by Mark Acres
Valdaimon stared through the door of the thatched hut at the downpour outside. He could hear the roaring of the flooding river less than a hundred yards away. His yellow skin wrinkled even more as his face drew up in a kind of malicious grin. He had conjured well, he thought. This should delay Culdus for a least a day, maybe two.
He turned from the doorway of the hut, which he had taken as his temporary quarters for the start of the army’s march, and slowly made his way back to the crude table in the middle of the hut’s single room. A fire roared in the hearth against the back wall, and a large black kettle hung over the fire, its contents bubbling. Thick, almost greasy steam rose from the kettle, filling the hut with a slightly nauseating odor. But Valdaimon paid no heed to his kettle; his small green eyes and his mind were focused on the large crystal ball set at the center of the small wooden table. Three times he slowly walked around the table, staring at the ball, muttering curses containing names known to less than a score of the world’s elves and to even fewer humans. A fat, shabby, dusty black crow perched on the back on the room’s only chair; it stood motionless, watching the old wizard’s progress around the table. At length the old man stopped, leaned forward on his great staff, and stared silently into the ball.
“Curse him!” The shout leapt from between Valdaimon’s thin dry lips, and the old mage raised both arms, shaking clenched fists toward the heavens. “Curse him!” he repeated, and then a third time, “Curse him!”
The crow gave a loud, angry cry, spread its wings, and took to the air, flying through the open doorway into the rain-filled air. Valdaimon could hear its angry cawing for more than a full minute until the bird was several miles away.
The old wizard slowly stooped over, one hand placed on his pain-filled back, and retrieved the great staff he had dropped. Then he collapsed in the chair, hung his head, sighed, and mused.
It was Bagsby—there could be no doubt. He had scried him first during the meeting with the king and Culdus. He had watched the little man off and on now for two days. There was no question it was Bagsby. Who else could kill two of Nebuchar’s hired assassins after letting them have the first shots? Who else could have gulled the nobility of Argolia into treating him like a visiting minor god? Who else could pose a threat to the most secret and most important element in Valdaimon’s plan, a plan that had been brewing in his mind for centuries, a plan whose fulfillment was finally at hand; a plan that was now endangered by the existence of a petty thief!
Valdaimon’s body quivered with rage. It was intolerable that this upstart, this rootless being with no ancestry, no heritage, no greatness of mind or spirit, this... mortal should threaten the undoing of all that Valdaimon had worked toward.
At first, the wizard had not been certain. He dared to hope his scrying had merely wandered into a random room to show him a random human, who happened to look something like the pudgy little thief. Valdaimon remembered his jest to the king about a thief’s dream; at the time it had been merely a jest. But even in that offhand humorous remark the deep recesses of Valdaimon’s mind had found the truth and spit it up. Conscious memory came a few hours later, as he continued to scry through the night to determine the meaning of that first seemingly random vision.
Valdaimon closed his eyes and summoned again the hated face of Bagsby to his mind. What a mistake he had made, letting that whelp live some quarter of a century ago. “I should have killed you then,” he muttered, focusing his mind more sharply on the hated face and on his memory of an event from years gone by.
It had been in Laga, a small city near the eastern border of Heilesheim, where the sand sea of the Great Eastern Desert begins and the reaches of civilization end. In Laga, barbarian desert tribesmen mingled in the streets with stout Heilesheimers who derived their living by trading grain, fine cloth, and baubles to the desert men in exchange for meat on the hoof, captured weapons, information about the relations of desert tribes and the contacts of merchants of other regions with them, and gold, silver, and gems from lands unknown. Merchants from all over Heilesheim sent traders to Laga to barter with the swarthy desert men within their black, flowing robes. The streets of Laga were narrow, winding, crowded alleys lined with the cloth-covered booths of Heilesheim merchants, traders, and farmers. They were also filled with thieves, sons of the poverty of a great trading city who prey on Heilesheimers and desert men alike.
