DW01 Dragonspawn (9 page)

The day had been a torment, Valdaimon remembered. The sun, always bright over Laga, had beat down on the streets that day with unbearable vigor. The heat was so great that even the barefoot urchins of the city had congregated at the city’s fountains and pools to soak their feet in the tepid water, for the paving stones were so hot the skin would burn from walking on them. If the heat had not been bad enough, the wind had joined it to contribute to the city’s misery. It had been the hot, dry easterly wind off the desert, howling through the tunnels the folk of Laga called avenues, bearing on its back a load of swirling, stinging sand that crept into every nook, cranny, and crevice of every building and made its way inside the folds of every robe.

Valdaimon had gone to Laga to find a certain desert shaman and sage, reputed to know by memory verses and incantations learned by his people a millennium ago in the Unknown Lands, the lands beyond the mountains, where no civilized man had ever ventured, no wizard ever scried, no bird ever flown. Perhaps, Valdaimon had thought, those verses and incantations contained final confirmation of what he had long suspected. Perhaps they would verify the secret Valdaimon believed in the depths of his being lay in the great treasure of Parona.

Whether they did or not, Valdaimon never learned. He had been lying in his litter, the curtains drawn against the sun, heat, sand, noise, and the stench of the city, struggling to breathe the sandy air while four servants bore him down one of the city’s endless snaking streets. The air was hot and dry, his old lungs paper-thin, and his throat so dry and scratched from inhaling the ubiquitous sand that he was forced to swallow small globules of his own blood. In desperation the mage had extended his scrawny arm and hand and yanked back the shielding curtains.

Just off to his right his eyes had seen a narrow, crowded, open square with one of the fountains in which the youngsters of Laga romped half nude. The old mage had kicked, thumped, and grunted, until the lackeys bearing his litter understood he wished to be carried to the fountain. Carefully, slowly, the bearers had picked their way through the crowd. Inside the litter, Valdaimon’s impatience had grown; his entire being was focused on his need for water to relieve his pain.

At last the litter had come to a halt. The old wizard had parted the curtains with his great staff. The fountain was still several feet away, its base mobbed by playing children. In frustration, the mage had lashed out with his staff, striking the nearest adult to get the man’s attention.

The man was stocky, naked to the waist against the heat of the day, his skin brown and his torso well-muscled. His hair was long and coal black, tied into a tail that fell far below his neck. A gold earring dangled from his left lobe, and a tiny diamond flashed from one of his gleaming white upper teeth. The man’s brown eyes had bored into Valdaimon’s face.

“Water,” the old mage had managed to croak. “I need water.”

“See,” the man had replied, kneeling and putting his arm around a young child, maybe five years old. “This old buzzard needs water. What say you, son? Shall we help him, or shall we make him croak a bit longer in order to teach him manners?”

The young boy had folded his arms, cocked his head, and stared straight into Valdaimon’s eyes. A look of serious study had come over his face, and his fat lips had pouted outward as he concentrated.

“He looks rich,” the boy had said at length. “The rich should have better manners. He should not have struck you, Father.”

“Right on all three points!” the man had answered, a broad smile lighting up his face. “You see, old man, the boy has cunning. But, Bagsby,” he had added, turning back to the boy, “a kindness that costs us nothing and could be richly repaid should not go undone.”

The boy had continued to stare skeptically at the withered old figure. His father had laughed again, then had risen and started toward the fountain. Valdaimon, angered at the impudence of the pair but relieved that his request was being fulfilled, had flopped back down among the pillows of his litter, letting the curtains swing shut.

“Father,” he had heard the child’s voice cry, “he bears the mark of the dragon!” The little urchin had noticed the pattern on the curtains of the litter: a large black dragon, its wings extended fully to both sides. An instant later, the curtains had parted, and the father was once again gazing at Valdaimon. This time, though, he was drawn up to his full height of five feet three inches, and his barrel chest was puffed out to the full.

“Dragon wizard—Valdaimon! You are Valdaimon!” the man had shouted, pointing a finger as though the mere mention of the name was an accusation.

