DW01 Dragonspawn (25 page)

“Marta,” Bagsby asked, “what are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to kill the Black Prince and all who serve him,” the feisty woman snarled, still eyeing George with no little distrust.

“Then you’d better fall in with us,” Bagsby offered. “There’s no use trying to get back north now.”

“And where are you going?” George asked. “Are you deserters too?”

“Of a sort,” Bagsby admitted. “We’re going south. We’re going to strike a blow against Valdaimon, Ruprecht’s wizard.”

Shulana reached out and grabbed Bagsby’s arm. “Are you mad?” she whispered. “You can’t trust these strange people.”

“There are few people I trust more than those out for revenge,” Bagsby said, gesturing toward Marta, “and cutthroats and scoundrels,” he added, gesturing toward George. “The former have but one purpose and can be trusted to try to carry it out. The latter may have any purpose, but it is always to serve themselves. They too, can be counted on to be most predictable.” Bagsby laughed again. He was beginning, he thought, to feel like his old self.

“Will there be killing and plunder, and will I be under orders from some knight?” George asked.

“Yes to the first question, no to the second,” Bagsby said. “Just a bunch of hardy thieves out to foil an enemy of all men.”

“I’m no thief,” Marta insisted indignantly.

“Oh no?” Bagsby said. “Then where did you get your weapons and armor?”

Marta lowered her eyes. “Sometimes a poor widow is forced to do a few things...”

Bagsby roared with laughter. “Look, Shulana, only twenty minutes back into the thief business, and I’ve a great gang already!”

In the treetops high above, a ragged black crow echoed back Bagsby’s laughter.

Dragonspawn

A SINGLE SHOUT
from Nebuchar, who actually emerged from the tiny room, which served him as business office, eating quarters, and even sleeping quarters, stilled the commotion in his tavern. The usual band of cutthroats, thieves, and murderers quickly fell silent when the most powerful leader of all vice and crime in the Land Between the Rivers made it clear that their racket was disturbing his rest. He was even more angry to learn that the ruckus was caused by a bird that had flown into the tavern. Every vagabond and roughneck in the place had tried to kill the thing.

Nebuchar held out his arm and the scraggly feathered, fat crow landed on it at once. The big man retreated to his tiny sanctuary and placed the bird on the small table, where it cocked its head, looked at him, and cawed loudly.

“All right, enough,” Nebuchar growled. “Just a minute.”

From a plain wooden box that sat by the foot of his chair he withdrew the vial of blue liquid that Valdaimon had given him. How badly, he wondered, did he want Bagsby dead? Badly enough to risk being poisoned by Valdaimon? He placed the vial on the table by the bird. His fingers felt cold. He stared at the bottle and rubbed them. He had not become the greatest lord of crime in the human world by not knowing when to trust and when not to trust, he told himself. Valdaimon wanted Bagsby dead as much as he did. Therefore, he probably wouldn’t poison Nebuchar until that job was done.

“Bah!” the man said. He grabbed the vial, yanked out the cork, and downed the potion in a single gulp.

The crow cawed again, but this time Nebuchar heard his name.

“Nebuchar,” the bird repeated.

“Tell me of Bagsby,” Nebuchar demanded.

“He is coming here, to see you.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

“Is he alone?” Nebuchar asked, still hardly able to believe that Bagsby would risk coming to Kala.

“No.”

Nebuchar grunted. Obviously the crow only gave the information you asked for.

“Who is with him?”

“An elf, a soldier, and a fat woman,” the bird said plainly.

“What else can you tell me?” Nebuchar gruffly demanded.

“I’m hungry.”

“Here, sit in my hand, and I’ll feed you,” Nebuchar said.

The crow obediently hopped into the man’s outstretched palm. Nebuchar closed his hand and squeezed. The bird kicked and clawed and cawed, but to no avail. In seconds its insides were crushed. Nebuchar twisted its neck with his free hand to finish it off. That, he thought, would teach Valdaimon a lesson.

Far away, in another realm of reality, entered through a gemstone in this world, the slumbering soul of Valdaimon stirred uneasily. Something, his partial consciousness realized, was wrong. But what? What? Then his soul sank back into the blackness of the rest of the undead.

The journey to Kala had taken three weeks. During that time, Bagsby thought, his little band had molded together quite nicely. George, it turned out, had a strong talent for throat cutting with the dagger and goring with the pike, a talent Bagsby had occasion to make use of more than once. He also had a weakness for women, which was a weakness Bagsby could respect. That George’s particular weakness was for women of stout build had caused Bagsby and Shulana considerable relief and Marta no end of grief, which she had voiced loudly whenever it was safe to do so.

That had not been often. Traveling through the countryside, avoiding the roads, hiding, stealing food when necessary, and fighting the occasional Heilesheim man-at-arms who discovered them was a dangerous business, and there had not been much time for careless chatter. There was even less time now that they were in Kala.

