DW02 Dragon War

by Mark Acres

  “Your Majesty’s point is well taken, well taken,” Valdaimon said thoughtfully. “However, there are certain practical... obstacles to the immediate execution of this... inspired plan,” the old man oozed.

  “What obstacles?” Ruprecht demanded, standing erect, a slight pout showing on his pale face. “Have not both of you informed me that I now command the greatest military force in the history of mankind?”

  “That is true, Your Majesty,” Valdaimon soothed. “Very true. However, the magic of the elves is very....”

  “We know all about the fabled magic of the elves,” Ruprecht retorted. “We are not impressed. At this moment is there not an elf, a very old and powerful one at that, in our dungeon in clear violation of the Covenant? What magic has he used against us? What protest has been forwarded from the Elven Council? What reprisals have the elves taken? Their magic cannot be of such great power, or they would not allow themselves to be so treated,” the king concluded.

  “Their magic could destroy the entire world if it were unleashed all at once,” Valdaimon said plainly, struggling to rise. “Your Majesty is very young, and does not understand the nature of magical power. That is why Your Majesty has always relied on my judgment in such matters, and why I must implore Your Majesty to do so now. Strike Parona! Rule the human world! But do not break the Covenant at this moment. What would your own subjects say?”

  “His own subjects,” Culdus interjected coldly, “would applaud such a move. At His Majesty’s orders, the entire army and much of the population has been subjected to endless tirades against the elves. I did not before see the purpose of these. Now I do,” the general said, his voice tinged with sadness.

  “Precisely!” The king ran through the great empty room and leapt onto his throne. “Precisely! You see, I have politically prepared the kingdom for this step, and you did not even notice. As for the elven magic you fear, Valdaimon,” Ruprecht said, glaring at the old man from his seat of power, “if you cannot find some way to deal with it, then perhaps it is time we sought counsel from another mage, someone more youthful, more vigorous.”

  Valdaimon sensed great danger. He had played for years on the boy’s ego, never dreaming that he would produce the full-blown megalomaniac that now confronted him. For his own aims to be achieved, Valdaimon still needed this king. But war with the elves was a risk beyond all calculation. How could magic of that most magical of all races—save dragons—be negated? And how could that be done now, when all Valdaimon’s energies were urgently needed to find the Golden Eggs and obtain their secret?

  “I am ever Your Majesty’s servant,” Valdaimon said smoothly, forcing his stiff, withered form into a painful bow. “I shall, of course, obey Your Majesty’s will.” The old wizard turned his eyes to catch those of Culdus. Help me, my old enemy, he thought, help me. “If my services are no longer desired by....”

  “Enough!” Ruprecht snapped. “As long as you obey, you may maintain your position in our court.”

  “It cannot be done,” Culdus said flatly, slamming his great right hand flat on the table. “It is madness and suicide. It will destroy the army for no gain.”

  “Explain yourself,” Ruprecht said coldly.

  “Our entire military system is based upon fighting in open ground. We have won victory after victory that way. To fight in those tangled, infernal, enchanted woods, where our mass formations cannot be used—where the tactical finesse we have perfected over the years will be meaningless—to risk the entire army in such a campaign with untamed Parona lurking to the north, it is....”

  “It is our will,” Ruprecht said, rising slowly. “Do you mean to tell me that the greatest army in history cannot root a few thousand elves out of a wood? I will not hear such nonsense. Speak it again, and you will no longer be our chief general!”

  Culdus rose and bowed deeply from the waist. From the bottom of his heart he wanted nothing more than to draw his great sword, step forward, and cleave that arrogant runt from crown to crotch, ending once and for all the charade of Ruprecht’s rule. The army was the soul of Heilesheim. It had ever been the soul of the country, and it ever would be. Kings were but ornaments, like banners at the head of the marching columns. But, Culdus thought, for the army to rule, it must dip itself in the stench of politics. It must truck with the likes of merchants and peasants, and mire itself down in the trivia of politics. For the army to rule, it must corrupt itself, and thereby corrupt the soul of the nation. More honorable, Culdus thought, to die in battle than to rot from within.

