by Mark Acres
“Pounded them out on a rock for you,” Marta declared. “Couldn’t stand to see you wearing them stinking things day after day after day, smelling and drawing flies....”
“But our treasure!” George protested.
“Sir John’s gone with the treasure and that’s that. He can travel twice as fast as we can, maybe faster, and we could spend the rest of our lives trailing after him and never see one gold coin in our pockets,” Marta said firmly. “Now get dressed. We’re going to go get that old elf. And when we do, he can set the entire elven race out to find Bagsby, which I’m sure he will, bad as he wants them eggs.” Marta started trudging across the field toward the high road to Hamblen. “And if we don’t get the price of the treasure, we’ll at least get a reward for helping the old elf find it,” she called over her shoulder.
“Bless my ‘arse, Marta, but if you ain’t the smartest thing wot ever was, I don’t know wot is!” George said, stumbling forward through the grass, drawing his tunic over his head with one hand as he tried to keep up with the behemoth who had captured his desire.
Shulana silently trotted forward to take her usual position at the head of the party. She would never understand humans, she decided.
“‘Ere now, elf girlie,” George called. “‘Ere now, not so fast. ‘Ey Marta, stop there a minute, stop I say,” George growled, stomping the earth with his foot. “This ain’t like it was on the other side of the river. We’re in Heilesheim now, and any elf is goin’ to be taken for a spy and any woman refugee is goin’ to be...” George paused, uncertain of what words to use, “... badly used.” he finally said. “Now, ‘ere’s the plan. You, Shulana, you’re my prisoner see, and I’m takin’ to ‘Amblen for the bounty on spies and elves and such like.” George smoothed his tunic over the top of his breeches, and began the slow process of putting on his chain mail. “And Marta, ‘ere,” he continued as the mail shirt slid over his face, “she’s a wench wot I picked up along the way, and she’s like my woman, understand? And I got legitimate orders, I do, from Sir Harold von Dorningberg, commander of the Fifth Legion, to take this elf traitor to the king’s court at ‘Amblen for questionin’,” George secured his sword and scabbard, then picked up his huge pike and slung it over his left shoulder, leaving his right arm free. “And the reason she ain’t tied or nothin’ is, well, I didn’t want ‘er to ‘ave no excuse for slowin’ me down, see?” he concluded.
Marta turned her back to George and caught Shulana’s eye. She gave Shulana a huge wink, as if to say, girl to girl, “That’s how to handle them.” But to George she said, “Well, George, now you’re doing a man’s job. See why we need you to help us?”
George was surprised at how easy their progress was, and how slow. The first day they made good time, until they passed the intersection with the great road running north-south of Shallowford. There, the great highway was choked with soldiers, prisoners, and the endless streams of slow supply wagons which, by military order, took precedence over everything else. There were also camp followers, occasional dignitaries with their own armed guards and lengthy trains, merchants with their trains of goods, and companies of retained guards—heavier guards, it seemed to George, than usual. This stream of humanity moved in both directions on the road, with many, many stops to allow the priority supply trains to pass.
George learned to spot the signs that a supply train was coming. First, he’d see cavalry in the distance, a small troop of ten or so, moving at a slow trot, calling out a warning or whacking in the head with the flat of their swords any pedestrian or rider who was slow to get out of their way. Behind them would come the plodding wagons, some drawn by oxen, some by mules, and some by horses—it seemed to George as though half the beasts of Heilesheim must have been pressed into service. Each train contained at least thirty wagons, and some were much longer; George and Shulana counted one train that contained no fewer than sixty-three heavily laden, large wagons. Other trains contained other vehicles as well: small carts, pushcarts propelled by the strength of impressed peasants, and even some large carriages—too weathered and worn to be of use to the appearance-conscious nobles, but with enough room to contain barrels and boxes and casks of the various impedimenta demanded by the mass of troops now located in the Duchies and Argolia to the north.
Marta was impressed. “Never saw so many things—never dreamed there were so many things in the whole world, George,” she said to the soldier as the odd threesome stood by the roadside, awaiting the passage eastward of one of the long trains.