Valdaimon, too tired to argue, his throat burning and bleeding, had merely nodded his head in his pillows to acknowledge the recognition.

“You vile bastard—your wizardry has corrupted half of Heilesheim,” the man had cried, “and you rob the better half by your influence with the king. You can fetch your own accursed water. And may Kirie, god of thieves, cause you to choke on it.”

Valdaimon’s rage had flashed. Despite the dryness of his throat and feebleness of his bones, he had managed to sit bolt upright in his litter, jam the end of his huge staff into the man’s chest, and shout a word of magical command. The man had exploded, and when the black, oily smoke had finally cleared, there was nothing left of him on the sun-soaked pavement save a pile of burning flesh and bones.

“Now, you,” Valdaimon had commanded, pointing a bony, thin finger at the quavering child who stared dumbly at his father’s smoldering remains. “You, fetch me water!”

The child had met Valdaimon’s eyes, his own wide with fear—was it loathing? At any rate, he had quickly obeyed, leaping toward the fountain, swiping a cup from a beggar who sat near the edge of the crowd of children, dipping it in the lukewarm water, and hastening with it to Valdaimon’s side without spilling a drop.

“Now you know how to serve your betters and the cost of defying the royal wizard,” Valdaimon had snapped, grabbing the cup from the boy’s outstretched hands. As he had raised the cup to his lips, Valdaimon had felt a strange, sudden pressure in his groin that his brain instantly translated into nauseating pain.

“Oooomph!”
the old wizard had croaked, spitting and dropping the cup. He had sat upright and doubled over, bumping his head against an elbow of the agile child, who had leapt into the litter and stamped on his groin. Valdaimon had raised his eyes to see the hate-filled face of the child snarling at him. A dagger had flashed, and the tiny boy had held aloft Valdaimon’s coin purse. Finally, before the old mage could react, the child had kicked him, hard, right in the face, dislodging another of his already precious yellow teeth. An instant later, the child had vanished, melting into the gathering throng that clamored insults against the royal wizard.

It was then, Valdaimon now realized, that he had made two mistakes. Overcome with pain and rage, he had ordered his bearers to take him away to the shelter of the governor’s mansion. There, in a matter of hours, he had let himself be overtaken by affairs of the moment. He had missed the chance to find the desert shaman, and he had let go his intention to have the child Bagsby sought out and killed.

Critical mistakes, Valdaimon thought as he sat in the cheap chair in the thatched hut, listening again to the pouring rain. When one is among mortals as a mortal, one must keep track of who one kills, who their relations may be. Mortals are essentially powerless beings, Valdaimon mused, but they can be a deadly nuisance when one grows careless.

This particular human whelp had become a great nuisance. Valdaimon had heard his name from time to time in his contacts with the thieves and cutthroats of a dozen baronies. It was Bagsby who had stolen the gems of the Countess Pomeran, whose husband now commanded the First Legion. It was Bagsby who had kidnapped the daughter of the leading merchant of Grullheim, whisked her off all the way to the lands of the Rhanguilds, then, when he ransomed her, stolen a ship and sold it to her father for their return journey! He had even dared touch the League; it was that fool mage Grundelson who had let Bagsby steal one of his books of incantations and then sell it back to him before he realized it was missing.

Now this Bagsby was in league with some elf—could there be any connection to Elrond? Would he know, would he dare go after the treasure of Parona? Could he know what it truly was? Valdaimon could only wonder. Once more he cursed the name of Bagsby. Then he opened his eyes, rose, and leaned over the table, turning his attention once again to his scrying ball. Bagsby must die. Until that could be arranged, Valdaimon would keep a watchful, secret eye on the activities of this thief. And he would worry until the treasure of Parona was safely through Argolia, where Bagsby now resided, on its route to his own anxiously waiting hands.

