by Mark Acres
Inside Wojan’ s temple, while Sigurt stood his lonely vigil, the three hundred priests were gathered in ranks like a holy army in the great hall of worship, prepared to offer the supplication to Wojan and the other gods that would restore the flesh of the unusual supplicant who was to present himself tonight.
Sigurt shuddered suddenly, even though the summer night air was mild and warm. Always, always, the way of Wojan had been hard. Wojan demanded sacrifice of self to the good of the army, the good of the kingdom, the glory of war. But always, always, the worship of Wojan had been a very human thing—not humane, not kind, not even desirable from the point of view of lazy men who loved prosperity and peace more than danger and celebration in the immortal songs of the faith—but always human. Tonight.... Sigurt shuddered again. Tonight, Sigurt thought, Wojan does not overcome the power of death with courage that leads to glory, as has always been his way. Tonight Wojan forges an alliance with death, death for its own sake, death that is so powerful that it itself lives. It did not seem right to the priest. But who was he to question Wojan? His duty, like every loyal soldier’s, was to obey.
Sigurt’s dark thoughts were interrupted by the faint sound of bare human feet padding gently down the Royal Road. The high priest raised his eyes; in the distance, he could make out a moving, dark mass in the darkness of the night, a mass that slowly came closer and resolved into the images of men bearing a litter. In that litter was the supplicant for whose sake all these preparations had been made—none other than Valdaimon, the wizard, the undead thing who could call forth more magic than any human and, some claimed, knew incantations undiscovered even by the elves.
The litter-bearers came straight ahead, clearly visible now, even in the darkness of the night. They did not slow their pace until they suddenly stopped less than ten feet in front of Sigurt, heads bowed even as they held their heavy burden.
Sigurt raised the ceremonial hammer and dipped it once in the ancient gesture of Wojan’s blessing. “The power of Wojan be on everyone here who loves war, hates slothful peace, and seeks glory in Wojan’s kingdom,” he intoned.
The litter-bearers lowered their burden without looking up. Then, as one, they scattered back down the road the way they had come, to await their summons out of sight of the temple.
An incoherent, high-pitched howl of greeting came from within the lowered litter.
“Step forward, supplicant, to beseech the favor of Wojan,” Sigurt called, in a loud voice.
The yellow-and-red silk curtains of the litter parted. With much panting, wheezing, and struggling, the withered, naked form of Valdaimon slowly emerged into the night. The old mage cut an almost comical figure as he wobbled and staggered in his attempt to rise, waving his one arm wildly for balance. Sigurt grimaced, This was sickeningly comical, obscene in a particularly hideous way. Then, as the old man steadied himself, the priest saw clearly the extent of the damage to the disgusting body. The visual assault was combined with the legendary stench that always accompanied Valdaimon—and for a moment, the high priest fought hard against his natural tendency to gag. But the dignity of his position and his duty to Wojan forbade any such reaction.
Valdaimon stared at Sigurt with his one rheumy eye. He wondered if the priest could read the hatred on his face, the utter contempt he felt for all priests and the gods they represented. Religion was a poor substitute for the real power of magic, and nothing but indomitable necessity had driven him to seek this priest’s help. And the cost! The cost! No doubt, Valdaimon thought, that was what the priest would next address.
“Valdaimon, servant of the king of Heilesheim, and thereby servant of Wojan,” Sigurt bellowed in a deep voice, choosing his words carefully so as never to imply that Valdaimon was a willing servant of the god, “do you come as a humble supplicant seeking from Wojan that which is beyond your power, that which only a god can bestow?”
Valdaimon was required by the form of the ritual to respond. He released a low, hate-filled growl that the priest, if he were wise, would take for assent.
“Then know,” Sigurt responded, “the sacrifice that Wojan demands of you.”
