DW01 Dragonspawn (22 page)

There was much murmuring but no open dissent as the crowd of lords, still not certain what had happened, filed slowly out of the royal presence. Bagsby attached himself to the crowd and waited his turn to exit the royal presence. He was eager for the comforts of his own tent, and, he admitted to himself, the company of Shulana.

“Sir John Wolfe,” King Harold called, “a moment.”

The king waited until the tent had cleared, then quietly said to Bagsby. “You have brought to the battle only yourself.”

“That is true,” the little thief agreed, feigning surprise.

“Then you would take station far from us. But, as the appointed commander of our Royal Guard, you have brought to the battle the largest single force of any knight.”

“Your Majesty knows full well that I have not the experience or military knowledge to command Your Majesty’s Guard. Let the honor fall to another,” Bagsby pleaded.

“I think not,” King Harold answered. “We would have you, of all people, close to us in this battle.”

“Your Majesty does not trust me?”

“On the contrary,” King Harold said. “We trust you to be lucky, as always, and we would have good fortune with us in this bloody affair.”

“It will take more than good fortune to defeat the legions of Heilesheim,” Bagsby said. “May I speak my mind?”

“By all means. You are one knight I can trust to give me candid advice, when it suits your purpose to do so. That’s another good reason to have you by my side. I know that if our royal person is threatened, you will honestly suggest what should be done.”

Bagsby grinned. The king, he knew, was only partially in jest. “Your Majesty knows I do not think like a knight or a general—”

“Thank the gods for that. Few enough of them have any sense,” King Harold interjected.

“I fear we shall lose this battle,” Bagsby stated. “The men of the legions of Heilesheim are well trained to work together. With them, discipline is greater than pride of place.”

“I fear you are correct,” the king admitted. “There is more. The Heilesheim forces come in two groups. My agents report two full legions approaching Clairton from the west, while three march from the south along the great highway. Rather than divide my force to face two threats, I must fight as one unit, where at least my will can maintain order. And I would rather not face the danger of being flanked. Sound strategy would dictate a vigorous defense of the city from within its walls, then a retirement to the north. Yet I must fight to defend my greatest city. Failure to do so would bring... dishonor.”

“Does Your Majesty think like a knight?” Bagsby asked.

“A king must think like many types of men.”

“If Valdaimon is there, they will use magic against us,” Bagsby cautioned.

“Our priests will stand around me—and you. They, too, have magic. But it is not magic that will decide this day, but rather cunning and the desire to win.”

“Let it be as Your Majesty says,” Bagsby replied. Though he had faced death countless times in his career, for the very first time, Bagsby felt afraid that he would die and sad that it might be so.

Bagsby stood on the broad open plain at the foot of the hill where King Harold’s tent was pitched and gazed into the cool night down the broad highway toward the enemy camp. Three full legions of Heilesheim troops camped not three thousand yards away. Their camp fires dotted the dark landscape like gleaming red, hostile stars. Closer in front of him, Bagsby could hear the calls of the sentries and pickets of both armies as they exchanged the night passwords and shouted taunts across the field to one another. Behind him, atop the very low rise, Argolia’s forces rested for the day to come. Most of the common men were fast asleep, too weary from marching, drilling, and carrying the excessive burdens of their knightly masters to allow the fear of death to deny them rest. The knights, however, stirred; Bagsby could hear them clanking about in the camp, talking in their deep voices, spinning tales of battles lost and won, dreaming of the great ransoms they would earn for the prisoners they would take, predicting a great victory on the morrow.

Shulana stood silently beside Bagsby, the toes of her tiny bare feet wriggling happily in the low grass. She knew that Bagsby had something on his mind—he seldom asked her to walk with him alone, and when he did, it meant he wanted advice. It pleased her more than she cared to admit that he wanted to be with her now, even though she still thought him a fool for becoming committed to a battle when their real objective lay to the south and time was against them.

“Shulana,” Bagsby said softly, “I fear we will lose this battle tomorrow.”

“Almost certainly,” she agreed. “I too have seen the Heilesheim men fight. This vast collection of knights will be no match for them, and the foot troops are not used to fighting on their own without their knights to goad them forward and protect them. The enemy will certainly use magic, which most of these men have never seen. They will panic.”

