by Mark Acres
“That’s it! That’s it!” Shulana shouted. “You’ve got it, exactly! This is how you will destroy foes on the battlefield, but leave your friends unharmed!”
At last, Lifefire thought. The countless practices had tried her patience with this tiny creature with whom, however, the dragon sensed a strange kinship: the kinship of those who both are fighting for the survival not only of themselves, but also of their very race.
Slowly, the dragon descended the rest of the way to the ground, coming to an especially gentle landing for the elf’s sake.
“I have learned. You have taught me as Bagsby said you would.”
“Yes,” Shulana answered. “But now there is Scratch. He must learn before the appointed time. And he despises me still.”
“I think it best,” Lifefire growled slowly, “if I teach Scratch. He still barely understands the terms of our alliance—terms that were difficult for you, too, to comprehend.”
Shulana nodded. The dragon was correct. It would be best for Scratch to learn from Lifefire, even as both of them had learned the true meaning of their alliance and the true seal that would guarantee the peace between their races.
But time was pressing, Shulana knew. Soon would be the day of battle—and she would see Bagsby again. Somehow that thought was almost as exhilarating as flying on a dragon.
“Shouldn’t we wait? I mean, until Sir John returns?” Marta gasped, her face flushed and her breath coming in short, surprised gulps.
“Why wait for some noble?” George replied. “Besides, Bagsby’s okay; ‘e’ll understand ‘ow it is. A man’s gotta do wot a man’s gotta do. And right now, I gotta do this.”
They stood in the midst of the vast training field with the noontime sun streaming down on them. It glinted off the steam rising from plate of hot stew Marta had prepared and brought to the hard-working George.
George grabbed the plate and stuffed a wooden ladle of stew into his mouth. “Good,” he declared. “You ain’t given me an answer yet.”
“Well, a woman in my position has to consider this very carefully...” Marta began.
“Wot position?” George demanded hotly. “You’re taggin’ around wit’ an army, that’s wot you’re doin’. And while you got me to protect you, that’s all well and good. But wot about later? It ain’t fittin’, I tell you. A woman like you deserves an ‘usband, and I may not be the best, but I ‘ave one great virtue,” George declared.
“What on earth is that,” Marta teased, trying to hide the depths to which she was truly overjoyed.
“I’m available, and you already knows me. ‘Ell, that’s two virtues.”
The wedding that evening was a simple affair. Marta chose to wear something other than full-battle regalia, which pleased George to no end. For his own part he had carefully chosen a day when his pants and tunic were both clean. A simple priest, originally from Clairton, officiated at the ceremony—which George found mercifully brief, unlike most of his previous exposures to religion. As the words of the final blessing were said, George and Marta released skyward one dove each, symbols of the love and peace between them, symbols that they offered to the gods in hope of their blessing. A cheer went up from the numerous low-level officers who had gathered to witness the occasion.
“Now lads!” George called out grandly. “A tankard of ale, or two if we need them, and we’ll celebrate in a way that will make the gods jealous of our happiness!” More throaty cheers resounded under the star-studded sky, and four men came forward, bearing a great barrel of brew.
“I think not!” Marta shouted, stepping forward to place her substantial person between George and well-wishers. “You’re a married man now and have better things to do than carouse with soldiers! And especially,” she added more softly, “on your wedding night.”
“‘Ere now, love, just a quick tankard, then I’ll be straight….”
“You’ll be straight-off with me right now, George, if you know what is good for you,” Marta growled, the glow of love turning to anger in her face.
George hesitated, but only for an instant. “Go ahead boys, celebrate all night!” he cried, sweeping his bride up in both arms. “As for me, I’ve got important business to attend to!”
The loudest cheer of all rang out in response as George carried Marta off toward a nearby tent.
“Oh, George,” Marta whispered. “You’ve made me so proud.”
“Thank you, love,” George said, panting from his burden. Ten thousand hells, he thought. Wot ‘ave I got myself into?
“Close it up there! Close it up!” George shouted. By all the gods, had these men never fought in battle before? It was bad enough that, even with the treasury of Parona to plunder, he could come up with pikes for only half the footmen. And that was with Elrond’s help—the old elf seemed to know how to get the artisans of Parona to redouble their output of spear shafts and pike points—but even then it wasn’t enough. Many of the men were still armed only with long bills, or worse yet, short spears. Most had little or no armor; many wore nothing more than a leather cuirass over their everyday tunic. They grumbled continuously about the drill George had imposed, and the Paronans, especially, seemed incapable of grasping the concept of keeping their ranks closed while they marched forward at a slow, steady pace.
“You see, Sir?” George asked, turning to Bagsby who had come to witness the day’s activity on the drilling field by the great camp outside Parona. “You see? They won’t keep in closed ranks, and I ain’t goin’ to be responsible for the result.”
“You’ll whip them into shape,” Bagsby replied. “You can’t expect them to learn the whole Heilesheim system in a week.”
The commanding general of the Holy Alliance looked out over the drill field to see that the other units were doing about the same as the one to which George was currently devoting his less-than-loving attentions. The sun-drenched field revealed that the attempt to teach the men to fight in pike-blocks had so far resulted in ragged square formations that fell apart when advancing. Still, Bagsby saw reason for hope.
