enough about magic to trust his life to its protection.

At this moment, though, Bagsby wondered if even the assassins of Kala might not be preferable to this interminable, self-important bickering. King Harold seemed resigned to accepting these arguments until the wee hours of the morning. If something wasn’t done, and quickly, this entire army would be shattered by the Heilesheim tactics which Bagsby now understood only too well.

“My lords,” Bagsby shouted, “your attention for a moment, please!” Gradually the bickering died down; the only hero of the war to date commanded enough respect to be heard at least briefly. “My lords, the foe we face tomorrow I have faced before. Therefore, hear me a moment for the sake of my knowledge,” Bagsby began. “You debate among yourselves over the honor of position in the line of battle. But I tell you, the enemy will use a method of battle that will deny us all honor unless we counter it.”

The rowdy barons grew completely silent. Bagsby saw looks of grave concern on their broad, bearded and mustached faces. Threats to their honor were to be taken seriously. Well, Bagsby thought, so far it’s working.

“The enemy’s knights will not come forward to meet our charge, nor will they position themselves where we can charge them,” Bagsby declared. “Rather, like the dishonorable cowards they are, they will hide behind their foot soldiers!”

“What?” came the chorus of cries. “That’s unthinkable,” one knight declared. “No knight would hide behind common footmen,” another said skeptically.

“I tell you,” Bagsby went on, “that this is exactly what the enemy did in battle against me. Our knights were forced to charge footmen. Had we not won a great victory, many a knight of ours would have lost honor that day.”

“There’s nothing but dishonor in riding down foot soldiers, at least until the enemy’s knights have been defeated. Then, of course, a certain amount of butcher’s work must be done,” one of the barons reasoned.

“Quite right,” Bagsby said. “And so, I propose that to foil this dishonorable behavior by our foe, we also put our footmen in the front lines. Let our archers and spearmen advance against theirs, and when their footmen are defeated, their knights will be forced to fight us!”

Silence greeted Bagsby’s proposal. The knights and lords looked glumly at one another and at the floor of the tent. None wanted to oppose Sir John Wolfe in open council, but his notion was near mad.

“Let our footmen attack first?” one knight finally queried. “Wouldn’t that be the same as what the enemy is doing?”

“No, there is no dishonor in this for us,” Bagsby declared forcefully. “For they use their footmen to avoid battle, while we would be using ours to force the knights to fight.”

The king rose to his feet. “Sir John, as usual, speaks wisely,” he announced. “We will adopt this plan.”

“I kindly thank Your Majesty,” Bagsby said quickly, before dissenting voices could be raised. “Now, as touching the order in which our knights line up for battle, I would propose that we form one mass, under the command of the king. Let every knight be positioned a distance from the king proportional to the number of men he has brought to this battle. And let the king decree that this order of battle shall have no bearing on any future disputes over land and titles.”

“By the gods, an ingenious scheme,” King Harold said with relish. “Assemble your forces,” he commanded the lords. “We will count the men before sunset, and I shall announce the order of battle at dawn. The council of war is concluded.”