by Mark Acres
Bagsby stood up and faced the wall of knights again. “He was wrong,” Bagsby said flatly. “He was a fool, not a coward.” Bagsby strutted up and down in front of the confused mass of fighting men, who were struggling to comprehend what was happening. “What are the rest of you?” Bagsby suddenly roared. “You!” he screamed, pointing out one of the knights at random. “What are you?”
The man looked at Bagsby, then at the motionless form of Sir John, then back at Bagsby.
“A fool?” he asked.
“By the gods, you are, sir. You are a fool. And so are the rest of you,” Bagsby snarled. “I gave you leave to organize your march and your camp as you saw fit, in the manner to which you were most accustomed, for my way of doing things would be different from yours, and I wanted you to concentrate on our task, not on learning a new order of march. And look at this mess! Knights bickering among themselves, almost a full day’s march lost, whores and children and thieves running hither and yon—who but a fool would organize a march or a camp this way?”
Bagsby paused and glared, making eye contact with as many of the men as he could.
“Answer me!” he demanded. “You!” he screamed, pointing at another randomly chosen knight. “Answer me!”
“Why, uh, why, uh, uh, I think, uh, only a fool would organize a march or a camp like this,” the man managed to stammer.
“That’s the first intelligent comment I’ve heard since taking this command,” Bagsby said. “Now, here is your new order of march. You five,” he said, pointing to the five knights standing nearest the left end of the assembled throng, “will ride ahead to scout for the enemy. Find him, but don’t be seen and don’t get into a fight.”
The five knights stepped forward, flabbergasted to a man. One raised his voice in anguished protest. “Lord General,” he began, “we are knights, nobles. We are not scouts. Scouting is not a fit task for a noble. We have never scouted,” he said. The other four men slowly nodded their assent.
Bagsby whirled to face the man, his face contorted with faked anger. “I command here by order of the king. You’re noble, are you? Well, now you’re a noble scout. Now go!” he ordered. “Or join this knight whose blood waters the grass.”
The five knights looked at one another, then at Sir John, then at Bagsby, who stood with his feet spread wide, thumping the business end of his mace against the palm of his mailed left hand. Slowly, the five began to stomp off toward the chaotic camp, looking for their horses.
“The rest of you will mount and form a column, four men wide,” Bagsby ordered. “This column will proceed north on the road. I will ride at its head. Wagons and workers will follow in this order: first armorers; then the water, beer, and wine wagons; then the food wagons. Next will be the cartwrights and carpenters. After that, the rest of the fools and whores can come however they want—they’ll soon be far behind us, because I intend to move fast and strike hard. Now go mount up. We leave in a quarter of an hour.”
Bagsby turned his back on the stunned assemblage and started into his tent. He paused a moment, then turned back and stared at the knight he had clouted.
“He’ll live,” he told the others. “My elven servant will see to that.” Then, with an arrogant shake of his head, Bagsby entered his tent, pulling the flap shut behind him. Inside, he stopped dead and caught his breath, listening.
After a prolonged silence, one voice said quietly, “We’d better get our horses.” There were mutters of agreement, and soon the mass of knights was clinking and clanking back down the small hill. Orders were bellowed; the camp began to stir into purposeful activity.
Bagsby let out a long breath.
“Elven servant?” Shulana said, looking up from the large map on the table.
“Just see to it that that fool I had to clout doesn’t die,” Bagsby snapped. “Please,” he quickly added, holding out both hands toward her, palms up. “Please?”
It was Shulana’s turn to let her face grow dark. “You’re suddenly a general,” she said.
Bagsby wondered if he could detect a bit of begrudged admiration in her tone of voice.
“Well, I’m acting like one. Let’s hope that’s the same as being one.”
“No, no, no!” Culdus shouted at the top of his lungs, stamping his feet on the hard-packed dirt floor of the King of Heilesheim’s tent. “We must not delay, not for an instant!”
“Truly,” King Ruprecht agreed. “I do not see why we should pause when our armies are enjoying a glorious victory march through these southern provinces of the Holy Alliance. Already, we are moving into position to besiege Alban. The city of Kala is being reduced tonight, as we speak, and we have force to spare to begin the encirclement of the Tower of Asbel. Two legions have overrun the County of the Wyche against minimal resistance. Why should we delay the invasion of Argolia for even a single day?”
