DW02 Dragon War

by Mark Acres

  “Full size, please,” Ramashoon said.

  Bagsby looked quizzically at the old man. “I won’t be able to shrink them down again,” he said.

  “It is not mattering if they are shrunk for carrying after tonight,” Ramashoon said simply.

  Bagsby was perturbed. If he only had his wits about him, he thought, he’d find a way to make this strange old holy man talk, and then take his treasure and be on his way. But the old wits were failing him. If he wanted to know the secret, he would have to play along. Carefully, he set the eggs side by side on a flat spot of ground.

  Bagsby inhaled deeply. Speaking slowly, forming each syllable with great care, he spoke the magic word of command that released Shulana’s spell. In less time than the blink of an eye, the eggs were full size—three feet from base to crown, gold gleaming with inset gems in the reflected firelight...

  “There,” Bagsby said. “Now, tell me. What is the great secret of this treasure?”

  “Be watching,” Ramashoon said. “You will be that bag of meat much needing.”

  Bagsby flopped back, completely exasperated. This old holy man would tell him nothing. He had come all this way for nothing. Better to have taken the eggs straight to the elves and....

  Ramashoon softly muttered a few words of magic. Bagsby felt the earth tremble ever so slightly beneath his body. He sat upright and stared at the eggs.

  The two eggs were moving, vibrating, shaking. This was the same movement he had detected from them many times in the past, but never with such force. Now the eggs were quaking, and the vibrations were being carried right into the ground, running along it.

  “What’s happening?” Bagsby demanded.

  “Be watching,” Ramashoon said. “For this, you and I were both being born.”

  Bagsby watched. The violent shaking of the eggs grew more and more pronounced until suddenly the quiet night was shattered by a loud popping sound. The crown of one egg flew up into the air, borne aloft by a stream of golden-yellow flame that rose to a height of thirty feet or more. The crown of the egg melted in the fire, falling molten to the earth.

  Bagsby heard a low growl, and lowered his gaze from the top of the gush of flame to the earth. The broken egg had tipped over on its side, and out of the hole protruded a red, scaly, lizard-like head, with an enormous mouth rather like a crocodile’s. The ruby-colored lizard head extended farther and farther out of the egg, until its body emerged—long, sinuous, and covered with deep red scales. There were two tiny legs in the front, ending in appendages almost like lizard hands, but in the rear were two large, powerful haunches, and then a tail that snaked around in coils. The sides were covered with great, wet flaps of flesh that the creature extended, slowly at first, then forcefully. Wings—they were wings, Bagsby realized. The creature slowly moved the wings back and forth in the still night air, drying them.

  Then, without seeming to notice anything else in its surroundings, the red monster turned its attention to the other egg, still quaking and shaking violently. The creature drew in its breath, opened the huge mouth, and shot forth another gout of multi-hued flame, bathing the remaining egg until Bagsby could no longer see it for the flames. As suddenly as it had appeared, the breath of fire disappeared, and where the egg had stood another creature, seemingly identical to the first, slowly flexed its wings.

  This second creature raised its head, breathed once, and shot its own column of fire into the black sky. Then it lowered its head, fixed Bagsby with a stare from one huge, black eye, and opened its mouth again.

  “Feed us,” the creature said.

  His arm trembling, Bagsby reached for the bag of meat. Ramashoon rocked back and forth in the dim firelight, giggling with delight.

  “Oh my goodness, yes, my friend Bagsby,” Ramashoon’s voice lilted. “Now there are being upon the earth dragons again, and you are responsible for them!”

  A Rescue

  “WHERE IS VALDAIMON?” demanded Baron Manfred Culdus, his angry voice echoing down the corridors of the east section of the king’s palace in Hamblen. Anger flashed from his dark eyes as he clanked along the hallway, throwing open one door, then another, in his personal search for the author of his discontents. Nor was Culdus’s anger a thing to be taken lightly. It was not the evil, chaotic rage of a creature like Valdaimon, nor the impotent, decadent rage of a besotted youth like King Ruprecht, but the cold, efficient anger of a professional soldier. All the court of Heilesheim knew that when Culdus was angry, there would be efficient, ruthless corrective action.