Sigurt paused. It was this part of the ritual that gave him the greatest difficulty, that aroused his deepest feelings of revulsion. Had the supplicant been a mere human, say a king of Heilesheim, the god would have imposed a heavy duty in gold—always useful for paying continued building and maintenance expenses—and perhaps a quest to go and recover this gem or that artifact and donate it to the holy temple of Wojan. The temple had a number of small chambers filled with such treasures, the gifts of supplicants who had sought much less than Valdaimon sought tonight.
“It is the will of Wojan,” Sigurt continued, “that you shall be his instrument for bringing endless war to all the earth. In all you do, you shall foment strife. No king, no soldier, no man shall ever hear from your lips counsels of peace, but always and only counsels of war. Your powers, once restored, shall be used solely to this end. This shall be for the fostering of courage, of glorious deeds in battle, and the worship of Wojan above all other gods to the very ends of the earth,” Sigurt chanted in his deep bass.
Valdaimon again grunted his assent. All this was according to the agreement he had painstakingly negotiated with the high priest. That process had required the cooperation of two of his most powerful underlings from the League of Wizards, of which he was the titular head. Their spells of telepathy had been used to translate Valdaimon’s agreement to the outrageous terms demanded by Sigurt. Sometime soon, once his powers were restored, the mages involved in the negotiations would have to die, lest they divulge their knowledge of this secret pact.
“And know this!” Sigurt exclaimed, continuing in the same tone. “In the day that you violate this sacred oath, you shall certainly be destroyed. For on that day the High Priest of Wojan shall cast upon your name the spell of life, and you, being dead, shall be annihilated, reduced to less than nothingness, your being not even a memory among men.”
Treachery! Valdaimon croaked his anger, but to no avail. Sigurt had mentioned no such condition in the course of their negotiations. He had tacked on this condition of punishment only at the decisive moment, when Valdaimon had no choice but to accept it. Without the power to counsel peace, the old wizard’s ability for political maneuver was crippled. Valdaimon could only stare, fuming, at the face of the hated high priest. Sigurt smiled. It was this part of the ritual, and this part alone, that would give him some satisfaction from this night’s work.
Valdaimon waved his one arm impatiently. Get on with it, then, you treacherous priest, he thought. Perhaps someday I will find a way to pay back you and your god.
Sigurt smiled again, and nodded. He turned his back to Valdaimon and began pacing slowly toward the great doors of the temple, passing between two rows of low columns. Atop each column was a silver bowl, and in each bowl was a small amount of blood. At each column, Sigurt stopped, raised high the bowl, and poured the contents over Valdaimon’s nearly bald head.
“Be cleansed in the blood of a warrior blessed by Wojan,” he chanted with each such ablution. This was repeated seven times, until the naked form of Valdaimon, ritually cleansed, slowly mounted the steps that led up to the temple doors. At Sigurt’s signal, those doors swung silently open, and the strange pair disappeared into the mysterious interior of that vast edifice which was the embodiment of Heilesheim’s historic might.
The sun was not yet up when Valdaimon’s litter was borne from the square back down the Royal Road to Ruprecht’s palace, the ancient fortress that protected both the harbor and the river approaches to Hamblen.
“A curse on all gods and priests,” Valdaimon muttered, still enraged by Sigurt’s treachery and the impossible restrictions the god’s terms had placed upon him. And the healing hadn’t even been completed. True, his face was as whole as it had been before Bagsby’s attack, his right arm and hand restored and functional for spell castin
g, and his other wounds somewhat improved, but his right eye was still missing, the socket merely grown over with more of the same dead flesh that covered the rest of Valdaimon’s bones. Wojan had determined, Sigurt had announced airily, that the sight of both eyes was not necessary for Valdaimon’s magical powers and for his new role as Wojan’s agent in the affairs of men. Someday, Valdaimon thought, someday, perhaps even the gods themselves will tremble at the power of the one who can command the very fires of heaven! But in the meantime, there was work to be done. First and foremost was the task of finding Bagsby and the treasure he had stolen.