“Look there, George,” he said, pointing with his riding whip across the field to one unit that was drawn up in close order; the front two ranks kneeling with pikes extended, the ranks behind with pikes forward, set to receive a charge. “Those fellows seem to have the hang of it while they’re standing still.”
“Can’t win a battle standin’ still,” George retorted. “An’ what about them blokes over there?” George demanded. He jabbed a finger in the direction of a wedge-shaped formation of northern bowmen. “They won’t even take orders, they won’t. Won’t give up them stupid bows for a trusty pike. Won’t learn to march in any kind of formation. Won’t....”
“True, true, but that is at my order,” Bagsby said. “I told you they were exempt from your training.”
“Well, I’m cursed by all the gods if I see why,” George answered. “Out there in the field, all in loose order like that, they’ll get ridden down by the first cavalry charge, mark my words,” the soldier predicted.
Bagsby smiled. That was exactly what he’d hoped George would think, and he hoped the enemy would think that as well.
Bagsby looked on as George went back to drilling his unit, cursing the men, kicking them, thwacking them with the blunt end of his own pike, which he handled with the skill of a seasoned veteran. As Bagsby had thought, promotion and a meaningful task had brought out George’s better qualities.
The title of Commander for Training of Footmen had flattered him, and the rich salary Bagsby had liberated from Parona’s treasury for him had mollified his desire for treasure. Any time the man had left over for doubting what had happened to the Golden Eggs was taken up by Marta. She was more than gratified to see her new husband advanced to such a position of importance and she would never allow him to breathe a word against dear Sir John who had made it all possible.
No, George was n
ot a problem, Bagsby thought, as he watched his director of training kick a stumbling farmboy in the belly. The kings were a bit of a problem, though; neither they nor their nobles—which included the entire mounted force of the Holy Alliance—had the slightest grasp of Bagsby’s plan. There were constant grumblings from them, and King Alexis in particular was spreading his own discontent with the enormous costs associated with Bagsby’s plan—whatever it was. Then, there were the dragons. The timing of their appearance was everything. For the third time that day, Bagsby touched the small gold ring on his left fourth finger, a gift begged of Elrond which allowed him to touch the mind of Shulana.
Instantly, he saw before him the icy peak of a great mountain coming toward him with great speed. Suddenly the peak turned upside down. Bagsby staggered, dizzy. Then, as abruptly, he somehow passed over the peak—or under it, depending upon point of view.
“Shulana,” he said “how is the training going?”
“It’s wonderful!” A thought came back in Bagsby’s mind, and a warm glow of elation and peace suffused his being. “It’s wonderful!”
“George!” Bagsby called, disengaging his mind from Shulana’s, “George! Come here.”
George trotted across the field, curses raining from his lips.
“George, I want you to try the men in much larger formations. All the footmen we have in three mass formations, three huge blocks.”
“Sir,” George responded, his dark eyes widening, “they can’t even drill in hundreds yet! ‘Ow in ten thousand ‘ells they gonna drill in blocks that big? Look ‘ere—there’s thousands of ‘em.”
That there were, Bagsby saw with satisfaction. All in all, the footmen mustered from the conquered lands and Parona came to a force of almost thirty thousand men combined. If Bagsby’s calculations were correct, he would be outnumbered in the great battle by odds of less than three to one, which he considered quite good given the plan he had in mind.
“Never you mind, George. Just teach them to form huge defensive blocks that can take a charge, and all will be well.”
“As you say, sir,” George replied. He would have liked to say quite a bit more, but Marta wouldn’t like it.
Bagsby walked from the field toward the great camp, past a sea of tents, fires, wagons, and all the other paraphernalia required by a huge army. He tromped across the muddy ground toward the greatest tent, a large white affair with three poles holding up the giant roof, and with the improvised banner of the Holy Alliance forces, fluttering from atop the center pole.
Pikemen posted by the entrance saluted smartly at his approach. Those inside, he knew, would not. For awaiting him were the chief nobles of the Alliance, gathered to hear from his own lips the plan that justified their faith in him, and in the unorthodox training he was giving their footmen—men who should, as far as the Paronans were concerned, be at home working their farm plots, assuring the harvest and the continued prosperity of the kingdom.
“King Alexis,” Bagsby said with a curt nod. “King Harold; Nobles of the Alliance. I pray you all be seated, and make yourselves at ease.” His curtness was calculated; these men had given him almost absolute power; he wanted them to know that he intended to use it.
Bagsby went to the head of the improvised camp table, and took his seat squarely between the two monarchs. He clapped his hands twice, and servants appeared from outside, bearing wine and delicacies for his unwelcome guests.
“I see you spare no expense in your hospitality,” King Alexis said drily....”
“We would not want to endanger the Alliance by offending any member with a lack of customary courtesy,” Bagsby replied smoothly. “Please refresh yourselves, and then let us get to the business at hand.”
