DW02 Dragon War
Page 14
“This is where we are going,” Scratch said.
Lifefire glided in just then, landing beside her brother/mate.
“Lifefire!” Bagsby called, having quickly learned that the female dragon was more amenable to both communication and reason than Scratch, whose main concern seemed to be his own magnificence. “Scratch says we are stopping here.”
“We are,” Lifefire said.
“I can’t stop here—I can’t survive in these mountains,” Bagsby complained. “I need to go to Parona, a great city on that plain down there,” Bagsby said, pointing vaguely to the southwest.
“This is where Scratch and I are going. Where you go now is your own affair,” Lifefire said, stating simple facts. “We agreed to give you transportation north in exchange for food. You provided the food. We provided the transportation. The deal is done.”
“The deal is not done,” Bagsby countered. “There is one thing you’ve forgotten.”
“What have we forgotten?” Scratch roared. “Get off of me.”
Bagsby didn’t budge from his seat. He had hoped to save this card to play at a later date, but left alone in the mountains he would starve or freeze before ever making it to Parona.
“You have forgotten,” Bagsby said, an impish grin crossing his face, “your treasure.”
“What?” both the dragons roared in unison.
“Yes, Scratch. You were so impressed with yourself you forgot all about your gold. And Lifefire, you were so busy telling Scratch what to do that you forgot about it, too.”
“Where is it?” Scratch roared, smoke starting to pour from his snout as he craned his huge neck around in a vain effort to see Bagsby. “Where is it?”
“It is safe,” Bagsby said.
“You were told to carry it for us!” Scratch roared.
“That was not part of our agreement,” Bagsby said, folding his arms contentedly.
Scratch howled in anger. A geyser of flame shot from his mouth, devouring the ice and snow in a swath more than thirty feet wide down the ridge. “Eat him!” he bellowed to Lifefire.
“No,” Lifefire said. “He’s right. That was not a stated part of our agreement.”
Scratch howled again.
“Hey, Scratch, breathe some more fire,” Bagsby called merrily. “It helps me keep warm.”
“What do you want in return for revealing the location of our treasure?” Lifefire said flatly.
“I want a ride to the capital of Parona,” Bagsby said.
“Out of the question,” Lifefire said. “The city folk would see us. Soon these mountains would be swarming with....”
“Not if we went at night,” Bagsby said, his grin intact. Dealing with dragons wasn’t as hard as he’d thought at first. They had incredibly literal, legalistic minds. You just had to negotiate very, very carefully.
Elrond sat cross-legged on the cool marble floor, gazing out beyond the elegant columns at the courtyard gardens, enjoying the abundance of green life that was fed by the bubbling springs there. It was true, he thought. Parona was the fairest and most elegant of the human kingdoms. The land was broad, rich, and fertile—well watered and graced with a moderate climate that still provided the full variety of seasons so dear to elves. The people were generally prosperous, and the mercantile and noble classes had developed refined tastes in dress, manners, rhetoric, and the arts. Parona was still distinctly human—possessed of the strange combination of energy and sloth, purpose and purposelessness, tenderness and savagery that seemed to Elrond to characterize all the kingdoms of man.
Here, listening to the bubbling of the springs and lounging in the graceful cool of the palace courtyard, Elrond could almost forget that his mission was to negotiate a new alliance for the purpose of bloody warfare, warfare brought about by the same creatures who had built this beautiful palace! Elrond shook his head. He must remember Shulana’s learning: all men were not the same; human cultures and human individuals could be radically different from one another.
Parona, for example, was quite different from Heilesheim. Heilesheim was all bluster and force; a violent tide flowing across the world. Parona thus far had refused to become so; despite the pleadings of the invaded lands, Parona’s partners in the so-called Holy Alliance, Parona had refused to take up arms, preferring instead to maintain a posture of guarded neutrality—no doubt in the hope that bloodshed would not be needed to satisfy the demands of the voracious Heilesheim leadership.
Now Elrond would meet with the king of Parona, and the other surviving leaders of the Alliance in an attempt to drag Parona not only into war with Heilesheim, but also into a new understanding of the relations between elves and men that would allow elves to participate in those wars! Strange indeed, Elrond thought. Strange indeed.
Elrond looked again into the courtyard garden. There George and Marta sat peacefully, pleasant flights of their merry conversation borne to Elrond’s ears on the cool breeze that broke the heat of the summer day. Shulana sat by the edge of the bubbling springs, gazing into the blue clearness of the summer sky. Did she long, Elrond wondered, for the human who had duped her? The old elf lowered his head. Even if he were successful in his mission to Parona, there was still the matter of the Golden Eggs. If dragons, and the power to master them, were to fall into the hands of Valdaimon....
“Elrond of the Elven Preserve,” a servant’s formal voice called out from the large doorway that framed the entrance to the king of Parona’s main council chamber. The elf stood slowly and waved an arm to his companions in the garden, then smoothed his flowing tunic. The sheeny, pattern-less fabric seemed to cause rivers of color to flow down and around its length. George and Marta ceased their chattering and walked, as stately as possible, to Elrond’s side. Shulana joined them.