The day had been a torment, Valdaimon remembered. The sun, always bright over Laga, had beat down on the streets that day with unbearable vigor. The heat was so great that even the barefoot urchins of the city had congregated at the city’s fountains and pools to soak their feet in the tepid water, for the paving stones were so hot the skin would burn from walking on them. If the heat had not been bad enough, the wind had joined it to contribute to the city’s misery. It had been the hot, dry easterly wind off the desert, howling through the tunnels the folk of Laga called avenues, bearing on its back a load of swirling, stinging sand that crept into every nook, cranny, and crevice of every building and made its way inside the folds of every robe.
Valdaimon had gone to Laga to find a certain desert shaman and sage, reputed to know by memory verses and incantations learned by his people a millennium ago in the Unknown Lands, the lands beyond the mountains, where no civilized man had ever ventured, no wizard ever scried, no bird ever flown. Perhaps, Valdaimon had thought, those verses and incantations contained final confirmation of what he had long suspected. Perhaps they would verify the secret Valdaimon believed in the depths of his being lay in the great treasure of Parona.
Whether they did or not, Valdaimon never learned. He had been lying in his litter, the curtains drawn against the sun, heat, sand, noise, and the stench of the city, struggling to breathe the sandy air while four servants bore him down one of the city’s endless snaking streets. The air was hot and dry, his old lungs paper-thin, and his throat so dry and scratched from inhaling the ubiquitous sand that he was forced to swallow small globules of his own blood. In desperation the mage had extended his scrawny arm and hand and yanked back the shielding curtains.
Just off to his right his eyes had seen a narrow, crowded, open square with one of the fountains in which the youngsters of Laga romped half nude. The old mage had kicked, thumped, and grunted, until the lackeys bearing his litter understood he wished to be carried to the fountain. Carefully, slowly, the bearers had picked their way through the crowd. Inside the litter, Valdaimon’s impatience had grown; his entire being was focused on his need for water to relieve his pain.
At last the litter had come to a halt. The old wizard had parted the curtains with his great staff. The fountain was still several feet away, its base mobbed by playing children. In frustration, the mage had lashed out with his staff, striking the nearest adult to get the man’s attention.
The man was stocky, naked to the waist against the heat of the day, his skin brown and his torso well-muscled. His hair was long and coal black, tied into a tail that fell far below his neck. A gold earring dangled from his left lobe, and a tiny diamond flashed from one of his gleaming white upper teeth. The man’s brown eyes had bored into Valdaimon’s face.
“Water,” the old mage had managed to croak. “I need water.”
“See,” the man had replied, kneeling and putting his arm around a young child, maybe five years old. “This old buzzard needs water. What say you, son? Shall we help him, or shall we make him croak a bit longer in order to teach him manners?”
The young boy had folded his arms, cocked his head, and stared straight into Valdaimon’s eyes. A look of serious study had come over his face, and his fat lips had pouted outward as he concentrated.
“He looks rich,” the boy had said at length. “The rich should have better manners. He should not have struck you, Father.”
“Right on all three points!” the man had answered, a broad smile lighting up his face. “You see, old man, the boy has cunning. But, Bagsby,” he h
ad added, turning back to the boy, “a kindness that costs us nothing and could be richly repaid should not go undone.”
The boy had continued to stare skeptically at the withered old figure. His father had laughed again, then had risen and started toward the fountain. Valdaimon, angered at the impudence of the pair but relieved that his request was being fulfilled, had flopped back down among the pillows of his litter, letting the curtains swing shut.
“Father,” he had heard the child’s voice cry, “he bears the mark of the dragon!” The little urchin had noticed the pattern on the curtains of the litter: a large black dragon, its wings extended fully to both sides. An instant later, the curtains had parted, and the father was once again gazing at Valdaimon. This time, though, he was drawn up to his full height of five feet three inches, and his barrel chest was puffed out to the full.
“Dragon wizard—Valdaimon! You are Valdaimon!” the man had shouted, pointing a finger as though the mere mention of the name was an accusation.
Valdaimon, too tired to argue, his throat burning and bleeding, had merely nodded his head in his pillows to acknowledge the recognition.