  “I and the army are ever Your Majesty’s loyal servants,” Culdus said slowly. “The army will obey Your Majesty.”

  “Your Majesty,” a voice called from the entrance to the hall. “An urgent communication from the captain of the palace guard.”

  “Enter,” Ruprecht said lightly, waving a hand toward the groveling soldier in the doorway. “Up, up, you two,” he added, waving merrily to Culdus and Valdaimon. “We are disappointed you do not embrace our plan with enthusiasm, but we are gratified by your loyalty. Now,” he continued, turning to the messenger, “what urgent report awaits our pleasure?”

  “Your Majesty,” the soldier said, kneeling with his face downcast while he spoke, “the captain of the palace guard bids me report to you that a prisoner has been brought to the palace for questioning, a spy taken at the battle of Clairton. The prisoner is an elf, Your Majesty.”

  “Another elf?” Ruprecht cried, his eyes wide with delight. “You see, you see?” he called to Valdaimon and Culdus. “They were spying on us? They have broken the Covenant—they have broken the Covenant, and openly!”

  “Your Majesty,” the soldier continued, “I am instructed to report that the prisoner is a female elf. She is being lodged in a cell near to the other elf prisoner in Your Majesty’s most secure dungeon.”

  “A female elf? What luck! What luck!” Ruprecht exclaimed. “You see? These creatures have no shame—they even use their women as spies!”

  Valdaimon began to tremble with a strange mixture of rage and joy.

  “I must be about Your Majesty’s business,” he interjected bluntly. “I beg your leave to prepare the magical elements for the attack on the Elven Preserve.”

  “Yes, yes, that must be done, but first, let’s all go see our new elven toy! You will join me for the interrogation of this prisoner. You, too, Culdus. It would be well for you to know what the elves have learned about our arms.” The king strode jauntily out of the great hall, leading the way gleefully toward his chamber of tortures.

  “What do you mean, he’s listening?” George asked Shulana as his dagger pried at the bolts that held the old elf’s manacles to the cold, slippery wall. “Ten thousand hells!” the man added, as the blade slipped off the wet rock and jabbed him in the webbed flesh between thumb and forefinger.

  Shulana thought for a moment. How could she explain to humans the matter of elven communion? How could she explain that one’s life force could seem to leave the body, flowing through the endless chain of green life that humans called plants, becoming one with that life, spreading, ever spreading, where plant was in reach of plant, observing, hearing, absorbing on a level beneath that of consciousness? Of course, only the most powerful elves could use this communion for practical purposes; for most it was a spiritual exercise and spiritual nourishment. But just as Shulana had known that Bagsby had left their camp, so Elrond now knew... what?

  “Heilesheim will attack the Elven Preserve,” Elrond whispered, his eyes rolling back to gaze upon the face of Shulana.

  Shulana looked startled at the news.

  “Wot?” George exclaimed, prying again at the iron bolts. “Not even that sap Ruprecht is that daft,” he declared.

  One of Elrond’ s arms fell from the manacle that had held it for what seemed like countless years.

  “Just another minute, guv,” George said respectfully. “Get the other one in just a
nother minute.”

  “We came to rescue you,” Shulana began. “How strong are you?”

  “My body is very, very weak,” Elrond confessed. “But my mind is as strong as the body will allow it to be. The eggs—you could not…”

  “No,” Shulana said, hanging her head.

  Elrond nodded wearily. The bolt holding the other manacle flew out of the wall, and Elrond’s other arm flopped weakly down. Gently, George and Marta lowered the old elf to the wet floor of his cell.

  “‘E needs rest, and food,” George said. “Get ‘im some bread, Marta—you elves eat bread?” he asked, suddenly startled to realize he had never actually seen Shulana eat.

  “Bread will do, and a bit of wine,” Shulana said. “Elven fare will have to wait.”

  Elrond moistened his lips from the wineskin Marta produced from her great pack, and then licked a few crumbs of the bread she placed on his lips.

