by Mark Acres
Then, seeing she had silenced George, who stared at her in bemused astonishment, she put down the sword and went about the mundane task of gathering the long tunic in bunches inside her thick legs, converting its bottom half to improvised breeches.
Bagsby, too, stared for a moment at the amazing Marta.
He had first seen this woman when she was brought before the council of the king of Argolia, where Bagsby had sat in his guise as Sir John of Nordingham—an identity he had created for the occasion out of thin air. She had appeared to show the council the wound inflicted on her by Ruprecht himself: her back was branded with his coat of arms, a dragon with wings spread wide. Her husband had been slain and herself thus treated when Heilesheim’s army had first begun its campaign of conquest against the numerous kingdoms of the Holy Alliance, a campaign that still continued and had thus far been unmarred by any major defeat. From that day, Marta had vowed vengeance on Heilesheim, Ruprecht, and Valdaimon, the undead wizard who guided Ruprecht’s hand in most affairs. She had disguised herself as a man and fought with the Argolians at the dreadful battle of Clairton, the outcome of which had put that kingdom under the heel of Ruprecht. Then, after meeting up with George, a Heilesheim deserter, she had joined Bagsby and Shulana and helped them steal the fabled Golden Eggs from Valdaimon. She was a woman with a single passion, Bagsby knew, though it seemed to him now that George’s attentions had softened her a bit.
“The wars of you humans are a matter of little concern,” a soft voice spoke into the gathering. Silently, the lithe, thin form of the elf Shulana slipped into the clearing. From whence she came not even Bagsby’s keen eye could tell, for like all elves she could move almost invisibly in any natural forest. “Whether the gods care about such things I know not,” she said matter-of-factly to Marta. “But I do know we must decide what to do next.” Her eyes took in all three of the humans. “Valdaimon will not be long in trailing us with assassins worse than any human he could hire. He wants the Golden Eggs, and he must not have them.”
“Why is that?” Bagsby asked quickly.
George rolled his eyes; Malta averted hers. The old quarrel was about to begin. In the few days the foursome had been together, George and Marta had heard more than enough times that Bagsby wanted to know the true nature of the Golden Eggs, and that Shulana knew but would not tell him.
“I cannot tell you,” Shulana said. She strode over to Bagsby, embraced him tenderly, and stared into his eyes. “They must be destroyed before he is able to recover them.”
“Destroyed!” George shouted, leaping to his feet. “Now just wait a minute. I didn’t risk life and limb and ‘angin’ to get me hands on that treasure just so’s you could come along and destroy it without so much as a ‘by your leave.’ I wants me cut. I know wot’s right, I do.”
“Shulana won’t destroy the treasure,” Bagsby said softly, pushing her from him. “She can’t.”
“If you think my affection for you will prevent me from carrying out the mission entrusted to me by the Elven Council, you are much mistaken, Bagsby,” Shulana said directly, her soft eyes meeting his with a mixture of affection and defiance.
“I know that,” Bagsby said. “When I said you couldn’t destroy the treasure, I did not mean that any affection for me prevented you from doing so.”
“What did you mean?” Shulana asked, turning her back on the short thief.
“Right, what did you mean?” George demanded.
“I meant,” Bagsby said softly, “that if Shulana had the power to destroy this treasure, she would already have done so. She does not have that power. This elf, my friends,” Bagsby went on, explaining for the benefit of George and Marta, “can cast a marvelous variety of spells. She can even call forth a magical fire that consumes men, beasts, swords, armor, almost anything.” Bagsby turned back around to face the elf. “But it cannot consume the Golden Eggs, can it, Shulana? For if it could, you would already have cast the spell.”
“True enough,” Shulana admitted.
“Well, that’s a mercy,” George muttered. The elf was a pretty little thing, at least as pretty as an elf could be, and George would have hated to have had to kill her, especially since Bagsby was obviously fond of her.