“The High Council of the Holy Alliance, the lords of the lands in conference assembled, will receive the special delegation from the Elven Preserve to discuss an urgent matter pertaining to the great issue of war and peace between elves and men,” the servant droned.
The foursome stepped through the high, double wooden doors, Elrond in the lead, the other three clustered behind. The wide, light council room was dominated by four sets of broad, double, stained-glass windows in the rear, thrown open to the breezy air, and a very large, round, hardwood table in the center. Arrayed around the table were the surviving lords of the conquered lands of the Holy Alliance. Most resplendent of these was King Harold of Argolia who, despite the loss of a kingdom, had lost neither his royal dignity nor his taste in clothes. Though his ermine-trimmed, heavy azure robe was much too warm for the day, causing beads of perspiration to form on his brow, Harold endured the discomfort to maintain the dignity of his kingdom.
The host of the gathering, King Alexis Aliapoulios, felt secure enough on his throne that he had no need of ostentatious display to reinforce his position. The king wore a simple ankle-length tunic of shimmering purple, accented with a plain band of gold trim about its neck, short sleeves, and hem. A thin, gold coronet graced his thick, black, curly hair. The king’s features—graceful and thin without being angular—were pleasing, but Elrond noticed a certain lack of passion on that face, a quiet contentment that defied the impulse to violent action. Elrond immediately sensed that his task would not be easy.
Elrond’s train of thought was interrupted by a sudden, short gasp from Shulana, a growl of anger from George, and a sudden exclamation from Marta.
“Sir John!” the large woman shouted, abandoning the sense of decorum she had carefully cultivated in anticipation of this meeting. “You little rascal, where have you been?” she bellowed, bounding past Elrond into the council room and half-trotting in excitement to the seat where Bagsby sat, at the right of King Harold.
“My dear Marta,” Bagsby said, rising and making a great bow with a flourish. “A pleasure to be reunited with a comrade in arms in the struggle against Heilesheim.”
“Reunited?” George shouted, his eyes grown wide at Bagsby’s seemingly obvious wealth. “Reunited? Caught is more like it!” The soldier stomped across the room in Marta’s wake, his eyes glowering. “Wot’s you done wit’ it?” George demanded. “Where is it, and where’s me cut?”
Astonished at such conduct, anger flashed on the faces of the assembled lords; only King Harold, knowing many details of Bagsby’s past, realized something of the implication of George’s words, and flinched. The King of Parona rose, motioning to the company of guards kept within eye and earshot of the council room.
“My lords, my lords,” Bagsby quickly interposed. “Do not be alarmed if this gentleman shows neither manners nor knowledge of our more civilized customs, for this poor wretch who stands before you has personally engaged in battle the entire company of the guard of the demon Valdaimon, and was successful in penetrating the very palace of Ruprecht himself in order to free the head of the Elven Council—held there in torments in direct violation of the Covenant—though he was once nothing more than a common soldier in that same army of Heilesheim, which now threatens us all.”
George stared dumbly at Bagsby, his angered mind trying to sort through the little man’s syntax. George wasn’t sure, but he thought he’d just been complimented—something that had never happened to him before in the presence of nobles.
Bagsby, however, kept his attention focused on his audience for this speech, carefully gauging the reaction caused by the double shock he just thrown on the table: one, that Heilesheim had violated the Covenant, inviting war with the elves; and second, that a Heilesheim commoner had succeeded at feats of arms that had so far defied the abilities of the greatest knights of the Holy Alliance. The murmurs of disapproval at George’s conduct quickly died as the implications of Bagsby’s speech sank into the somewhat thick skulls of the assembled lords.
“Yes,” Bagsby said slowly, beginning to stride in a grand circle around the table, stopping from time to time to gesture for emphasis or to look in the face of one of the highborn who was slow to grasp the point, “this common Heilesheim soldier, no longer content to fight dumbly for the evil represented by Ruprecht and Valdaimon, has twice been able to overcome forces many times his number. If but one Heilesheim soldier can do that, what do you think an army of them will do to Parona, once they are allowed to cross its border?” Bagsby stared at the king of Parona who, for the first time, looked interested in the proceedings. “And if the elves—who have every right under the Covenant to unleash all the magic at their command against all of mankind—have refrained from our certain destruction to seek rather our assistance in punishing those few humans who are guilty of this infraction, should we not gratefully embrace the proposals now brought before us not by just any elf, but by the head of the Elven Council who was himself the single most injured party by this violation of the most sacred pact ever entered into by mankind?” Bagsby bowed gracefully with a gesture of invitation toward Elrond, who had watched this performance in mute amazement.
Slowly the old elf advanced into the room. He had never laid eyes on Bagsby, but he knew that the strutting Sir John must be he. And amazed as he was at the eccentric but effective performance of the little thief, he had no intention of allowing this moment of advantage to slip away.