Of course Shulana had thought Bagsby mad to head for Kala. Valdaimon, she argued, would never leave the treasure in so obvious a place as the city. But Bagsby had countered that the one man who would most likely know where Valdaimon was, and therefore the location of the treasure, was Nebuchar.

Amid the burned-out buildings of the city, scuttling around like the few surviving citizens, the foursome had not attracted much attention from garrison troops. These men had lost their edge, Bagsby noticed, from their easy duty. Penetrating the Thieves’ Quarter, however, was another matter. Every protected cutthroat in the city, Bagsby knew, would be looking for him. He would have to strike, strike quickly and quietly, and get out.

“One thing in my favor,” Bagsby had told his small gang, “is that I know all his tricks. That tiny room he holes up in is a secret fortress. None of the usual ruses will work.”

“What do you mean?” Shulana had asked.

“Well, for example, an invisibility potion is no good, because he has hidden sigils in the floor that break the spell. Nebuchar was always a master at protecting himself.”

“The sigils could be seen by a wizard,” Shulana had suggested.

“But I’m not a wizard,” Bagsby had said.

“But I am,” Shulana had answered.

Thus Bagsby found himself waiting in the street outside Nebuchar’s tavern. Shulana had almost exhausted the powers of her magic preparing for this bold strike. She had rendered Bagsby invisible, and then silent. Not only could he not speak, no action he took would make any sound. Next, she had cast a spell that, she said, would enable her to see magic auras of any kind, even those from Nebuchar’s invisible sigils.

Now, armed with nothing more than a handful of violets and a small sack of gold, she was venturing alone inside Nebuchar’s tavern. George and Marta were stationed just across the narrow alleyway outside, while Bagsby stood right by the door, close enough to touch anyone coming in or out and within easy earshot of any disturbance inside.

Shulana flung open the tavern door and strode boldly inside. Her slight feminine, elven form was clad in a short green tunic, belted at the waist. Hanging from her belt was a coin purse, and in her hand she carried a bunch of violets, nothing more.

“I seek Nebuchar,” she announced loudly.

Her statement was greeted first with stunned silence, then with catcalls from the carousing vermin who frequented the place.

“He ain’t here, honey, but we’ll be glad to help you find what you want,” one drunk bawled out.

“Me too,” voiced another, and soon the room resounded with raucous laughter from would-be “suitors.”

“I said, I seek Nebuchar. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll tell him I’m here. I have something he wants,” Shulana said.

“We bet you do!” one rowdy replied.

Shulana’s eyes drank in the scene; she saw the aura of magical items scattered about the room. One thief had a magic ring; one villain carried an enchanted blade; a third had an amulet that radiated powerful magic.

“I have come to bring him Bagsby,” Shulana announced.

The room fell suddenly silent. Each man pondered whether to capture this elven wench and wring the secret from her or to be the first to alert Nebuchar of her presence. As it was, no decision was required. Nebuchar himself appeared in the doorway of his tiny room.

“Come in. I’ve been expecting you,” he gruffly commanded.

What sort of treachery does she have in mind? Nebuchar wondered, as Shulana slowly and carefully, somewhat timidly, made her way through the tavern to his door.

“We must talk,” Shulana said simply.

“Then sit down, close the door, and talk,” Nebuchar said, taking his own chair by the plain table.

Shulana crossed the threshold. As she did, she dropped a tiny violet petal from her hand onto the sigil on the floor directly in front of the door. Other sigils were hidden beneath the table, on the seats of chairs, and in the corners of the room. Some were designed to make the invisible become visible; others had a more deadly effect—they could kill upon a word of command from the one for whose benefit they had been placed.

“Bagsby is in Kala,” she said. “I can take you to him. My price is ten thousand gold crowns.” She walked nervously around the room, dropping more petals as she went.

“Why should I trust you?” Nebuchar asked. “You’ve been traveling with him. Perhaps you’re his ally.”

Shulana noted that two of Nebuchar’s gold rings glowed with a magical aura.

“Perhaps I am,” she said, continuing her nervous pacing. “You’ll have to decide.”

“I’ve no need to pay you,” Nebuchar said coolly. “I can find Bagsby for myself.”

“So far you haven’t.”

“Maybe I will now, that I have a prisoner from his gang.”

Nebuchar stood and moved quickly to the door. He thrust it open and called out, “Take this elf prisoner—and see that no harm comes to her. I may want her alive later.”

Even as Nebuchar spoke, Bagsby, squeezing himself as flat as possible, slipped through the doorway. Once past Nebuchar, he jumped over the area marked by the violet petals toward the center of the room.

A group of rowdies moved to obey Nebuchar’s command.

“Wait, please!” Shulana cried out. “There is more I can offer you!”

“What can you offer me that I cannot take for myself?” Nebuchar snarled.