“All the more reason we must take the eggs at once to the Elven Preserve, where the combined magic of my race can once and for all destroy the threat they pose to this world,” Shulana said decisively. “Yes, that is what we must do. We must take them to the Elven Preserve.”
“If the elves wants ‘em, let ‘em pay us for ‘em,” George challenged flatly.
“That was the original agreement,” Shulana said. “The Elven Council has agreed to pay its entire treasury for the delivery of the Golden Eggs.”
“Well then, what are we waitin’ for?” George asked. He started gathering his scattered weapons and pack. Then he paused. “How much is in the treasury of the Elven Council?” he queried.
“More than two hundred thousand gold crowns,” Bagsby answered. “But I don’t think we ought to give the elves possession—just yet.”
“Why not?” George demanded. “Where else we goin’ to sell ‘em? Everyone in the world will recognize ‘em and know they’re stolen.”
“Nonetheless, at the moment they are mine—I stole them,” Bagsby said.
“You led the group that stole them,” Marta interjected. “Still, I’m interested to know what Sir John is thinking. Why shouldn’t we sell them and use the money to aid the fight against Heilesheim?”
“You spend your own money, sweet’eart. I’ll spend mine,” George countered.
“Because we don’t know what these two things really are,” Bagsby said. “How do we know that even the entire treasury of the Elven Council is fair value?”
“For a fourth part of two ‘undred thousand crowns, I’m willin’ to take the risk,” George said, strapping on his pack.
“Maybe you are, but I’m not,” Bagsby declared. “If the Elven Council’s offer is fair, why won’t Shulana divulge the secret of what these items really are? These two objects have been the subject of legends for thousands of years. Why does Valdaimon want them so desperately? Why do the elves want them so desperately?”
Marta strode forward to stand directly in front of the Golden Eggs of Parona. As the red rays of the sunset streaked through the forest, the two huge, egg-shaped nodules of gold, each nearly three feet from base to crown, gleamed in the dying light. Flashes of countless colors reflected from the hundreds of gemstones set in their gold finish, and the strange patterns worked into the gold coating looked to Marta like some strange, foreign writing—the writing of ancient, mystic prophets, foretelling doom for a world. The bulky woman stared at the eggs, then at Shulana, then at Bagsby.
“I see what you mean,” she said slowly. “It may be that these things are... more than just a treasure.”
“Well, what do you propose?” George said, staring with flat, dull eyes at Bagsby.
Bagsby ignored George’s gaze. He kept his eyes focused instead on the man’s hands. This was a dangerous moment. Nobler men than George had killed for much less gold than was here.
“I propose...” Bagsby began, then paused. What could he propose? How could he learn the secret of this treasure? How could he prevent George from cutting his throat in the middle of the night? How could he keep Shulana satisfied? How could all of them escape Valdaimon, who no doubt was even now using magical means to seek them out?
“I propose that this question is important enough that we take it to the head of the Elven Council,” Bagsby said at length, a friendly smile forming on his face.
“Well, okay then, we take ‘em to the Elven Council. That’s wot me and the elf there been saying,” George replied, smiling broadly.
“Not exactly,” Shulana said, “although I accept Bagsby’s proposal. If the head of the Elven Council agrees to divulge the secret to you, I will be
in complete agreement with him.”
Bagsby’s smile grew broader. He knew that the one thing that might divert Shulana from her mission to bring back the Golden Eggs would be a chance to rescue Elrond.
“Then we’re off to the Elven Preserve,” George sang out merrily. “C’mon, get your gear, mates. Sun’s down now, and we can move more safely.”
“It’s not quite that simple,” Bagsby said, walking about the clearing, gathering up his own belongings. “The head of the Elven Council, a fellow named Elrond, is not at the Elven Preserve.”
“Where is he?” Marta asked.
“In the dungeons of Ruprecht of Heilesheim, in the king’s palace in his capital city of Hamblen,” Shulana said. “We can follow the River Rigel for part of the way, at least until the cover of the forest gives way to the open land.”