Battle Joined

THOMAS ARBRIGHT,
Count of Dunsford, single-handedly hefted aloft a full keg of Heilesheim-brewed ale, a feat of strength few living men could have equaled. Roaring with frustration and rage, he hurled the keg down the rocky hillside, heaving for breath and watching with satisfaction as the copper hoops snapped, the wood splintered, and the brew imported from his new and hated enemy spilled out onto the rocky ground.

“So shall we do to Heilesheim’s army, which dares to invade our land!” the count cried out to the assembled knights and minor lords who lined the hillcrest behind him.

A lusty, throaty cheer arose from the throng of warriors. Swords were raised in salute to the prowess of their leader. War hammers were banged against the backs of great shields. A stiff, cool, morning breeze conveniently snapped the count’s large standard out to its full, colorful glory. The count’s gasps formed steam that rose toward the pale blue spring sky, and the bulky war leader smiled. His men were ready for battle. It would go well.

“Barons, meet me for my council of war,” the count shouted. “All others, attend to your men-at-arms. The enemy is not far distant. We will attack today!”

A second round of cheering, grunting, and weapon rattling rang out as the count tramped up to the top of the hill and off toward his large tent that served as sleeping quarters, mess, and military headquarters when he was in the field. A flock of barons fell in behind him. The remaining nobility—baronets and knights—shared back slaps and mock clouts and gradually drifted toward their waiting foot soldiers, who had neither seen Count Dunsford’s display nor understood the reason for the battle they were about to fight.

Dunsford, always a careful warrior, believed he had done all he could to enhance his chances of winning the coming engagement. He had arisen early, bathed in the cold stream nearby to shock his system to full alertness, then knelt naked for half an hour in early morning air, humbly beseeching the numerous gods recognized in his barony for their aid in the coming fray. Then he had repaired to his tent for a light breakfast of eggs, poultry, venison, and hot mulled wine. He had dressed carefully, beginning with a clean woolen undersuit, followed by a plain gray tunic, his thick quilted underarmor, his chain mail, and his great white outer tunic, emblazoned with blue crossed swords and a boar’s head between the blades, the emblem of his family. He had donned his great helm and strapped on his two-handed bastard sword with the jewel-encrusted pommel. Lastly, he had stared into the reflecting metal held by his valet and practiced the scowling, withering glance that was his trademark as a leader of fighting men. His valets had assured him that he cut an imposing figure. At five-foot eleven, he was one of the tallest men in the realm, and the strength of his thick arms and bandy legs was legendary. His hair, beard, and mustache were still thick and black despite his thirty-eight years, and his blue eyes could bore into the soul of either a friendly coward or a determined foe.

Heilesheim was famous for its ales, which were imported into Dunsford’s lands in huge quantities. He had chosen the smashing of the keg as a demonstration both of his prowess and of the fate that awaited the Black Prince and his armies for daring to invade the Dunsford lands. As he energetically hurled himself into the large wooden chair at the head of the meeting table in his tent, he congratulated himself for choosing that particular demonstration. The troops had been fired up. They were ready for blood. All that remained was to state to the more important lords the causes of the conflict, so they would know that justice and the gods would fight with them, and then to give the final orders for the battle to come.

“My lords and friends,” Dunsford began as more than thirty of the highest ranking nobles milled about in his tent, clanking in their armor, “hear me.”

Dunsford did not yet invite the nobles to sit. First he would state the justness of his cause. That would take only minutes. Then, he would invite the nobles to sit and hammer out their positions in the line of battle. If all went well, that would take only one or two hours.

“We fight today to repel an invading foe who fights with neither gods nor justice behind him,” the count cried.

Calls of “Yes, yes” and “Hear our liege, hear, hear!” arose from the assembled nobles.

“We have given no offense to Ruprecht of Heilesheim,” Dunsford declared, “who is justly called the Black Prince. We did not raid his territories—yet he raided ours and destroyed our village of Shallowford.”

Nods and murmurs of agreement arose.