“The army is requiring an enormous amount of supplies,” Shulana observed. “I thought it was the way of Heilesheim troops to live off the land as they traveled through it.”
“It is,” George acknowledged. “That is, when they’re movin’. Ever been in a village where one of our legions has camped for a bit?”
“I have,” Marta said, her voice flat. “What they can’t eat, rape, or carry off at once, they burn,” she said. “Senseless.”
“Supposed to strike terror into the ‘eart of the enemy,” George said, by way of explanation.
“How much terror do you see in the heart of this enemy of Heilesheim, George?” Marta retorted.
George looked at her, puzzled; it had never occurred to him that his former officers might be wrong about such a basic matter of policy. He tried to think about it for a moment, tired of the effort, and shrugged.
“Look, there,” he said, pointing to the cloud of dust on the horizon. “There’s the last of them. We can move out soon.”
And so the group progressed with painful slowness toward Hamblen. Most days they spent more time sitting by the roadside, letting higher-priority traffic pass, than they actually did moving.
“Why don’t we move away from the road and travel west over the open fields,” Shulana suggested during one of their countless stops.
“Traffic off the road will draw attention,” George explained. “Besides, nobles don’t like it. Tears up their fields. If we go off the road, them camp followers will take up the idea. Then a few merchants will try, and next thing you know, m’lord’s good grain field is a trodden mess, and no hot bread for his lordship’s breakfast come winter.”
But George was surprised at the ease with which they moved among the crowds and the army men. Whenever any officer was in sight, George took pains to stand stiffly erect while marching along, a scowl on his face and his eyes, looking as mean as he could make them, glued on Shulana whom he would occasionally push and curse. Not once was he stopped and questioned concerning his orders or intentions.
There were occasional incidents, but not of the type George had expected. The first occurred when they encountered a troop of one hundred recruits on march to the front. The men were spread out by the roadside, apparently having decided that it was futile to take to the highway. George noticed at once that these were green troops, poorly led, and city boys at that. Most had discarded their armor, preferring to let the packhorses carry that weight—something no regular officer would ever have allowed a troop on the march to do. The men looked lean and hungry. No veteran would ever be hungry in the midst of such abundance on the road. And their hands, George noticed, passing close by them, were smooth—they didn’t have the calluses that wielding a soldier’s pike or, a farmer’s scythe quickly built up—though several seemed to have a fine set of blisters on both hands and feet.
They were in the midst of passing the group when the first catcalls began.
“Ah, lookee there!” one fresh imp called. “What we got there? Is that an elf—the little pointy-eared devil—is that an elf there?”
“I think it is an elf—and a female elf at that,” a second youth bellowed. He was a large, burly man; George quickly guessed him to be about sixteen years old. The stocky fellow got to his feet and planted himself in the road, squarely in front of Shulana, who abruptly stopped.
“By all the gods, it is a female elf,” the you
ng brute called to his comrades. “Look at it—scrawny thing, ain’t it? No wonder them elves are already a dying race, if this is what they have for breeding stock.”
Guffaws greeted this remark, encouraging the lad.
“Wonder what would happen if we was to... invigorate their race a bit?” he taunted, reaching out to run a thick finger down Shulana’s cheek.
“‘Ere now, laddie, don’t be ‘armin’ me goods,” George sang out. “This one ‘ere is me prisoner. Going to collect the bounty for ‘er, after the king’s own court questions ‘er.”
“Can’t damage an elf,” the youth replied, looking back to his comrades for support. “They’re either dead or they ain’t dead. And if they ain’t dead, they’re no good, so how could you damage one?”
More hoots of laughter. George joined in. “That’s a truth,” he chuckled. “Still, I’ll be gettin’ this one to ‘Amblen, if you don’t mind.”
“We don’t mind,” the boy persisted. “We just want to make a quick detour, don’t we lads?”
A cheer rang out from the roadside. Many of the men were on their feet now, expecting a bit of sport. By the gods, George thought, don’t these rabble have an officer?