“I am not a coward,” Bagsby continued, not responding to her gloomy assessment of the situation.

Shulana was puzzled. “Who has said you are a coward?” she asked. She sat down in the cool, damp grass and let the green life of it touch her bare legs. Had Bagsby not needed her now, she would have communed this night. All the new green life of spring called to her elven nature, and yet she resisted because this human, who irritated her, needed her.

“No one has said I am a coward,” Bagsby answered, staring into the dark distance. “At least,” he added with a chuckle, “not here and not recently. What I mean is, for the first time, I feel afraid to die.”

“You have faced death many times. I have never seen you afraid before,” Shulana said. “Why should you fear now something you have beaten many times in the past?”

Bagsby squatted down beside her and placed his hands on the wet grass, loving the feel of it. His lungs drank in the night air, laden with spring scents. He listened intently to the sounds of insects celebrating love in the spring night. His hands happened upon a small mint plant growing in the meadow. He plucked a flat leaf, crushed it between his fingers, and popped it in his mouth. The crisp flavor exploded powerfully, bringing tears to his eyes.

“I fear it now,” Bagsby said very softly, “because now I feel that life is worth living.”

“Because you can gain revenge on Valdaimon?” Shulana asked.

“No, although that is one thing I would like to do.”

“Then why?”

“Because...” Bagsby stopped his mouth and thought. Because why indeed? How could he explain that life seemed worth living partly because he now felt as though he himself had some value? How could he explain that he feared to lose that value? And how could he explain that, for some reason he still refused to face fully, he did not want to leave her?

Bagsby did not explain. Instead he leaned his face over toward Shulana’s and gently brushed her cheek with his lips.

Shulana placed a slim elven hand on Bagsby’s cheek and stared, partly puzzled, partly strangely thrilled, into his eyes. “Promise me one thing,” she whispered.

“What?”

“After the battle, lost or won, you will continue with our mission to steal the treasure of Parona.”

Bagsby grunted. That again. “We’ll have to go to Kala to do that, you know. Every thief and cutthroat in that city will be after my blood.”

“I know. I will share the danger with you.”

“Oh, all right. After the battle, we press on for the treasure,” Bagsby said grumpily, turning away from her. “You have the word of a knight,” he added sarcastically.

“Good,” Shulana said merrily, leaping to her feet. “Then you need not fear death in the battle, for you have given your word to accomplish a great feat after it!”

Bagsby snorted, then joined her in laughter.

Four miles to the west, George the miller’s son lay on the earth and stared up at the stars, unable to sleep. He, too, had concerns about the battle coming in the morning, even though the scuttlebutt had it that his unit, the Fifth Legion, would pounce on the enemy’s flank with thunderclap surprise. But it was not the fear of death that bothered George.

“Frederick, you awake?” he whispered.

“Is ‘at you, Georgie?” a weary voice muttered from only a few feet away. “Go to sleep. We’ve a battle to fight when we get up.”

“Aye, and that’s what I’m thinkin’ about,” George said. He raised himself up on an elbow and glanced about at the crowded camp. Men were sprawled hither and yon around their camp fires, and the stands of mighty pikes stabbed upward into the night sky. Horses snorted and neighed from somewhere nearby, but there was neither a noble nor even their own leader of a score in the immediate area. All the men within easy earshot of George were snoring. It was safe, he decided, to speak his mind.

“What I mean is, who does the fightin’ and killin’, really?” George said. “We do, that’s who. And what do we get? A few baubles, a few women, a few night’s carouse, and then it’s on to the next town where we do it again.”

“Right!” Frederick agreed. “Ain’t soldierin’ grand? It’s better than sweatin’ in a field all day and listenin’ to my old woman grouse through the night with her cold ugly feet up agin’ me, I tell you that.”

“No, no,” George said, exasperated. “That ain’t what I mean. What I mean, is, look at them nobles, them knights. What do they do? They ride out across the field after the enemy’s been beat and chop up them ‘at can’t fight into little bits, that’s all. And what do they get? More than baubles and wenches and booze, I’ll tell you that. It was the likes of me and you that conquered Dunsford, remember? And who owns Dunsford now?”