“Faster!” the wizard screamed at his litter-bearers. The tired, frightened men broke into a jog, struggling to keep their burden level as they increased their speed toward the palace. For an instant, the silk curtains on the side of the litter parted, and a scrawny arm protruded. Sitting on the arm was a fat, bedraggled crow who cawed once, loudly, and then took flight into the black sky.
A Plot Is Hatched
BAGSBY strolled briskly down the open roadway between flat fields of summer grain that had already grown as tall as his knees. The sun overhead was in a midday position; the next three hours would be the heat of the day, but Bagsby did not even consider pausing. He felt better than he had for several weeks. He was in his own element again: he was alone, he had no ties, he had no other people to slow him down, and he had his own interests and no one else’s to care about.
All I need now, he thought, is a bit of cash. A horse would be good, too; the quicker he could get to Laga the better. There was no telling how quickly Shulana might decide to follow him.
Bagsby suppressed the unfamiliar rush of guilt that flooded him when he thought of Shulana. After all, he had gotten them across the river, given George enough tips to get them safely to Hamblen, and even left a note for Shulana, promising to meet up with the group once his current quest was done.
The river crossing had been strenuous—difficult work, but not as dangerous as it first appeared. From the branches of the plentiful trees by the riverbank, the group, at Bagsby’s direction, had crafted a crude raft, held together by mud, wood tar, bits of rope, and belts from Marta’s battlefield pickings. The swift river current had lapped between the logs, soaking the group, but the raft had floated—and once free from the shore had been carried rapidly by the current downstream to the west. Using more branches as crude paddles, the foursome had managed to guide their makeshift craft across the center of the wide stream, and it was only a matter of time until the coincidence of turns in the river and the vagaries of the current sent it bobbing toward the southern bank. Eventually, the craft had foundered on a mud bar, only ten yards from shore; but the river was only neck-deep there—even on Bagsby. Dripping and cursing, the three humans and Shulana had waded onto the soil of Heilesheim with all their gear in tow.
“Well, George, that’s a job well done,” Bagsby had said cheerily, as the former soldier dropped his bundle on the bank and sank to his knees, exhausted more by fear of drowning than by any exertion.
“Right, well done,” George had gasped. The fighter had watched with continued and growing horror as a rush of high water washed over the mud bar where the raft was stuck, lifting it off and, in the process, tearing away part of one side. “By the gods, Bagsby, that could have been us,” George had whispered reproachfully.
“True. But it wasn’t,” Bagsby had replied lightly. “Now listen to me, George. Here’s the plan.”
“It ‘ad better be a good one,” George had said. “You’ve almost got me drowned. Now I’m in Heilesheim, and you’re like to get me caught for a deserter and ‘anged.”
“Not at all, not at all. Listen to me.” Bagsby had leaned over, placing his mouth close to George’s ear as if to impart a great confidence. “Everyone knows that Ruprecht and Valdaimon hate elves, right?”
“True enough,” George had replied. Even before the war had begun, the officers of the Fifth Legion, George’s unit, had been giving lectures to the troops about the menace of elves, how elves were to blame for the troubles of Heilesheim, how the plotting of the elves was probably behind the aggressions of the Holy Alliance that made the “defensive” conquest of their lands a sad necessity. Neither George nor the other Heilesheim infantry had paid much heed to this; their motives for fighting had little to do with politics. They were in it for fun, adventure, and plunder.
“Well, then, if anyone stops you, you’re a Heilesheim soldier who got cut off from his unit at the great Battle of Clairton—that much is true and should be easy to stick to—and after the battle, you caught this female elf spying on the army. Then you enlisted the aid of Marta and myself, poor refugees, in taking this unusual and important prisoner straight to the capital,” Bagsby had whispered. “It’s your right as a Heilesheim soldier to ransom your own prisoner, and since this one is obviously a spy, she should be brought before the king’s own court for disposition.”
A light gleamed in George’s dark eyes, which widened with glee and surprise. “An’ I thought you was in love wit’ ‘er,” he had replied in a low tone.