“You vile bastard—your wizardry has corrupted half of Heilesheim,” the man had cried, “and you rob the better half by your influence with the king. You can fetch your own accursed water. And may Kirie, god of thieves, cause you to choke on it.”
Valdaimon’s rage had flashed. Despite the dryness of his throat and feebleness of his bones, he had managed to sit bolt upright in his litter, jam the end of his huge staff into the man’s chest, and shout a word of magical command. The man had exploded, and when the black, oily smoke had finally cleared, there was nothing left of him on the sun-soaked pavement save a pile of burning flesh and bones.
“Now, you,” Valdaimon had commanded, pointing a bony, thin finger at the quavering child who stared dumbly at his father’s smoldering remains. “You, fetch me water!”
The child had met Valdaimon’s eyes, his own wide with fear—was it loathing? At any rate, he had quickly obeyed, leaping toward the fountain, swiping a cup from a beggar who sat near the edge of the crowd of children, dipping it in the lukewarm water, and hastening with it to Valdaimon’s side without spilling a drop.
“Now you know how to serve your betters and the cost of defying the royal wizard,” Valdaimon had snapped, grabbing the cup from the boy’s outstretched hands. As he had raised the cup to his lips, Valdaimon had felt a strange, sudden pressure in his groin that his brain instantly translated into nauseating pain.
“Oooomph!” the old wizard had croaked, spitting and dropping the cup. He had sat upright and doubled over, bumping his head against an elbow of the agile child, who had leapt into the litter and stamped on his groin. Valdaimon had raised his eyes to see the hate-filled face of the child snarling at him. A dagger had flashed, and the tiny boy had held aloft Valdaimon’s coin purse. Finally, before the old mage could react, the child had kicked him, hard, right in the face, dislodging another of his already precious yellow teeth. An instant later, the child had vanished, melting into the gathering throng that clamored insults against the royal wizard.
It was then, Valdaimon now realized, that he had made two mistakes. Overcome with pain and rage, he had ordered his bearers to take him away to the shelter of the governor’s mansion. There, in a matter of hours, he had let himself be overtaken by affairs of the moment. He had missed the chance to find the desert shaman, and he had let go his intention to have the child Bagsby sought out and killed.
Critical mistakes, Valdaimon thought as he sat in the cheap chair in the thatched hut, listening again to the pouring rain. When one is among mortals as a mortal, one must keep track of who one kills, who their relations may be. Mortals are essentially powerless beings, Valdaimon mused, but they can be a deadly nuisance when one grows careless.
This particular human whelp had become a great nuisance. Valdaimon had heard his name from time to time in his contacts with the thieves and cutthroats of a dozen baronies. It was Bagsby who had stolen the gems of the Countess Pomeran, whose husband now commanded the First Legion. It was Bagsby who had kidnapped the daughter of the leading merchant of Grullheim, whisked her off all the way to the lands of the Rhanguilds, then, when he ransomed her, stolen a ship and sold it to her father for their return journey! He had even dared touch the League; it was that fool mage Grundelson who had let Bagsby steal one of his books of incantations and then sell it back to him before he realized it was missing.
Now this Bagsby was in league with some elf—could there be any connection to Elrond? Would he know, would he dare go after the treasure of Parona? Could he know what it truly was? Valdaimon could only wonder. Once more he cursed the name of Bagsby. Then he opened his eyes, rose, and leaned over the table, turning his attention once again to his scrying ball. Bagsby must die. Until that could be arranged, Valdaimon would keep a watchful, secret eye on the activities of this thief. And he would worry until the treasure of Parona was safely through Argolia, where Bagsby now resided, on its route to his own anxiously waiting hands.
Battle Joined
THOMAS ARBRIGHT, Count of Dunsford, single-handedly hefted aloft a full keg of Heilesheim-brewed ale, a feat of strength few living men could have equaled. Roaring with frustration and rage, he hurled the keg down the rocky hillside, heaving for breath and watching with satisfaction as the copper hoops snapped, the wood splintered, and the brew imported from his new and hated enemy spilled out onto the rocky ground.