“Is it a bit of sport you’re wanting?” George asked.
“That it is,” the stocky blond answered, running his hands down Shulana’s sides as George stepped up beside him.
“Then I suggest,” George said, swinging his pike down and to the side in one smooth gesture, catching the ruffian squarely in the shins and sending him sprawling on his backside, “that you practice your manual of arms. That’s sport enough for the likes of you.” George spat in the young man’s face. “And learn to show some respect for veterans,” he said, shoving Shulana in the back and propelling her rapidly on down the road, “who’ve been killing enemies of Heilesheim while you were still growing fat and soft at your mother’s breast!” George raised the pike and turned with his front squarely to the gathered crowd of men. “The rest of you, as you were. If you ain’t got no officer to keep some discipline about you, take your orders from one that could kill the lot of you before ‘avin’ breakfast in the mornin’.”
The recruits drifted back from the roadside. George snorted in disgust and backed away, while Marta marched ahead, keeping a keen eye to both sides of the road as she came up behind the trembling Shulana. The threesome walked on for about a mile before any of them spoke.
Shulana broke the silence. “I am not used to such treatment from humans,” she said. “I did not know there was such hatred of elves in Heilesheim.”
“Not all of Heilesheim, and not all humans, dearie,” Marta said, soothingly. “Me and George here, we thinks the world of you. And elves was always treated with courtesy in Shallowford, before these army beasts showed up.”
“Don’t recall as there ever was so much problem about elves in Heilesheim before,” George remarked, genuinely puzzled. “Just before the war there was a lot of talk about elves doin’ this and that, but I never took it serious.”
“It would seem that attitudes have changed,” Shulana said. “I doubt the Covenant is respected in this hostile land.”
“Well,” George admitted, “there was some talk among the officers about how the Covenant was just an elvish trick to keep us from getting justice on elves who came into Heilesheim and made lots of money on the trade.” He shrugged. “I never paid it no mind.”
“I am grateful to you,” Shulana said. “Those men would have harmed me.”
“Ain’t nobody goin’ to ‘arm you or Marta while George is about,” the soldier said proudly.
“Let’s hope not,” Marta rejoined.
How much better it would be, Shulana thought, if Bagsby were about.
George’s story about his elven prisoner was enough to get the threesome through the great gate of Hamblen, through which they passed well after midnight with a stream of other weary travelers. So great was the traffic that the guards were halfhearted in their duties, eager to pass through one group so they could get to the next and keep the bottleneck at the gate from becoming even more chaotic than it was.
Inside the gate was a modest plaza, normally quiet at night but crowded now with vendors, hawking their wares to the incoming throngs even in the darkness, and hundreds of plump, well-dressed children who competed with one another for the attention of the most wealthy travelers, to whom they would extol the virtues of one of the city’s numerous places of lodging.
But dominating all was the great marble archway at the far end of the square. It was covered with friezes of battle scenes from Heilesheim’s past and crowned with a row of golden battle flags from which the black dragon-wing insignia of Ruprecht’s house looked down on every visitor to the city. The great arch led to the Royal Road, which connected the Temple of Wojan in the heart of the city with the royal palace and great fortress on the River Rigel on the city’s eastern side.
Marta stopped, stock-still, when she saw the arch; her large mouth hung open, momentarily giving her the appearance of someone rather stupid. Shulana, too, gazed about in some wonder, but not awe. Rather, she wondered how humans could live in such mobs and surround themselves with such unnatural things as the arch—which with its massive size and solidity seemed to her the antithesis of all things living.
“C’mon,” George said. “Through ‘ere.” George had been in Hamblen countless times; he thought no more of its wonders than Marta would think of a sack of flour. “Pull that cloak on against the chill,” George said to Shulana.
The elf understood George’s subtle hint. From the small bag in which she carried her few belongings she took her magic cloak and quickly donned it. The result was remarkable. Even George, who stood directly beside her, could hardly see her—so completely did the cloak blend in with the dark background. It was just as well, George thought. If the troops were so worked up about elves, there was no telling what the stupid people of Hamblen might be like on the subject.