“Yes, let us,” a Paronan lord demanded. “We have done all you ask, and at great expense have allowed you to engage in training exercises that seem to have no possible outcome but disaster on the field,” the man said bluntly. “Now we who are responsible for the welfare of our kingdoms and counties—whom the whole world opposed to Heilesheim looks to for leadership—want to know: what is your plan?”
Shouts of “Hear, hear!” went around the table, and mailed fists banged their approval of the speaker’s words.
Bagsby rose. He waved a hand at a servant, and a large map showing the Elven Preserve, Argolia, and most of southern Parona was spread out on the great table. Bagsby waited a moment for the servants to leave. “No one in or out,” he called to the guards, who closed the flap of the tent entrance. “What is said here stays here—and here alone,” Bagsby said to his guests, eyeing them with his sternest gaze.
“Shown on this map are the current positions of the legions of the Heilesheim forces,” Bagsby began. “Please observe them.”
There was more muttering as the nobles stood, leaned, squinted, and gawked, trying to take in the information spread before them.
“As you can see, there are two full Heilesheim legions in the process of forming just south of the Elven Preserve. These, as Elrond has told us, intend to invade the Preserve itself from the southern end and advance northward.”
“Quite right,” Elrond said. “It is that eventuality that we hope to avoid by this alliance.”
Bagsby nodded. “Here,” he continued, indicating the length of the southern border of Parona with northern Argolia, “are the bulk of the enemy’s legions, six in all, threatening to march into Parona. From Elrond’s intelligence, we know that this threat is mere posturing; Ruprecht has ordered that once the invasion of the Elven Preserve has begun, these troops will shift to the west to overwhelm the flank of the elven line as it retreats north through the woods. The combined army, having defeated the elves, will pursue their remnants north and then emerge, still a combined army, into the southern reaches of Parona.”
“That, we presume, is what this alliance will prevent,” King Alexis said, provoking laughter from the Paronan nobles.
“Your presumption is correct,” Bagsby said in a matter-of-fact tone, “although Elrond’s is not. I intend to fight them here,” Bagsby said, stabbing the map with a short dagger. “Here, one day’s march south of the Parona-Argolia border and one day’s march east of the border between Argolia and the Elven Preserve.”
A ripple of dissent passed through the small crowd of nobles.
“How will you get them there, where they have no intention of going?” one lord asked, a clear tone of derision in his voice. “Do you think they will conveniently march in a mass to the spot where you prefer to offer battle?”
“Yes, I do,” Bagsby said. “Because they will believe it is in their interests to do so. When the Heilesheim Legions first attack the Elven Preserve,” Bagsby continued, “the elves will offer no resistance beyond the show of a small skirmish line across the front. Even this line will rapidly retreat, moving north and east through the forest until it emerges into Argolia. The elven force will then march swiftly to this point, where I will join it with the main army.”
“Thereby,” King Alexis said, “taking in flank the six enemy legions that will be marching west toward the Elven Preserve! That is a good plan, but can our attack succeed with the strange tactics you are teaching our footmen?”
“No,” Bagsby said. “We will not attack. We will stand our ground, allow the enemy to concentrate and turn toward us, and we will fight a defensive battle in very open terrain.”
“Madness!” shouted a Paronan lord, and his cry was taken up universally around the table. Even King Harold, who for reasons of past history had been Bagsby’s strongest supporter, was aghast.
“We will be slaughtered as we were at Clairton,” King Harold cautioned. “We will be outnumbered, nearly three to one or more. Our infantry will never stand against their pikes, and our horses will be outnumbered as well.”
Bagsby motioned with both arms for silence, then ordered it in a booming voice.
“Silence! Hear me ou
t. Do you want this war to go on and on, or do you want it over, decided, once and for all?”
“No one wants the war prolonged,” King Alexis commented, “least of all me. And from what I see of your plan, it will not be prolonged. We will lose it in a day.”
“I think not, Your Majesty,” Bagsby said. “I want the forces of Heilesheim concentrated, in one open place, so that they may be destroyed in one great blow. For I will bring down upon them nothing less than the fire from heaven of old!”
Stunned silence greeted this announcement.
Bagsby folded his arms in front of his chest and waited out the stillness.
At length, King Harold rose to address the lords, who were slowly beginning to whisper to one another and shake their heads in sadness.
“I think I speak for us all,” King Harold said. “Sir John Wolfe, I have been your greatest admirer in this noble company, and I must tell you plainly. The fire from heaven is but a legend from the past—oh, yes, our priests can call down small strikes of flame when it pleases the gods—but the fire from heaven of which you speak was an all-consuming, endless, wrathful magical fire that was said to devour entire counties in a day’s time. Clearly, such a thing does not exist—or if it does, its secret is a magic beyond the ken of any wizard. Even our foe Valdaimon, if he had it, would use it.”
Nods of agreement came from all the assembly.
“Sir John Wolfe, I fear the power we have given you has led you into madness. You are deluded. You cannot have the secret of the legendary fire from heaven.”
A brief scuffle and a call of voices from beyond the tent flap interrupted King Harold’s speech. A guard reluctantly thrust his head in, catching Bagsby’s eye.
“Sir, begging your pardon,” the man began. “There’s an old man out here, some kind of holy man, who insists on seeing the noble lords.”