“Now hear more!” Dunsford shouted. “The sack of Shallowford you know of. But hear now of what affront he has done to the honor of every one of us! When we sent our envoy to protest the sack of our village and to demand to know Ruprecht’s intentions, the Black Prince saw fit to return to us our own protected ambassador’s head in a cloth bag!” On cue, a servant appeared bearing a great platter on which rested a bloody, lumpy cloth sack. Dunsford opened it and held aloft its grisly contents. “Behold, how he treats the honored servants of your liege, the Count of Dunsford! Behold, how Ruprecht regards your own honor!”

“Vengeance!” cried one dull-faced lord, hefting his sword aloft and sadly thrusting it through the roof of the tent. His faux pas went unnoticed; the cry of “Vengeance” was taken up by all, mingled with shouts of “Reparations!”

Dunsford leapt up on the table, ducking his head to avoid the roof of the tent, and gestured for silence.

“That is not all, my lords,” he continued. “This same Ruprecht has sent his own envoys with the following demands.” A hush came over the lords; the demands of the enemy were always important to know. They gave clues to what advantages might be gained in negotiations after a battle when ransoms for prisoners were determined and reparations for acts of injustice were meted out.

“Ruprecht demands full freedom of passage for the armies of Heilesheim through all the territory of this barony,” the count said calmly. The nobles fell stone silent; the first demand was unthinkable. “He further demands,” Dunsford went on, “that collectors of revenue for Heilesheim be installed in each shire of this barony, to collect such taxes, tithes, fees, and entitlements to which he, as the true king of this realm, may declare himself entitled.”

“Never!” shouted one baron. “Invasion and tyranny!” called out a second. In an instant the tent was a seething mass of angry men, mindlessly shouting, banging their weapons, and pounding upon one another with mailed fists. Dunsford allowed this demonstration to continue a bit before raising his arms, as best he could in the cramped space, and calling again for silence.

“My lords, silence! Silence I say! You have not yet heard all!”

“All?” one baron queried. “What more could that impudent usurper, who probably murdered his own brother, ask?”

“Hear me, and I will tell you. Ruprecht, who styles himself King of Heilesheim,” Dunsford said, deliberately pausing for effect, “demands that all lands not belonging to the temples and the lords of the temples but held in fief and liege from the Count of Dunsford, along with their rights, privileges, fees, duties, and titles, be surrendered to the crown of Heilesheim as royal lands in perpetuity.”

Pandemonium erupted in the tent.

From the low hilltop Culdus gazed on the level meadow that stretched for more than a thousand yards before him. In the far distance the crest of a second hill rose; there, he could make out unmistakable signs of the enemy force. Smoke rose in the air from countless cooking fires; little blobs of white against the mottled green and brown of the hillcrest were the tents of enemy lords. The meadow would be a battlefield within a few hours.

The position could not be better, Culdus thought, for his purposes. The little roadway from Shallowford to Dunsford’s main city, Avon, wound through the middle of the meadow. The entire field was only about fifteen hundred yards wide; on the left the marshy banks of a stream that made its way south to the Rigel prevented the movement of troops, and on the right a large uncleared wood blocked any flanking movement.

“A good field for our tactics, Lord General,” commented Viscount Karl of Sudlund, commander of the Fifth Legion that would bear the brunt of the fighting. He stamped his mailed boot on the cold, hard earth. “The ground is solid, making maneuver easy. Our flanks are protected,” he added, pointing to the woods and then the marsh. “The enemy will be in a narrow zone, where we can easily slay them.”

Culdus nodded, pleased. Sudland was one of the few who truly understood the new military system, which would now, after several days’ delay, receive its first real test in battle. It was a good thing that this first test would come under the command of a man who understood and appreciated the system.

Only a few thin wisps of white cloud marked the sunny, pale blue sky. A light breeze stirred, but there was no sign of the accursed rain that had dogged the invasion of Dunsford for the first three days. Even though the schedule of march of the legions had been badly thrown off by the weather, this was a perfect day for battle, Culdus thought.

“Tell me, Karl, how you will proceed,” Culdus said, clapping an arm around the younger noble’s shoulders.