“Ten thousand hells,” George muttered. Somehow, he’d been hoodwinked.
“George!” Marta bellowed, bending over a large pile of furs, blankets, swords, daggers, spears, slings, and stones she had salvaged from the battlefield of Clairton. “Help me with this lot.”
“Ten thousand hells,” George muttered again.
Shulana, with her natural abilities to move in forests and her magical cloak which could afford her partial or even total concealment under some circumstances, took the lead as the group struck out under cover of darkness. Shulana was glad to have the point position, some fifty yards or more in advance of the three humans. She needed time for her own thoughts.
She was glad, of course, that Bagsby had suggested going to free Elrond, even though such an adventure seemed, at first blush, hopelessly beyond the capabilities of their small band. To strike the most powerful kingdom on earth, in the palace of its king, in time of war, with a force of four—most of whom had known one another only a few days—seemed the height of folly. Yet she had seen Bagsby do the impossible more than once. He had risen in a matter of weeks from a petty street thief to become the most respected knight in the now–doomed kingdom of Argolia, and he had masterminded the plan that put the Golden Eggs of Parona within her grasp. What was more, he had become her beloved, a fact that Shulana acknowledged, but did not understand.
The rescue of Elrond was a brilliant idea, actually, for it allowed her to continue her strange, growing relationship with Bagsby, while also remaining true to her mission to the Elven Council. The Council could hardly be displeased if she returned with not only the Golden Eggs, but also the very head of the council itself: Elrond, the oldest living elf, who had personally slain the Ancient One, the Mother of Dragonkind, some five thousand years ago.
Many times in the past few months, Elrond had communicated with her from his hideous cell, using the strange communion with plants that the most powerful elves had developed to a true psychic art form, to penetrate her mind with his most urgent thoughts. Haste had been foremost among these—haste to obtain and then, she presumed, destroy the Golden Eggs. Now she would bring the Golden Eggs to him, since she could see no way to destroy them herself. And in the process, she would win Elrond’s freedom from the tyrant Ruprecht and the tortures of his dungeon.
What, Shulana wondered, would Elrond think of Bagsby?
Would the acknowledged leader of all elves approve of her strange and growing affection for this human? Love matches between humans and elves had occurred in the past, but usually with disastrous results—and for that reason they were frowned upon by elves in general. Yet Shulana could no more deny her feelings than she could her duty. Despite herself, she was drawn emotionally to this human. She thrilled at his touch, wanted to care for his wounds and pains, share his worries and woes, and take part in the brief adventure of his life.
Instinctive reaction suddenly froze both Shulana’s thoughts and the movement of her body. She stood stock-still in the dark, moonless woods, her skin tingling strangely. Slowly, she raised her right arm, extending it from beneath the protective covering of her cloak, and motioned with her hand for the group behind her to halt. She heard a few rustles of leaves and branches as the three humans let down their burdens, went to their bellies on the forest floor, and readied their weapons. For a brief instant, Shulana wondered how humans had managed to survive—their movements were so noisy! Any good elven patrol would have heard them from hundreds of yards away.
But the men ahead, whose approach Shulana’s very skin had sensed before she heard or saw them, were not listening for the rustling of a few leaves. They tromped loudly through the forest, talking as they came, mindless of the dangers that might lurk in the darkened wood.
“It’s no good, I tell you,” a gravelly voice grumbled. “We don’t know nothing about the east country. For all we know, there may be stinking elves to the east.”
“We know what’s here and what’s behind us, don’t we,” squeaked a second man with a shrill, high voice. “Hanging is what’s here. Hanging for desertion—not to mention murder, rape, pillage and thieving!” The high voice broke into scratchy, irritating, high-pitched laughter.
“Shut up and march, you two,” boomed a third low voice, one Shulana judged was accustomed to command.
“You ain’t no leader of a hundred now,” Gravel Voice challenged. “You ain’t no leader of nothin’.”