“Noble lords of the Holy Alliance,” Elrond began, “I bring you greetings of peace from the Elven Council. Peace,” he added gravely, “despite the clear violation of the Covenant which would entitle my race to launch a war of extermination against man.” Elrond paused, allowing that simple thought to hold the attention of his human audience. Then, smiling ever so slightly, he added, “That, however, is not what I have come to propose.”
“Another draught, barman, and keep the ale flowing,” Bagsby called cheerfully across the crowded tavern room. He sat with George at a small wooden table near one of the tiny establishment’s two windows. The crowd was already roaring drunk—laborers, their women, and a handful of thieves, Bagsby noted. It was as well. This was the type of place where George would feel comfortable.
“You still ain’t tol’ me nothin’ about me cut,” George said, his words only slightly slurred. “So you ‘ad to go find out about the treasure—I unnerstan’ that.” He was genuinely sympathetic with the empathy provided by ale. “But you ‘adn’t no cause to go run off like that an’ take our treasure wit’ you. That wasn’t very nice,” he added, wagging his finger at Bagsby.
“I’m sorry. I wish I could have told you what was up, but it was something I had to do by myself,” Bagsby said, wondering whether this stab at an explanation would suffice.
“Sometimes a man’s gotta do things by hisself,” George slurred back. “I unnderstan’. Now, w’ere is it?”
“George, that treasure is as safe as if it were in the hands of a whole family of dragons,” Bagsby began.
“Yeah? Where?”
“Far to the north. That’s where I’m going soon, when the Council is finished with its business.” Bagsby leaned forward and whispered confidentially into George’s ear, “I’m heading for the north country. Be back in about a week or so.”
“An’ then I’ll get me cut?”
“Of course,” Bagsby reassured. “You’ll get riches beyond anything you’ve imagined.”
“’Ow can I trust you? You ran out on us once,” George remonstrated loudly.
“Well,” a new voice responded from behind George’s shoulder, if he’s going to the north country he can’t get into too much mischief.”
Bagsby’s head popped up at the intrusion, and George whirled about unsteadily on his bench. The stranger was a tall man, over six feet in height, with broad shoulders and a well-muscled frame showing beneath his simple white linen blouse and brown breeches. He wore his dark brown hair long, far past his shoulders, and his broad face was of slightly pale complexion, setting off his large dark brown eyes.
“You have keen hearing, friend,” Bagsby said, sitting back on his bench across from George and slowly working his hand down toward the top of his boot where his dagger was concealed.
“No need for that weapon,” the tall man replied, smiling at Bagsby. “I couldn’t help overhearing—we northerners are known for our keen ears,” he explained. “And eyes,” he added. “Just looking for an empty bench, and you’ve got the only one in the place.”
The stranger sat down next to George, without awaiting an invitation.
“So you’re traveling north?” he asked Bagsby.
“My business,” Bagsby snapped back.
“As you say. But that’s my country, up there, and I could tell you many things that might be useful—if it’s your first visit, which it clearly is,” the stranger replied.
“Who are you?” Bagsby demanded. “And how do you know where I’ve been and where I haven’t been?”
“Arnulf of the Northwest Canton,” the man replied. “You’ve never been north or you’d know about the hearing and eyesight of my race.”
“Wot else would he know,” George challenged, a surly look crossing his face. This intrusion was most unwel
come to the little soldier.
“He’d know we’re a clean, honest, hard-working and free people who bend the knee to no lord, not even to Sir John Wolfe,” Arnulf replied merrily.
“You know me?” Bagsby gasped.
“Who in Parona does not know of Sir John Wolfe, whose place is the most honored in the Council of the Holy Alliance, next to the place of kings themselves?” Arnulf replied.
“Wot’s that you said about no lords?” George asked, his interest piqued.
“The Cantons are the northernmost provinces of Parona,” Arnulf explained. “We’re tucked right under those icy mountains, in foothills rich with spring flood soil and forests rich with game. We are free provinces; we acknowledge no landed lord, save the king—may the gods bless him!—who agrees to honor our rights as free men.”
“We’d better be going,” Bagsby interjected. “Another time,” he said, nodding to Arnulf as he slammed his mug firmly on the wooden table.
“No, no,” George protested, “wait a minute. I want to ‘ear more about this land wit’ no lords. Don’t seem possible to me. Them bastards always takes wot they wants.”
“Are you including Sir John in that assessment?” Arnulf asked, laughing. “You seem a strange companion for a noble knight, and this seems a strange place to find a knight so distinguished,” he added, draining his mug in one huge gulp between phrases. “Barman!” he roared. “More drink!”
“Oh, well, Sir John ‘ere,” George said, warming to the stranger, “‘e’s alright. ‘E ain’t like them others. But ‘ow do you keep ‘em out?” George inquired, staring in wonder at Arnulf’s broad, smiling face. “More ale!” he bellowed, adding emphasis to the previous orders.
“We keep them out with our bows,” Arnulf said firmly. “We northerners are the best archers in the world—better than the elves, they say, though I’ve never seen an elf—and one of our men can knock down an armored knight on horseback at over a hundred yards. After a while,” he continued, winking knowingly, “they learned better than to mess with us.”