  Unlike most of the court, Culdus, general in chief of the army of Heilesheim, designer of the military system that had borne such great fruits in the conquest of Dunsford, Argolia, and now the Duchies in the Land Between the Rivers, knew full well that he could take efficient action only at the pleasure of the king. And the king’s pleasure, more often than not, was guided by that stinking pustule Valdaimon, with his foul black arts, his zombies and ghouls, and now his damnable League of the Black Wing, which was supposed to be providing political consolidation of all the recent conquests.

  “Where is Valdaimon?” Culdus bellowed again, into the empty halls. In the various rooms that occupied this section of the palace, the servants cringed at the sound of Culdus’s voice. No one knew where Valdaimon was.

  Culdus knew that no one knew, and that only made him angrier still. His massive form strode back down the hallway the way he had come, his impressive six feet and three inches of height so great that he had to duck his head when passing through the lower archways.

  Ten thousand devils drag that wizard in pieces to their separate hells, Culdus thought, as he stomped back to the central section of the palace where the king awaited him. This kind of thing was just like him. In mid-campaign, when the army was winning victory after victory, Valdaimon had disappeared. Normally, Culdus would have been grateful to him for taking his perpetual stench out of the way. But not now, when he was needed. So needed, in fact, by the dissipated king that Ruprecht demanded to be brought back to the capital, to the comforts and safety of his own palace, until the wizard was found. Culdus had no choice but to follow, leaving the army in the capable hands of the Legion commanders, but leaving undone much of the work needed for planning the next stages in the conquest of the Holy Alliance.

  Culdus stormed into the royal presence. With Valdaimon absent, he could be much bolder with the king than he would ever dare when his archrival was on hand. The tall, thin, pale youth lounged on his high throne, his white blouse open rakishly in front to tempt the household serving girls. The king’s gangly legs were propped over the sides of the throne. But fear showed in the king’s eyes, and Culdus decided to make good use of that fear.

  “Valdaimon is not here, Your Majesty,” he reported. “His conduct is nothing short of treason. He has disappeared at a vital moment in Your Majesty’s campaign. His League of the Black Wing, which was supposed to provide temporary governance for the conquered territories, is doing nothing. No decrees are posted, no instructions given for the cultivation of crops, no plans made for the harvests. The roads are unpatrolled except by the army; cutthroats, deserters, vagabonds, ruffians of every sort prowl everywhere at will. The common people, so far from productively pursuing their trades, are either taking to the open fields in fear for their lives and their few remaining goods, or else gathering in sullen mobs demanding action from the officers of the occupying forces. The drain on our manpower is staggering. In a campaign of a few months, Your Majesty has more than doubled the size of the territories ruled by Heilesheim, but thanks to the failure of the League, more than half Your Majesty’s troops are now tied down with occupation duties. At that, they are barely able to keep the vital lines of supply open. There are no troops to spare for civil matters.”

  The king pulled himself around to a sitting position and gazed out into the emptiness of the great wood-paneled throne room. “I do not care about the pursuits
of the common people in the occupied lands,” he said acidly. “I want Valdaimon, and it is your job to find him for me. Can your army truly not find one man, a man who is rather... distinctive, at that?”

  “Nothing would give me more pleasure, Your Majesty, than to find Valdaimon and so fulfill Your Majesty’s desire,” Culdus said carefully. By the gods, was the wizard’s hold on the king so great that even this behavior would work to Valdaimon’s advantage and Culdus’s disadvantage? “Has it occurred to Your Majesty that Valdaimon has not been found because he does not want to be found? That his disappearance is simultaneous with the expected arrival of the great treasure, the Golden Eggs of Parona—and that no sign has been seen of that treasure? Your Majesty will recall that a high price was paid by Your Majesty to obtain that treasure from Parona....”

  “You don’t understand!” the king said, suddenly rising. “I do not trust Valdaimon; but I do need him. I need him, do you understand?”