Karl surveyed the field one more time, shading his eyes to study the details of small rises and dips in the ground. He gazed at the enemy encampment on the opposite hill. He removed his mailed gloves, dropped them on the ground, stroked his chin, and then fiddled with the large ebony brooch that formed the clasp of his heavy, dark blue cloak. At length, he drew his longsword, and using it as a pointer, outlined his plan.

“I’ll form the foot soldiers in line by battles,” he began. “The first battle will take the center, with the second in standard formation behind it. The fifth I’ll deploy to the right of the first, the sixth to the left.”

Again, Culdus nodded. He could immediately visualize Karl’s positioning on the field. The foot soldiers would form lines in their “battles” of one thousand men each. Each soldier was armed with an eighteen-foot spear and a shortsword. A full battle formed a line three ranks deep and about three hundred and fifty yards in length. Thus, three battles formed in line, side by side, with about one hundred yards between them for maneuvering room, would just about cover the frontage of the field. An additional battle, the second in Culdus’s numbering system, would be formed up just behind the center of the line. So far, so good.

“What else?” Culdus prompted.

“The third battle in standard blocks behind the second,” Karl responded. Thus, his center would be even deeper. Behind the second battle, a third would be divided in half, with each half formed in a kind of square. One square would be placed behind each flank of the second battle. “The archers will be distributed by hundreds behind the flanking battles to arch fire as the whole advances.”

“And the cavalry?”

Karl laughed. “Yes, my tumultuous lords. They will be held in reserve and can advance at a distance of three hundred yards behind the rest of the legion.”

“And if the enemy charges?”

“We will halt and form the block,” Karl answered immediately.

Culdus was very pleased. This would be a good day for Heilesheim. “The Sixth Legion will be formed in the block behind this hill as a reserve. I doubt you will need it,” Culdus said. “Form your legion and advance at will.”

“Lord General, it shall be done. But what of the king and Valdaimon?”

“Let us pray to our gods that the king and Valdaimon find other amusements today. This is work for soldiers. And Karl,” Culdus cautioned, “mind you mark well the behavior of your mounted lords. The order of the day is, No prisoners.”

Karl nodded his obedience.

Dunsford sighed. Goblets of wine were being hurled across the table in his tent. Four of the assembled lords had already left for the open field outside, there to hack away at one another over injuries to their honor. Shouts, curses, insults, and claims of precedence created a din around the table. It was always this way when it was time to form line of battle. The theory was simple; he would form with his troops in the center. The next lords in ranks would take station to his right and left. The next lower ranks would form to the right and left beyond, and so on.

Sadly, determining order of rank was always a complicated matter. It involved ancestry, conferred titles as opposed to inherited titles, reputation for prowess, performance in battles past, and social rank acquired by marriage. Councils of war always degenerated into name-calling matches, and not infrequently one or two lords would be killed in private duels before the line of battle was ever formed.

“My lords, I beseech you. This bickering over precedence is needless,” Dunsford literally screamed at the assemblage. “It is not important how close you stand to me, but how well you close with the enemy!”

Murmurs of assent momentarily interrupted the shouting matches. Before they could resume, a young page, wearing a rapier and dagger but no armor, dashed into the count’s tent.

“My Lord Count,” he cried, “the scouts report that the enemy advances!”

“What strength does he show?” Dunsford asked.

“The scouts report more than six thousand, but only a few hundred mounted knights, and those held in reserve,” the page responded.

For an instant Dunsford’s brow wrinkled and his mouth formed a small
o.
What devilment was this? Only a few hundred knights? Foot soldiers advancing? But there was no time to ponder. Dunsford banged his fist on the table and bellowed his orders.

“Duncan, you will take position on my light. Sir Richard Grier, on my left. The rest of you, where you will. Go to your troops and form line of battle at the crest of this hill, now!”

The nobles, still bickering and casting angry glances at one another, clattered their way out of the tent.

“God of my homeland, grant me victory today,” Dunsford said, his eyes raised to the sunlight that shone through the roof of his tent. The count rose and walked outside. Two servants awaited with his war-horse, and helped him mount.