“Yeah,” Squeaky Voice added, “you ain’t no leader of….”
Shulana heard a soft swishing sound followed immediately by a wet slicing and cracking sound. An instant later she heard a soft thud, followed by a loud crash.
“I’m a leader of one now,” Command Voice boomed.
Gravel Voice breathed heavily, then replied, “Didn’t have to chop his head off. But a nice swing. And your point is well taken. East is just fine with me. Even if there are scum and elves there.”
“Hmmph,” Command Voice grunted.
Shulana slipped forward through the darkness until she had the two men clearly in sight. They had interrupted their march and their conversation to rifle the dead man’s pack and clothes, stuffing their own bags and packs with anything of value on him. The decapitated corpse still twitched occasionally, as if protesting the robbery, and his spilled blood glowed brightly in Shulana’s elven vision as it trickled over small branches, fallen leaves, and countless thousands of brown pine needles. At length, satisfied that their former comrade had nothing else of value, the two stalked on eastward, passing within ten yards of the three humans behind Shulana, who wisely maintained that degree of stillness that among them passed for silence.
Shulana doubled back and followed the murderous pair for nearly a mile, then returned, running at a medium pace as silently as a very soft breeze through the evergreen and hardwood trees. She uttered not a word, but by gesture alone indicated to the threesome that it was safe to move forward. Then she hurried ahead again, resuming her place on point.
Three more times that night the intrepid foursome encountered stragglers from the Heilesheim army, renegade soldiers turned plunderers, murderers, and thieves. Such, Shulana realized, were always a by-product of human wars, and it would be years after peace was restored before the last of these were tracked down and killed by what the humans called “lawful authority” —which from her point of view was little more than a group of murderers and pillagers whose actions were for some reason approved by the majority of men. At the moment, these small parties of renegades, infected with Heilesheim’s anti-elven propaganda, presented little threat as long as her group was vigilant and remained hidden. But the encounters did retard their already painfully slow progress.
The Golden Eggs, of course, were a major impediment to their movement. Their sheer bulk meant that it was all one person could do to carry one of them, and their weight made that an arduous task. Bagsby carried one of the eggs in an enormous cloth sack slung over his shoulder. Marta carried the other in similar fashion, while George was laden with the cache of furs, blankets, weapons, and clothes that Marta had collected from the dead (and
sometimes the living) of the recent battle. Moving quietly through even light woods thus encumbered was slow, trying work. So, on the first night, they covered less than twelve miles, before dawn peeped over the horizon, the signal for the party to find a remote clearing, camp, and post guards.
The second night’s march brought them still closer to the edge of the forest, the open fields of Dunsford, and the main road that crossed the Rigel at Shallowford—the very village where Marta had once been revered as the wife of the commander of the Count of Dunsford’s Yeoman Border Guards. They came closer, too, to the operating rear area of the Heilesheim army. Though the main force was still far to the north in Argolia, its principal route of reinforcement, communications, and supply ran up the Shallowford Road. During the second daylight period, the foursome had to move their camp twice, and quickly, to avoid detection by wandering bands of soldiers straying from the road to hunt, carouse, and generally seek a day’s leisure from the more demanding brutalities of army life.
Marta snapped on the third night. Shulana, as usual, was on forward point. The three humans saw her suddenly halt, and moments later give the sign to which they were so accustomed. Like the two men, Marta went to earth, sliding her large sack onto the ground beside her and cradling a twelve-foot stabbing spear in her right hand. After what seemed a very long time—it always seemed like a very long time to Marta—the threesome could hear the voices of the men whose presence Shulana had detected.
“Shallowford—what a dungheap!” one man exclaimed.
“Glad I joined the army, so I could see fair wenches like those cows!” a second giggled.
“Even a cow needs a good bull once in a while,” a third offered, chortling lustily.
“They didn’t seem to care for your company much,” the first teased.
