by Mark Acres
Bagsby shook his head in disgust. He was clearly getting out of shape.
“Hurts, doesn’t it?” he called cheerily to the second murderer who had dropped to the floor, writhing in pain. “Kneecaps always do,” Bagsby continued as he strolled down the hall to stand over the man. He reached down and pulled the black mask from his assailant’s face. Though contorted with rage and pain, the man’s face looked vaguely familiar.
“Tomar?” Bagsby asked.
“Damn you black, Bagsby,” the tortured Tomar responded. “Finish it.”
“Ah, ah, not so fast. Who sent you?”
“You know I cannot say.”
“No need; you’ve handled plenty of contracts for Nebuchar before. This was a pretty bungled attempt, you know. Especially the first shot from the garden—a frontal shot, head-on, against an experienced guy like me. The odds weren’t with you.”
“You’ve grown careless with success,” Tomar spat back.
“True, true, I must admit you’ve hit a sore point there, Tomar,” Bagsby said, nodding a sad acknowledgment. “But not careless enough for your purposes,” he added, swiftly kneeling and slitting Tomar’s throat from ear to ear.
Tomar’s legs were still kicking when the first of the household servants arrived in the hall, drawn by the crashes, thumps, and wails of pain.
“Assassins, sent by some unknown foe to slay the viscount in his sleep,” Bagsby announced to the wide-eyed staff as they surveyed the bloody hall. “Go quickly and tell your master that his life has been spared. And alert the guards to search the grounds. There may be more of these vile fellows about.”
Shulana saw the assassins as she left the grounds of the viscount’s mansion. She considered staying to defend Bagsby, but decided that the thief would neither need nor want her help. She did not think he was in serious danger; there were only two of them. If he couldn’t handle that, he would never succeed at stealing the Golden Eggs of Parona.
The streets of Clairton were filling with busy humans, rushing about their morning activities with that usual combination of intensity and narrowness of focus Shulana found so alien. She used the magic of her cloak to wend her way through the crowded streets unnoticed. Faint stirrings of hunger tempted her for a moment to stop in one of the many small market squares, where dozens of vendors loudly hawked the virtues of their edible offerings, but her desire to escape for a while from the all-too-human world drove her on toward the city gates. Her stomach could wait; her mind and spirit needed sustenance.
It took her a full hour to find a solitary copse more than a mile beyond the city gates. This refuge proved to be a small growth of conifers, hardwoods, and scraggly, prickly vines not large enough to be dubbed a wood. Still, in its center, an old oak reared its head high above the younger trees around it, and at its base Shulana could not see beyond the edge of the copse to the muddy fields beyond. Her vision thus insulated from the world, she felt secure, almost as though she were at home again in the Elven Preserve. She sat on the damp moss that grew at the oak’s feet, leaned her back against its rough bark, and allowed her mind to meld into the being of the tree.
Shulana’s mind possessed neither the power nor the discipline of Elrond’s. Still, in this state, undifferentiated from the living plant life around her, she was able to find the freedom from anxiety needed for clear thought. She considered the questions and problems presented by Elrond’s communication one at a time.
First, there was the almost overwhelming fact that Elrond, the greatest, oldest, and most revered of living elves, was a prisoner in a human dungeon! That single fact, should it become known to the other elves of the preserve, could start a new human-elven war that would unleash so much magic and so much hatred that the entire world would die in its flames. No elf had thought anything amiss when, some twenty years ago, the ancient Elrond had announced he had a task to perform and left the safety of the Elven Preserve. No elf had thought anything amiss when he did not return, for an elf might spend twenty years on a journey that would take a human a mere fortnight. But Elrond’s imprisonment by humans was unthinkable! Under the Covenant no human could slay or imprison an elf, and no elf could slay or imprison a human. This was such a basic tenant of the Covenant that the infrequent violations to date had always led to prolonged and tense negotiations. Of course, there were always some violations that went undiscovered, and both sides endeavored to show understanding and goodwill when unfortunate incidents arose. But Elrond! For a human to imprison Elrond was the equivalent of elves systematically destroying human temples to the gods they professed to worship! War would be the only honorable elven response to such an outrage.