The king waved off the servants who had trimmed the lamps in royal campaign tent. The flames, spaced at intervals around the walls of the tent and in rows through the main interior room, cast a golden light that made the richly decorated interior seem even more luxurious than it truly was.
Ruprecht reclined on a couch covered with thick pillows and rich furs. Next to the couch, on a small table, a plate of delicacies was placed for his sampling; he cleansed his fingers in a bowl of rosewater after tasting one of the stickier honeyed fruits. As in any commander’s tent, there was a large table laden with maps and charts. Culdus stood behind it, staring gloomily at a large map that showed the current positions of Heilesheim’s forces, and the last known positions of their now numerous enemies. Behind the king’s couch a wall of curtains was drawn to construct a separate room altogether, the room where the king would sleep, attended by such prisoners as he chose from the day’s taking.
Valdaimon stood with head lowered by the main entrance to the tent. He knew full well that to approach the king too closely would risk offending with his odor; his mission tonight was difficult enough without adding to the displeasure he must create.
“Your Majesty, please understand,” the old mage wheedled. “It is essential that the treasure of Parona, the Golden Eggs, be safely delivered to our forces before we strike Argolia. King Harold must be given no pretext to seize the treasure before it is in... Your Majesty’s hands.”
“Essential to whom?” Culdus thundered. “To you? When last this subject was discussed, you evaded the issues of both the cost of this purchase and its necessity. We have had no need for your wyvern troops, and no need for your armies of the dead. What is it that makes you crave that treasure so?”
“That is not important,” the wizard replied. “What is important is to protect His Majesty’s investment. Would you prefer to see that treasure in the hands of Harold of Argolia?”
“We’d take it back soon enough,” Culdus declared.
“Culdus’s point seems well taken,” the king concurred.” So what if Harold gazes upon our golden treasure a few days before his head is lopped off? Our victory is certain. Our legions are invincible.” The young monarch tossed his head arrogantly. His long black hair flipped about in greasy strings. He ran his thin, white fingers through it, then dabbled them in rosewater. “Really, Valdaimon, you tire me. It is past time for my bath. And shortly thereafter, I must retire.” He gave Culdus a lecherous wink. “After reviewing the prisoners taken today, of course,” he added, breaking into his high-pitched laughter.
Valdaimon suppressed his loathing for merely mortal beings. How easy it would be to cast a quick enchantment, seize their minds, and run things himself! But all such spells had their limits. The king could be easily controlled, but Culdus… Culdus was strong of will. The spells would not hold his mind. And he would rally other humans to his cause, perhaps even cause dissension within the League, where the other mages jealously observed Valdaimon’s closeness to the throne. No, it was best to be cautious, patient, and safe, even when the goa
l was so close at hand.
“I apologize, Your Majesty,” the old mage said, flicking his dark tongue between his few yellowed teeth to wet his thin, white, dry lips. “I had hoped not to disturb Your Majesty with troubling news. But I see now,” the wizard said, casting a withering glance at Culdus, “that I must tell you that your treasure is in danger not from the King of Argolia, though indeed he intends to seize it. Rather, the real danger comes from a certain thief who even now is seeking out the Golden Eggs as they pass through Argolia.”
“A thief!” Culdus exploded. “One thief? Your magic and my armies combined cannot destroy one thief? What fools do you take us for?” the warrior demanded.
The king sat up on his couch, his eyes suddenly alert. “No, no, Culdus,” he said. “I’m intrigued. Tell us of this thief, Valdaimon.”
“His name is Bagsby. He is even now in Argolia, plotting to steal the treasure and using the King of Argolia as a pawn. This man is as filled with cunning and tricks as Your Majesty is with grace,” the wizard said in his oiliest, most soothing voice.
Ruprecht searched among the delicacies on the table with his fingers, scrunched up his nose at the lot, and sighed. “Come to the point,” he said wearily. “Why couldn’t our armies handle one thief? Or your magic, for that matter? Cast a spell, old man, and turn this Bagsby into a frog or a fly, and squash him for your amusement.”
Valdaimon tottered forward, leaning on his great staff. Culdus eased himself along the edge of the table, carefully keeping out of smelling distance from the vile mage.