“Follow me,” George said, striking off boldly through the crowded, dark street and heading toward the massive arch to the Royal Road. There he paused, wondering at the masses of humanity who were flowing westward on the road, deeper into the city. Many times had he been to the capital, but never had he seen it this crowded, and never had he seen the Royal Road so thronged at night. Somewhere in the inarticulate recesses of his mind, George sensed that something was amiss. But such questions would have to wait. His own route, and that of the two women, led east.
The crowd thinned dramatically as it made its way toward the palace grounds; only an occasional mounted soldier sped from east to west down the broad boulevard. Along its sides, the kings of Heilesheim—immortalized in marble—glared dumbly at the passersby, frozen in postures of war. George stared back at them, a mindless fury slowly rising in his breast.
“These are the kings of Heilesheim?” Shulana asked.
“Who else would these barbarians glorify but their war kings?” Marta curtly rejoined.
“Aye, these are our kings,” George muttered savagely. “Look at ‘em. Everyone of ‘em dreamin’ of killin’ and conquest and lands and booty—an’ never a thought for once about them wot ‘ad to do the killin’ and the conquerin’ for ‘em.”
“To have raised this city, and to have created the sheer abundance of things we have seen on the roads from this place, some of these kings must have had some skill or merit,” Shulana said. She had thought George would be proud of the accomplishments of his people. She had noticed many times that George had no love for the nobility, but the intensity of the anger she sensed building in him was incomprehensible. How could he hate his own race? How could he hate the people who bore him?
“Lots of folk ‘ave built cities,” George said, “an’ made themselves rich while doing it. It takes a special sort to delight in the destruction of it all, and an even more special sort to think that men like me got not
hin’ better to do than slave away to make men like them more mighty and rich.” George stopped walking; his eyes squinted into the dark distance. “Speakin’ of kings, there’s where the one we got now lives,” he said, pointing with his pike into the dark distance.
Marta strained her eyes as the threesome moved forward again, this time more slowly. Ahead of them, the Royal Road ended in a massive iron gate, about which a group of slouching guards were clustered. The great iron structure, fully eighteen feet high, seemed strangely incongruous, for its mighty stone supports were flanked by a small fence of iron spikes that even a mischievous child could cross in a matter of seconds.
Beyond the fence, the gardens stretched out, gently rolling, with a small stream meandering through them. There were mazes of hedges off to each side, and small paths through carefully sculpted beds of flowers. In the center of the great gardens, the stream fell over a small hilltop and down into a clear pool, forming the backdrop to another small rise on which the great dragon insignia of Heilesheim was sculpted in flowers that, with the aid of Valdaimon’s magic, blossomed black.
Though she could barely see the colors in the darkness of the night, Marta shuddered involuntarily at the sight of the spread dragon-wings design; it was the same design that Ruprecht himself had burned into the flesh of her back that dreadful night that seemed so long ago.
“‘Ere now,” George said, leading the party to a small bench at the roadside between two of the sanguine royal statues. “We’d best bind your arms, Shulana. You’re supposed to be a prisoner, you know.”
“What is your plan?” Marta demanded, in a hoarse whisper.
“Walk in the front door,” George said. “Them gardens is just the beginning, and they let almost anybody in there. Beyond is the fortified wall, where the real gate is.” George casually reached out and took Shulana’s hands. He quickly wrapped a long, narrow leather thong around her wrists, making more than a dozen loops before tying the thong off. “I learned a few things from our Bagsby,” he said, grinning at Shulana. “The best way to get in anywhere is to act like you belong there.” His skillful fingers had woven a tight knot. Only two very short pieces, the ends of the thong, protruded from the knot. “Lookee ‘ere, girlie. If we get in a bad way and you needs your ‘ands, just put one of these ends in your mouth, grab it with your teeth, and pull hard. This whole knot’ll fall apart in a flash.”