Bagsby had grimaced. Would George actually turn Shulana over? Of course he would. Still, Shulana had always demonstrated every ability to take care of herself, and she should know how far George could be trusted....
Bagsby had taken the first watch that morning while the group settled down to sleep, a few hundred yards off the great road that ran along the south side of the river, stretching all the way from the desert city of Laga in the far east to Hamblen on the coast of the Great Sea in the west. He had watched as George and Marta, lying in the shade of a spreading oak, had drifted off to soggy sleep. He had watched Shulana as she drifted away from the group, out to an open meadow, there to lie down and disappear in a mass of green grass and beautiful golden flowers whose faces tilted eastward to catch the rays of the rising sun. Then, on a piece of scrap leather plundered from Marta’s horde, he had scrawled a note, using the point of a dagger to carve the crude letters into the pliant bit of cowhide.
Shulana,
Leaving to learn value of treasure. You understand. Will meet you and Elrond. Four weeks at most. The gods travel with you,
Bagsby
By now, Bagsby thought, one of them at least will be awake. Soon they’ll discover that I’m gone, and then Shulana will find the message I left. She’ll know—she’ll even know I’m headed east, because I once told her of the holy man out here who is rumored to know the secrets of the past. But she won’t come after me, no matter how much George wants to. She’ll go to save Elrond. She can’t afford to lose the Golden Eggs and have Elrond killed as well. She’ll go to save Elrond.
“Bah!” Bagsby shouted out loud, shaking his head savagely, trying to shake out the thoughts the way a dog shakes off water. “Enough! I am the way I was—on my own, on the open road, seeking my own fortune!” Bagsby raised his head and looked resolutely ahead. His old smile spread across his face at the sight that faced him—ten soldiers in standard Heilesheim armor, led by a single officer on a horse. And here comes a bit of that fortune, Bagsby thought.
“And then the Argolian center broke. It was like a piece of taut string, suddenly snapping. One minute they were in line fighting, the next a fleeing mass of frightened men—all ranks, even the Argolian nobles, galloping away to save their lives.” Bagsby gestured dramatically as he stuffed another handful of the fresh, white fowl meat into his mouth with his free hand. “Then our men were all over them, footmen and knights together, in a glorious pursuit,” he continued, his words interspersed with the sounds of chewing as flecks of the white flesh dribbled from his lips.
“And you saw it all?” one incredulous young soldier asked. “You actually saw our footmen attacking their knights and defeating them?” The rest of the small company—ten fresh recruits for the front from among the merchant-class families of Laga—leaned forward, eyes glued to Bagsby. Their officer, a veteran, rolled
his eyes as he turned another chicken over their noonday fire.
“May all the gods strike me if I did not see these things with my own eyes,” Bagsby declared. He didn’t bother to add that he, too, had been among the fleeing Argolians. “I saw it from a hill overlooking the field, where I’d parked my wagon.”
“By the gods, men, if this is true,” the young recruit exclaimed, “we can all be rich men before this war is over, even if we are but footmen!”
“Aye,” the officer called. “By the way, you said your name was...?” He directed his stern glance at Bagsby.
“Oh, sorry, didn’t I properly introduce myself?” Bagsby replied. “So much excitement these last few days. First the battle, then losing my wagon to that band of Argolian deserters who were wandering around our rear area—turned into nothing but a bunch of ruffians, you see, and I....”
“Your name?” the officer demanded, rising to his feet.
“Wilhelm Mater of Hamblen, merchant, tinker, and jack of all trades, as they say,” Bagsby responded quickly, jumping up himself and extending his hand in formal greeting. “At your service, officer. And you?”
“Hans Frisung, Leader of Ten, Eighth Legion, on rear-area duty,” the man replied, ignoring Bagsby’s gesture of friendship. “How fared the Eighth in the big fight?”
Bagsby saw the way the man cocked his head as he asked the question, saw his eyes narrow as they studied Bagsby’s face. A trick question, no doubt.