  “No time. The king comes,” he muttered. “And Valdaimon.” Shulana whirled in alarm, then steadied herself, closed her eyes, and listened intently. In the distance she could hear the sounds of footfalls on the corridor paving stones.

  “He’s right. We must leave here at once,” she told George.

  “How are we going to do that?” Marta asked. “I can carry the elf, George can fight, but which way do we go?”

  Shulana turned back and gazed into Elrond’s eyes. “I do not know the spell, but you do,” she said.

  Wearily, with great pain, the old elf sat upright and crossed his legs. He raised his skeletal arms, drawing George and then Marta into an embrace, forcing them to sit. Shulana quickly sat opposite Elrond and threw her arms around the two humans, thus completing the circle. Elrond, braced against George and Marta, leaned far forward, head down. Shulana did the same, until the crowns of their heads leaned against each other.

  George caught Marta’s eyes and rolled his own. Were these elves mad? Marta shrugged.

  Shulana relaxed, growing more and more limp. She opened her mind, as for communion, fighting the fear of the force she knew she would feel. Elrond knew the spell, but his body was weak. She would have to cast the spell, using his knowledge and his mind. But that mind was so powerful! Once before she had felt it, for only an instant—a mind so forceful that her own could be drowned....

  Peace! The thought exploded in her consciousness, washed over her body, quieting the invisible trembling that had begun in her muscles. Peace. Shulana. Elrond. Elfkind, the voice intoned in her blank mind. Elfkind. Greenlife. One, one, one....

  George and Marta sat still as stone, seeing the two elves become silent, almost paralyzed. By the gods, George thought, they’d better hurry whatever it is they’re doing. He could hear the steps outside now, hear the clatter of footsteps in the torture chamber.

  Shulana’s arms floated upward. Her delicate hands began weaving a strange pattern in the air. George watched, fascinated, unable to tear his eyes from those floating, weaving hands, even though his ears heard the invaders just in the next room....

  “It’s Ruprecht!” Marta shouted. “Ruprecht, you murdering bastard!” Marta’s leg muscles tensed, and she started to spring up to hurl herself through the door, dagger in hand, and on the man who had branded her flesh and her spirit. But her muscles could not move her bulk, for a force came from Elrond’s feeble arm, laying across her back, a force pushing her downward, downward—a force like the weight of the whole universe, holding her still....

  “It’s her!” Valdaimon screamed, unable to contain his excitement at the sight of Shulana, seated in the cell in the strange circle. “Where are they? Where is Bagsby!” the old man screeched. He stood in the doorway, his face contorted with unbearable anger.

  Control, Valdaimon told himself. Control. Hold them. He drew back both arms, focused his mind, recalled the word of command....

  Shulana’s voice spoke a single word, and the four creatures vanished into thin air. At the same moment, Valdaimon spoke a word of command, and magical chains appeared where the foursome had been sitting. For an instant, ever so brief, the chains seemed to outline the figures who should have been beneath them. Then they clattered to the floor.

  Valdaimon screamed his frustration. The sound reverberated off the walls of the empty cell.

  Fireflies twinkled over the leaves of the tall oaks, their glitter not unlike the twinkling of the great band of stars that crossed the forest sky, casting pale illumination on the countless enchantments below. This forest was ancient, deep, and thick. Green, leafy creepers wound their way up the trunks of the aged trees, which towered so tall many humans could not see their tops. Vines dangled from the countless branches that formed the overhead canopy, which was still strangely transparent to the sky—as though one could see either sky or darkness at will. The forest floor was covered with a rich spread of grasses, bushes, and fungi, which was broken in places by great, huge tree trunks that lay on the forest floor like fallen soldiers. The trees, the elves knew, did not bury their dead; they left them to become one with that from which they had come, and from which they would come again in the endless turn of seasons and years, ages and eons.