  Culdus stood silent—he could think of no reply.

  “Then Your Majesty’s need is fulfilled,” a familiar voice called from the entrance to the great hall. “I beg Your Majesty’s forgiveness for my unexpected and unavoidable absence from the royal presence.”

  Culdus turned on his heel, his great face contorting in anger. “Traitor!” he shouted at the form of the withered wizard. “I arrest you for high treason against the king and the army of Heilesheim!”

  “Silence, Culdus,” the king ordered, relief visibly flooding through his thin form. Then the royal face betrayed alarm again. “Valdaimon, you are wounded... your eye....”

  “Lost in Your Majesty’s service,” the wizard replied, wrinkling his face with pain as his stooped form bowed slowly and deeply.

  “It is our pleasure to hear our wizard’s story,” the king said, glancing sternly at Culdus, “before judging of his actions. Valdaimon, come, sit, and tell us where you have been.”

  Valdaimon slowly hobbled into the royal presence, smiling all the while at Culdus, his old enemy and rival for the king’s favor. “It is good that our young king has a greater sense of justice than the general of our armies,” Valdaimon said slowly. “But Your Majesty knows the military mind—it is all one way or the other for them, there is no room for the subtleties of thought enjoyed by men like Your Majesty.”

  Culdus saw how this game would be played, and he knew he could not win. If the old buzzard had lost an eye, more power to whomever had wounded him, Culdus thought.

  “As Your Majesty has located Valdaimon,” the general said dryly, “I beg to take leave of Your Majesty. There are pressing matters pertaining to the administration of the army—and the occupied lands—that demand my attention on Your Majesty’s behalf.”

  “No, Culdus,” the king said merrily. “Stay. After we hear old Valdaimon’s tale, I have a surprise for you. A new campaign—that should excite you!”

  Valdaimon and Culdus stared at one another, both shocked.

  Neither had anticipated any such development. Both knew that if the idea was genuinely Ruprecht’s own, it could only mean grave danger for Heilesheim, and for both their ambitions.

  “I will gladly stay to hear Your Majesty’s intentions,” Culdus managed to choke out.

  “And I will gladly defer my boring story,” Valdaimon said, nodding to Culdus, seeing that the general understood that for once they should act in concert, “so that Your Majesty may thrill us with the plan that has come to his mind.”

  George was surprised to find himself the leader of a group that consisted of two females and himself, and more surprised to realize they were on a fool’s errand while Bagsby slipped farther and farther away with the treasure.

  Shulana was the first to notice him missing. She arose from her time of communion, a time when her spirit touched the spirits of all things green and living and she immediately knew. She had actually known while he was leaving, for the grass sprouts that bore his footsteps carried the burden of their passing to the flowers nearby, and the flowers in turn transmitted it to a small, sapling oak, which passed the impression on to a larger oak with roots extended deep into the meadow where Shulana lay entranced. From the shoots of grass beneath her head she felt his step as he slinked away—felt the lightness of his step, his gladness to be free, and the heaviness of his step, the guilt and confusion he carried with him. When Shulana emerged from her communion, these impressions were formed into conscious thoughts in her mind. He’s gone, she thought, a rare elven tear forming in one eye, and he’s taken the treasure with him. He’s taken my affection as well, she thought—then quickly drove self-pity from her heart.

  She pondered before waking George and Marta with the news. She, traveling alone, could easily overtake him—but to what end? She knew full well that her own feelings for the little thief would prevent her from killing him and reclaiming the treasure, and she knew his burning curiosity and stubbornness would prevent him from coming with her to the rescue of Elrond. Thus, there was no point in going after him. It would be better, she reasoned, to go at once to Elrond. If she could free Elrond from the clutches of Ruprecht, the older elf would know what to do next.

  Bagsby’s note confirmed her decision. He knew as well as she that freeing Elrond would now be her first priority.

  But for that mission she would need George and Marta. She woke Marta first, calling the woman’s name softly from a distance. She knew from experience that it was unwise to be too near when Marta first awakened.