But war would be suicide. So depleted was the elven population that it would take every elven mind and every elven spell to balance the sheer numbers of the humans. Horrendous, raw, elemental forces of nature would be unleashed—the forces of earth and air, fire and water, turned loose to roll like primordial chaos over the face of the earth. Even if anyone or anything survived, there would be nothing left to live for.
Therefore, Shulana concluded, she would not communicate the news of Elrond’s imprisonment to her fellow elves. It would remain a secret, buried in her own mind, shielded by long tradition from the prying of magic and even from the sharing of mental communion, when elven minds, linked to trees and grass and green life of all kinds, merged into a kind of oneness.
Second, there was the warning in Elrond’s message. He had told her to hurry, to do quickly what she must do. Therefore, Elrond, the great one, who could commune even with barren soil as long as plants had once grown in it, was aware of her own scheme, even though she had first thought of the plan only ten years ago, long after Elrond had left the preserve. Not even the Elven Council understood her full intent. Of course, if any elf could know her mind, it would be Elrond. Not for nothing was he her great-great-great-great-great-uncle. Not for nothing had he personally instructed her in the basics of elven magic. And not for nothing had he told her the tales of the elven-dragon wars, fought far beyond the memory of all living elves save Elrond himself. To her, and her alone, had he imparted the secret of the fabulous Golden Eggs of Parona. What his purpose had been, Shulana could even now only vaguely guess.
But urgency was what Elrond demanded. Her plan must be fulfilled quickly, lest the treasure fall into the hands of the Black Prince. The thought of that particularly vile human brought Shulana to consider the brewing human war. Through her contact with Elrond’s mind she had full knowledge of all the plans laid by the Black Prince, his arrogant desire to subjugate the world to the whims of his juvenile and malicious will. Normally, the subjugation of one group of humans by another would hardly concern an elf. Humans who called themselves kings or emperors and thought of themselves as immortals came and went by the score in the lifetime of an elf. But in this case, there was a difference. The Black Prince, unless stopped, would also possess the Golden Eggs of Parona.
But what matter that? Humans had possessed the eggs for three thousand years, ever since the dwarves found them in the bowels of a rich vein of gold far away in the northernmost mountains of the world. Why would Elrond urge her to hasten in her plan?
The answer, of course, was Valdaimon. For there were three who knew the secret of the treasure of Parona, and Valdaimon was the third. And should Valdaimon come to control the potential power in the Golden Eggs, not even the sum total of all elven magic could stop him.
Thus, Shulana could only conclude that Elrond knew her plan, approved it, and urged her to hasten lest Valdaimon come to possess the treasure and control its power.
That left only one final matter to consider. Shulana had a duty as a kinsman to Elrond. As the closest living elf with direct lineage to Elrond’s parents, Shulana owed her kinsman her special loyalty and protection. She would not only have to complete her plan for the Golden Eggs. She would also have to rescue Elrond from the dungeon of the Black Prince.
Shulana focused her mind with a great effort of will, and her consciousness flowed slowly back into the receptacle of her elven body. She rose and inhaled deeply, savoring the scents of the few trees. Then she strode to the edge of the copse and gazed through the spring haze at the walls of Clairton. It was time to return to the human world. She felt refreshed, renewed, and grateful to have her tasks more clearly understood. Sadly, they were not tasks she could perform herself. Under the terms of the Covenant, an elf dared not steal from, nor bear arms against any human. To accomplish her purposes, she needed the cooperation of a human. In short, she needed Bagsby. It was time to get her human moving. Once her tasks were accomplished, she would slay the human, in secret violation of the Covenant, and all would once again be well with the world.