“So shall we do to Heilesheim’s army, which dares to invade our land!” the count cried out to the assembled knights and minor lords who lined the hillcrest behind him.
A lusty, throaty cheer arose from the throng of warriors. Swords were raised in salute to the prowess of their leader. War hammers were banged against the backs of great shields. A stiff, cool, morning breeze conveniently snapped the count’s large standard out to its full, colorful glory. The count’s gasps formed steam that rose toward the pale blue spring sky, and the bulky war leader smiled. His men were ready for battle. It would go well.
“Barons, meet me for my council of war,” the count shouted. “All others, attend to your men-at-arms. The enemy is not far distant. We will attack today!”
A second round of cheering, grunting, and weapon rattling rang out as the count tramped up to the top of the hill and off toward his large tent that served as sleeping quarters, mess, and military headquarters when he was in the field. A flock of barons fell in behind him. The remaining nobility—baronets and knights—shared back slaps and mock clouts and gradually drifted toward their waiting foot soldiers, who had neither seen Count Dunsford’s display nor understood the reason for the battle they were about to fight.
Dunsford, always a careful warrior, believed he had done all he could to enhance his chances of winning the coming engagement. He had arisen early, bathed in the cold stream nearby to shock his system to full alertness, then knelt naked for half an hour in early morning air, humbly beseeching the numerous gods recognized in his barony for their aid in the coming fray. Then he had repaired to his tent for a light breakfast of eggs, poultry, venison, and hot mulled wine. He had dressed carefully, beginning with a clean woolen undersuit, followed by a plain gray tunic, his thick quilted underarmor, his chain mail, and his great white outer tunic, emblazoned with blue crossed swords and a boar’s head between the blades, the emblem of his family. He had donned his great helm and strapped on his two-handed bastard sword with the jewel-encrusted pommel. Lastly, he had stared into the reflecting metal held by his valet and practiced the scowling, withering glance that was his trademark as a leader of fighting men. His valets had assured him that he cut an imposing figure. At five-foot eleven, he was one of the tallest men in the realm, and the strength of his thick arms and bandy legs was legendary. His hair, beard, and mustache were still thick and black despite his thirty-eight years, and his blue eyes could bore into the soul of eithe
r a friendly coward or a determined foe.
Heilesheim was famous for its ales, which were imported into Dunsford’s lands in huge quantities. He had chosen the smashing of the keg as a demonstration both of his prowess and of the fate that awaited the Black Prince and his armies for daring to invade the Dunsford lands. As he energetically hurled himself into the large wooden chair at the head of the meeting table in his tent, he congratulated himself for choosing that particular demonstration. The troops had been fired up. They were ready for blood. All that remained was to state to the more important lords the causes of the conflict, so they would know that justice and the gods would fight with them, and then to give the final orders for the battle to come.
“My lords and friends,” Dunsford began as more than thirty of the highest ranking nobles milled about in his tent, clanking in their armor, “hear me.”
Dunsford did not yet invite the nobles to sit. First he would state the justness of his cause. That would take only minutes. Then, he would invite the nobles to sit and hammer out their positions in the line of battle. If all went well, that would take only one or two hours.
“We fight today to repel an invading foe who fights with neither gods nor justice behind him,” the count cried.
Calls of “Yes, yes” and “Hear our liege, hear, hear!” arose from the assembled nobles.
“We have given no offense to Ruprecht of Heilesheim,” Dunsford declared, “who is justly called the Black Prince. We did not raid his territories—yet he raided ours and destroyed our village of Shallowford.”
Nods and murmurs of agreement arose.
“Now hear more!” Dunsford shouted. “The sack of Shallowford you know of. But hear now of what affront he has done to the honor of every one of us! When we sent our envoy to protest the sack of our village and to demand to know Ruprecht’s intentions, the Black Prince saw fit to return to us our own protected ambassador’s head in a cloth bag!” On cue, a servant appeared bearing a great platter on which rested a bloody, lumpy cloth sack. Dunsford opened it and held aloft its grisly contents. “Behold, how he treats the honored servants of your liege, the Count of Dunsford! Behold, how Ruprecht regards your own honor!”