Frederick raised his face from the ground and wiped a smudge of mud from his nose. “The knights own it, of course. That’s the way of things. What are you gettin’ at?”

“A knight dies as easy as a common man,” George said gruffly. “I ought to know; I’ve skewered ‘em a-plenty on me pike. So why don’t we get some of the good stuff—the lands, the riches, the titles, all that?”

Frederick rolled over with his back to George and dropped his head back to the ground. “You’re daft,” he said. “Them is noble, and we is common, and that’s the way of it, that’s all. Quit talkin’ nonsense and let me sleep. If our leader of a score hears you sayin’ things like that, it’ll be a noose or an axe for both our necks.”

“Aye, that’s the way of it, all right,” George said. “And the noose and the axe for us if we get out o’ line. Well, maybe it’s time the way of things was changed. Maybe it’s time we showed them a noose and an axe, and took what our own sweat and blood ‘as won.”

Frederick made no response. George stared at his friend for a moment, then shook his head in disgust. The way of things changed right enough when the nobles wanted it to—that’s what wars was about, George thought. They was about one bunch of nobles wantin’ to change the way things was for another bunch of nobles. And when they wanted that to ‘appen, they got a big bunch of millers’ sons and peasants’ sons and other people’s sons together and made them go change it.

George lay back down and stared up at the sky. Maybe the gods had decreed the way things was, he thought. No matter. As far as George could tell, the gods hadn’t done much for him. They must be as bad as the nobles, he decided. With such angry thoughts keeping him awake, George awaited the dawn.

Fat Marta waited until all were asleep in the wagons and on the ground around her. Even then the camp was noisy with the sounds of snoring men and women, the muttering of small children in their dreams, and the occasional moans of lovers, secreted in the bushes off the side of the road.

Marta had planned her move for days, ever since she realized there was to be a battle and the little tailor she now worked for was going along with the camp to mend the knights’ tunics and cloaks and look after the thousand other sewing chores associated with a great army. She had gathered what she needed by a combination of barter, bargaining, and theft. Now, on the eve of battle, she was ready.

Marta raised herself up from the damp ground and checked the area around her again carefully. No one stirred. From the wagon came the soft sounds of the tailor’s mild snores. Marta stealthily stood and hefted up the great cloth bag in which she carried her few possessions. She stepped over the body of an armorer’s apprentice who had passed out drunk beside her and carefully picked her way through the bushes at the side of the road.

The night was dark and the moon had already set; the army was more than a mile ahead on the road. Once she was out of the area of the camp, Marta moved freely over the grassland without fear of being seen. She made her way to the small stream that had provided water for the camp, then worked her way southward along its banks until it meandered into a copse.

There, in the shelter of the trees, Marta laid her bundle on the stream bank and stripped off her clothes. She stepped into the stream and gave herself a quick, bracing cold bath. When she came out of the water, her large folds of fat were covered with gooseflesh. She knelt by the bank. Her hands dug in the mud at the edge of the water, and she smeared it thickly on her face and hands.

That done, Marta carefully unpacked her large sack and laid out the garments she had so carefully collected. First came the tunic. It had been a tight fight, but she’d let it out at the seams and filled in the gap with a strip of bright red material that did not match. No matter, she had thought. No one will see it unless I’m dead or dying. Next she drew on the breeches she’d swiped from the tailor’s stores—a pair made of soft brown cloth and big enough to fit her, for they had belonged to the fat wagon driver who did nothing all day except drive the wagon and swill down heavily malted beer. The boots she’d stolen from a soldier who’d passed out drunk two nights ago; it was not hard to find a pair that fit her well.

The mail shirt, helmet, spear, small round shield, sword, and dagger had been more difficult to obtain. She chose not to think about the compromises she had made to get these items; instead, as she donned them, she thought about her late husband, Albert. She remembered how handsome he had looked, even on the night that he died. She remembered his severed head, lying in the mud, impaled on the spike of a morning star. She remembered how much she wanted to defeat the Black Prince who’d burned his mark into her back, how she wanted to slay him with her bare hands, to rip his heart from his chest and shove it, still beating, down his throat.