  George had heard a faint popping sound, and opened his eyes to this strange sight. Now, less than half an hour later, he sat as part of a greater circle, Marta by his side, while the strange, angular faces of a dozen elves gazed speechlessly into the center of the ring. Softly, Elrond’s voice lilted across the still air, which seemed strangely tangible, laden as it was with the sweet fragrances of the thousands of wildflowers that blossomed in the surrounding wood.

  “Our quest for the treasure of Parona has failed,” Elrond announced. “Despite our futuresight, this Bagsby has not brought us the treasure, but rather has taken it himself in an attempt to discover its nature,” the old elf said, a trace of weary sadness in his voice. “By now, I fear he may have solved the mystery.”

  “Do you mean...?” Shulana asked softly.

  “I do not know. If not yet, soon. But now a more immediate danger faces us. What comes from the Golden Eggs may in time come to destroy us, but what comes from Heilesheim now does, and it comes swiftly.”

  “Heilesheim will break the Covenant, openly, with an open attack on us!” a stern-looking, vigorous member of the Elven Council declared. “So be it. If they want war, we can give them war.”

  “But will it be war with all mankind?” Elrond asked.

  “Those are the terms of the Covenant,” the younger male replied. “If any elf attacks mankind, all mankind is attacked and all elfkind are responsible. And if any man attacks elfkind, all elfkind are attacked and all mankind is responsible. Heilesheim dooms the human race.”

  “Heilesheim dooms us all,” Elrond replied. “For if we loose the magic at our disposal, the effects could well destroy the whole earth. Is that what we desire? To kill the world to avenge ourselves on Heilesheim?”

  “That was the only way we could find to end the wars before,” the younger elf reminded Elrond. “Even then, in those years, you were Head of the Council. It was you who drafted the Covenant. Would you now renounce it?”

  “Renounce it? No,” Elrond said. “But I would realize that all things change, as the river of time flows through the wood of the world. The Covenant was made to prevent war with man. It has done so, until now. But now it is not man who makes war on us. It is Heilesheim.”

  “Beggin’ your pardon, gents,” George said, his voice sounding strangely loud and coarse in the still night. “I’m a man; I’m even a man from Heilesheim, and I ain’t at war with you. If you’re going to fight Heilesheim’s nobles, I’ll be proud to stand beside ye,” he said cheerfully.

  A murmur arose among the council members—they had invited George and Marta to sit with them out of gratitude—but for humans to speak in the Council was unthinkable!

  “I have learned something,” Shulana called out, standing up. The murmurs at
once fell silent. For when any member of the Council announced a learning, a truth on which he or she would stake their life, all members were bound to listen with the utmost attention and respect, no matter how heated the discussions had become.

  “You wish to state a learning?” Elrond asked the ceremonial question.

  “I do,” Shulana said.

  “State the learning, that all elves may know new truth,” Elrond said, using the ancient formula.

  “All men are not the same. They are different from one another, more different from one another than elves. I am different from Elrond, but we are still the same, we are elfkind. But George here is different from Ruprecht, and different so much so that he is not the same kind.”

  “Has this learning application to the topic at hand?” Elrond asked, as the ceremony demanded.

  “It does,” Shulana answered.

  “State the application.”

  “When the Covenant was made, our understanding of men was poor. We thought of them as one kind. They are not. Now that we understand this, we should negotiate a new Covenant with those among men who will embrace it. With those who will not be our enemies.” Shulana spoke forcefully, then sat down.

  The young elf spoke again, rising and walking to the center of the circle, an indication of the deep passion that motivated his words. “Do you mean,” he asked, “that we elves, after centuries of keeping ourselves apart from the affairs of men, are about to become involved in their endless squabbles? For the practical outcome of this course would be to ally ourselves with some men against other men. And men are shiftless allies. Even now, the Holy Alliance dithers while Heilesheim devours its member states! What security will there be for elves under such a Covenant?” The speaker eyed the circle, glared hard at George and Marta, and retook his seat.

  The Council sat for a long time in silence. Overhead, the silent stars moved in their courses toward the dawn. Still, the silence prevailed. The calls of day birds began to sound from the wood when Elrond at last arose.