Three savage kicks to his ribs from a mailed boot snapped George the miller’s son out of his deep slumber. A final kick to the side of the face ripped a strip of skin off his cheek and brought him to full consciousness.
“I said get up, you whoreson! Get up and get to your place in the ranks. We’re finally moving out.”
George sprang to his feet, careful to keep his head bowed in respect. “Ready, sire! Forgive me, sire!” he cried.
But the angry knight had already whirled and stomped away, his mailed footsteps splashing in the inch or more of water that covered the soggy ground. He kicked and cursed at two more sleeping men as he made his way to the bush where his heavy war-horse, its finely worked bards covered with thick, dripping woolen blankets, was loosely tied.
“Kiss me, sire,” George muttered, spitting a wad of phlegm, blood, spittle, and a chip of tooth into the pouring rain. The water burned as it splattered against the open wound on his cheek, and his side felt like a dagger was probing it every time he drew breath.
All around, scores of men cursed, laughed, spit, gathered their gear, and tromped and splashed around in the thick mud the heavy rain had created beneath their feet. All but one had ignored the brutal interaction between the knight and George; if they thought about it at all, they were simply grateful it was George who got the boot this time and not them.
“There’s what you get, George, for ignorin’ the wake up,” his companion Frederick said, pounding him on the back. “Hey, you lost a bit of tooth that time!”
“That great bastard. I ‘ope he gets captured and the ransom breaks his family,” George sputtered. He wiped his filthy, muddy hand across his face in a vain attempt to keep the cold rain out of his eyes and away from his throbbing cheek.
“Lot of good that would do us,” Frederick offered. “Our lord gets captured and his family goes broke. Who’d be paying then for our supplies? Besides, it could be a lot worse.”
“How’s that?” George grumbled, looking about in the predawn darkness for his helmet, sword, long spear, and boots.
“Why, we could be in that poor bastard Dunsford’s army!” Frederick roared with laughter at his own joke.
George, despite his foul mood, also laughed aloud. Rumor was that today they would attack Dunsford’s army, and before nightfall, George believed, he would more than vent his anger on the hapless wretches who fought for the doomed count.
“You’re right about that!” George allowed. “I wouldn’t want to be one of them wretches. Wait’ll we wade into ‘em. I always likes to catch someone right in the eye with my spear, then step up with the sword. You know, like we’ve done in practice. They’ll drop like wheat before the scythe.”
“Come on, then. There’s our company forming up, I think,” Frederick said, pointing through the rain to a barely visible throng gathering near the muddy riverbank. “Can’t see the standard, though.”
“No matter,” George replied, cheerful again at the thought of the action to come. “If we don’t get in the right place, someone with ‘sir’ in front of his name’ll kick us in the ass and set us right.”
A mile away, Culdus sat on a powerful, white steed and watched as the last companies of the Fourth Legion’s men-at-arms tramped across the badly swaying wooden bridge completed just the day before. The commander of the legion, also mounted on a war-horse, sat silently beside the kings appointed commander, thankful that his men showed no hesitation about using the bridge, which the swollen river threatened to wash away at any instant. The crossing of the Rigel at Shallowford had been carefully planned. As usual, Culdus thought, the careful plans were becoming worthless with their first confrontation with reality.
“My Lord General, that is the last of my legion.” Count Otto, the legion commander, had to shout to make himself heard above the sound of the accursed rain.
“Only a full watch late,” Culdus grumped. “May the gods curse the devil who sent this rain. It began while the bridge was still being built, and it hasn’t slackened for over twelve hours. I doubt that bridge will last for the crossing of the Fifth.” Culdus extended his mailed fist and pointed to the river, which now extended a good twelve feet beyond the bridge. The tops of shrubs could be seen poking above the surface of the swirling brown water. “Look how badly the river is already over its banks.”
“Aye, Lord General,” Count Otto replied. “I’d best cross myself unless I want to swim. What orders? If the bridge collapses, our first four legions will be isolated on the far side.”