“Close the door and I’ll tell you,” Shulana said, giving Nebuchar what humans called a “wink,” just as Bagsby had taught her.

“A moment,” Nebuchar said. He slammed the door and took his seat again. “All right. What else do you have to offer that I can’t take for myself?”

“Your life,” Shulana said flatly, her eyes suddenly as hard as any murderer’s that Nebuchar had ever known. “Be silent or die.”

As she spoke, Nebuchar felt the tickle of cold, sharp steel against his throat and a vice grip around his chest.

“What magic is this?” Nebuchar whispered, stunned.

Shulana made a slight gesture with her hand, and Nebuchar heard the voice of Bagsby whisper in his ear.

“The kind that works, unlike yours. No matter what you do, you’ll die before you can harm me or her. So tell us what we want to know, and we’ll go away quietly.”

“Bagsby!” Nebuchar whispered. “Is that you?”

“The same.”

“‘Then I have something you want or I’d be dead already.”

“Where is Valdaimon?” Bagsby hissed, putting more pressure on the blade.

“Since I’ll die whether I tell you or not, why should I tell you?” Nebuchar said softly.

“I need you alive to get the elf out of here.”

“So if I don’t talk, she dies.”

“Do you really think that matters to me?” Bagsby asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Nebuchar thought hard. He had no doubt that the Bagsby he had known couldn’t care less whether the elf lived or died. And, since Bagsby was somehow invisible, despite the sigils that protected the room, he would likely escape.

“You’ll kill me anyway once we’re outside,” Nebuchar argued.

“But it’s such a long walk through your tavern. You’ll think of something.”

Nebuchar grinned. Bagsby was right. He would think of something. “Lundlow Keep,” Nebuchar breathed.

“You may be lying,” Bagsby suggested.

“Why should I? If I can’t kill you, I’m only too glad to send you to a confrontation with Valdaimon.”

“You’re right,” Bagsby said agreeably. He cut Nebuchar’s throat from ear to ear. The big man looked surprised for an instant. He tried to shout, but could only gurgle. Then he slumped in the chair, clutching his throat, and felt his life force gush out onto the floor.

“Wait!” Shulana gasped as Bagsby stepped on the sigil by the door and became visible. “How do we get out of here now?”

“Simple,” Bagsby said. He grabbed Nebuchar’s body and threw it over the table, then drew his longsword and hacked off the head. Holding it aloft by the hair, he threw open the door and stepped into the tavern. The startled Shulana walked behind him.

“I am Bagsby!” he shouted, holding the head high in one hand and his sword in the other. “This piece of garbage is Nebuchar,” he added, shaking the head for emphasis. He strode forward, eyes meeting each and every man’s as he walked past him. “I’m taking over, as of now. Any objections?”

As Bagsby anticipated, there were none. The crowd was too stunned to think how to react.

“Good,” Bagsby said, nonchalantly tossing the head to the tavern keeper. “My second in command and I will be back in an hour. See that my room is cleaned up.”

Bagsby walked out the door without glancing back. Shulana, still stunned, followed him into the narrow street. George and Marta fell in behind the new, if temporary, lord of the Kalan underworld who walked boldly through the Thieves’ Quarter toward the ruins of the once great city.

“We go tonight,” Bagsby announced.

George’s eyes lit up with interest. The past two days had been boring. Camping in the woods about a mile from some old castle, studying it from every angle, thinking through and discarding one plan after another; none of this was to George’s taste. But the thought of action and treasure interested him greatly.

Marta tossed another branch onto the tiny fire the group allowed themselves. The woods were full of camp fires, as refugees from Kala and the surrounding towns struggled to stay alive and out of the way of the brutal garrison troops. One more fire would hardly matter.

“What plan have you decided on?” she asked. So far, it seemed to Marta, they hadn’t done much to hurt the Heilesheim cause. The prospect of actually encountering Valdaimon, an important servant of the king, appealed to her greatly.

“Well,” Bagsby said, grinning, “we wait until dark. Then we walk in the front door, kill everyone, and steal the treasure.”

“Right,” George said, lying back down. “That worked once, with a lot o’ magic to ‘elp you. I don’t think it will work again, not against a wizard like old Valdaimon. And not against a hundred some guards like we counted at that castle.”

“Hmmm,” Bagsby teased. “You may be right. Shulana, what magic do we have available?” While she talked, Bagsby worked on a tree limb with his dagger, pruning off tiny branches, skinning off the bark, forming a half-finished quarterstaff.

“You’ve seen almost everything I can do.” Shulana said. “I can cause silence. I can render things invisible for a while. I can move almost undetected in this cloak of mine, and I can throw a ball of magical fire. Oh, and I can see whether things are magical or not, and I can shrink things to a tiny size. Also, I have learned to cause a certain number of foes to fall asleep. As a young elf, my magical powers are quite limited.”