  “Hunh—what?” Marta startled awake, leaping to her feet, casting about on the ground for her weapons, a look of terror on her face.

  “Marta, all is well, Marta. It is safe,” Shulana called in a soft, gentle voice. “I only awakened you so we could talk.”

  Marta’s furrowed brows slowly uncreased, and her eyes gradually lost their squinted appearance. The huge woman took a short, deep breath, snorted, and began rolling up her bed gear. “Then talk,” she said shortly, her face slightly pink with embarrassment.

  “Before we wake George, I wanted you to know that Bagsby is gone,” Shulana said. The elf cocked her head slightly and studied the big woman’s reaction.

  Marta didn’t even break stride. Stooped over, tramping around the campsite and gathering the multiple pieces of discarded junk that constituted her gear, she replied, “Gone, huh? Can’t say I’m surprised. He’s a thief and a knight, you know. Those types can’t resist gold.”

  Shulana walked closer to Marta, put out one thin, pale hand, and touched the older woman on the shoulder. Marta lifted her head, the trace of disappointment and anger visible on her face, but fading already.

  “You aren’t... emotional about this?” Shulana asked. The elf was genuinely puzzled. She had expected anger from Marta, although not as much as she expected from George. But the woman looked more as though she had been betrayed than robbed; what traces of emotion showed in her face were more grief than anger.

  “What good would it do?” Marta replied. “I joined on with Bagsby to strike against the murderers of my husband, not to get rich. There’ll be time enough for that after Heilesheim is beat down into the dust.”

  Shulana nodded. She understood. “Would you be willing to work with me and continue to strike blows against Heilesheim?” she asked.

  Marta stood to her full height, then bent backward, pushing with her hands against the small of her aching back. “Yes,” she said, through a deep yawn. “I can do more damage with you than I can without you. What do you have in mind?” Marta shook her head once, to clear it. “Still wanting to go free that old elf in Ruprecht’s dungeon, like Sir John suggested?”

  “Yes,” Shulana responded.

  “Well,” Marta said, picking up her sword and scabbard and attaching them to the wide sash of cloth she used as a belt, “I’m with you.”

  “What about George?” Shulana asked.

  “Don’t you worry,” Marta said, look
ing up to judge the position of the sun. Midmorning. Time to get the lazy deserter up anyway. “I’ll take care of George,” she declared firmly.

  “What?” George shrieked as Marta’s kick bit into his back between two ribs. “What? Who?” The soldier rolled onto his back, reflexively grabbing for the aching place in his back, his dark eyes glinting their anger. He suddenly squinted as his turn brought his face directly under the midmorning sun.

  “Get up!” Marta demanded. “We’ve got to march all the way to Hamblen, and we might as well get going. It’s bad enough that that no-good thief snuck off while we slept, and now you think you have to sleep away the day and leave the women to protect your sorry ass,” she barked, ignoring George’s stammering attempts to reply. “Now get up and let’s get going, before you take a notion to desert us like you did your black-hearted army.”

  “Marta!” George finally managed. “Wot’s got into you?” The man rose to his knees, kneading the bruise that was forming on his back. “Just because Bagsby’s run off, there’s no reason to... Bagsby’s run off? Wit’ the treasure?”

  “That he has,” Marta affirmed. She tossed George’s meager roll of weapons and clothes onto the ground in front of him. “And if you ever want to see that treasure again, you’ll help us get to Hamblen in a hurry.”

  Shulana stood silently, awed by this performance. She had seen bluff and bluster used by humans before—Bagsby was a master of it—but she had never seen a female utilize such a presumptive attitude. Any decent elf would have sat down and calmly discussed the facts of the situation, allowing George to form his own opinions and choose his own course of action. Or they would have threatened him—although under the circumstances, Shulana could not think of any credible threat she could use against George. But this Marta, she was... remarkable.

  “‘Ere now,” George said, “‘Ow long ‘as Bagsby been gone? Can’t be that long. The elf there could trail ‘im. ‘E can’t just take my—our—treasure like that and disappear,” the soldier protested, slipping into his pants and pausing, puzzled, to notice they were clean.