Water poured off Culdus’s mustache as he pondered his reply. “Continue your march according to plan,” he answered at length. “If you encounter Dunsford, the First Legion alone with its six thousand should be enough to crush any force he’s raised. Tell Count Pomeran the honor of first blood shall be his should that occasion arise. The other three legions are to continue their march and try to make up the time lost here.”
“As you order, Lord General,” Otto responded.
Culdus leaned forward in his saddle, bringing his face close to Otto’s ear so he could be heard in a normal voice. “It’s that damnable Valdaimon. He’s responsible for this delay. I wouldn’t doubt that he conjured this rain to slow us down.”
Otto raised an eyebrow, indicating both curiosity and agreement, but said nothing. He felt privileged to receive Culdus’s confidence and afraid to speak lest he say the wrong thing and Culdus fail to say more.
“He tried yesterday afternoon, you know, to delay the attack,” Culdus continued. “Something about not wanting the convoy carrying that damned treasure from Parona to be in Argolia when the war began. He’s scried something in his spying ball that’s scared him, though he dare not let the king know it.”
“What could scare the greatest wizard in all the earth?” Otto queried, shaking his head vigorously to clear the water from the crest of his helmet, from where it poured into his face. “If the things he conjures don’t scare him...”
“I don’t know,” Culdus said honestly. “But I know this. The king would brook no delay. Valdaimon earned some disfavor by counseling him to wait.” Culdus stared into Otto’s eyes. The man is a warrior, Culdus thought. His loyalty will be to his fellow warriors. And whatever has scared Valdaimon won’t scare him. “That works only to our advantage,” the lord general continued. “Ultimate power in this kingdom belongs to the sword, not some disgusting thing that may not even be human anymore. The more he hurts his position with the king, the better for the nobles and the army.”
“Aye. I wager there’s nothing the old wizard has seen that can’t be killed with a sword of some sort,” Otto said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Don’t worry, Lord General. Your legions will fight, whatever it is they meet. I’ll see to that.” Otto dug his spurs into the sides of his mount. The great war-horse leapt forward into the still nearly blinding downpour.
Culdus watched Count Otto ride away with a combination of concern and amusement. True, if the enemy had strong forces across the river, he could catch four legions piecemeal. But Culdus trusted his experience and his instincts. Both told him that Dunsford could not possibly have gathered a force of more than four thousan
d of all social ranks. The four legions already across the river numbered almost six times that many men.
“Good man, Count Otto,” Culdus answered, nodding his head. “Good man.” Culdus turned his own horse and rode downstream to the head of the waiting columns of the Fifth Legion. There he spotted a man-at-arms with a large, red horsehair plume rising from the crest of his helmet. This identified him as a non-noble leader, a “leader of a score” in the new military system Culdus had created for Ruprecht’s army. The nobles had long resisted this innovation; they furnished the foot soldiers, armed them, and paid them from their own purses. In any traditional army the foot soldiers would have marched along behind their mounted lords, providing service on the march and protection in battle. But Culdus had changed all that. Now the foot soldiers were formed into “battles,” “hundreds,” and “scores” of their own, with non-nobles appointed as leaders of these groups. The men-at-arms responded well to the innovation; the nobles had cursed, protested, and resisted. But Culdus had the king’s confidence—and the king’s power—to enforce his will on the clamorous barons.
“Leader of a score!” Culdus shouted at the man.
The leader looked up, spat, smiled, and hefted high his great eighteen-foot spear with an eager war cry in response. Culdus was pleased to see that the rain had not dampened the spirit of this man. A high level of performance and discipline from these men was a critical element in Culdus’s revolutionary military system.
“Tell your leader of a hundred to take his hundred, strip them of weapons, and get them into the river. The bridge must be reinforced against the flood!” Culdus roared.
“Aye, Lord Culdus! It shall be done!”