“It is not so easy, Your Majesty. One does not use a siege engine to fire at a common fly; neither will our armies be able to find or capture this thief. And as for my poor, weak magic—he is, at the moment, protected against it,” the wizard said with a sad shrug.
“Protected by whom?” the king asked immediately. Culdus nodded his approval of the question. This impudent young pup of a king was learning a few things.
“He has struck up an alliance with an elf,” Valdaimon said simply. “Not even I dare strike an elf.”
“And this elf uses magic to protect him from your magic?” the king asked.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“How fascinating,” the king declared, rising and striding about the room. “I never knew there was anything that could protect against your magic, dear Valdaimon.” A broad smile spread on the king’s thin, young face. His eyes twinkled with merriment. “Perhaps I should look more carefully into this matter of elven magic.”
“Your Majesty’s point is well taken,” Culdus snarled. “The army, too, might well want to investigate this point. Now, Valdaimon, what has this to do with delaying our campaign?”
“As a precaution, Your Majesty,” the wizard began, turning and walking back toward the tent entrance, “the treasure being conveyed by our guards through Argolia is a fake.”
“What?” the king exclaimed. “Where is my real treasure?”
“Being safely escorted through that same land, cleverly disguised by numerous spells, carried in a plain peasant’s cart that no one would suspect contained anything of value,” Valdaimon explained. “But, if we attack before that simple cart with its meager escort is safely across the border in Kala, Argolia will seal its borders. This Bagsby will soon enough discover the fraud we have perpetrated and begin a quest for the real treasure. I would rather it were safely in our hands before he does so.”
“My hands, wizard,” the king snapped. “My hands.”
“This is nonsense, Your Majesty,” Culdus insisted. “To delay the march of thousands of men to easy victory, just to wait for a peasant cart to cross a border—”
“Consider His Majesty’s investment,” Valdaimon interrupted.
“I would,” Culdus replied, suddenly smiling, “if I knew how much that investment was. That particular question,” he said, extending his arm and pointing a finger at the wizard, “you have never answered.”
“Yes, wizard!” the king agreed. He ran toward Valdaimon, only to stop short several feet from the mage and raise an arm before his face, a futile gesture against the foul stench the wizard exuded. “Aaagh, by the gods, you stink more with each passing day! Now, tell me plainly. How much did I pay for this famous treasure?”
“A small price compared to its true value,” Valdaimon said, purposely moving closer to the king. Offense would be given, but it would lead to a swift conclusion to this interview, which was not going well at all. “Only one million gold crowns.”
“A million gold crowns,” Culdus sputtered. “A million? In gold? All at once? With funds like that our armies could be three times, no, four times their current size, maybe more. How did you get a million crowns in gold? How did you transport it to Parona?”
“How dare you spend such a sum without my knowledge?” the king said coldly. “We are much displeased.”
“The sum is large,” Valdaimon agreed, continuing to walk toward the king, driving the youth back toward his couch. “All the more reason to delay our attack to protect Your Majesty’s investment.”
“Go! Both of you,” Ruprecht commanded. “”This subject much vexes us. We will talk of it in the morning.”
“As you command, Your Majesty,” Valdaimon replied, beating a hasty retreat to the tent’s entrance. “Enjoy the fruits of your victories, Your Majesty.”
Culdus bowed curtly and followed the wizard out into the cool, clear spring night. He intended to confront Valdaimon, but the wizard was nowhere to be seen. Culdus snorted and stomped past the ring of guards. He watched with disgust as the day’s catch of females was paraded into the tent. The old warrior stalked off to a nearby deserted hilltop and gazed out over the fields and forests of Kala, soon to be part of Heilesheim. He sighed deeply, sat down on the cool earth, already damp with dew, and raised his eyes to the star-filled sky.
“What,” he asked his gods, “is that wizard plotting?”
Bagsby rode at the head of his column of knights with Shulana on his right and a page bearing the great square standard of his company on his left. The sun was already well up in the morning sky; Bagsby judged that it was near mid-morning, about halfway to noon. Bagsby whistled a light air as he rode. Things were going well again, and he anticipated a great event today.
The previous day’s march had gone without problems. His instinctive decision to group his fighting men together as a formed force and leave the camp followers behind, except for those bearing essential supplies, had proved wise. The company was making good time; the camp last night had been orderly, with the supplies grouped in the center of a ring of tents and watches posted. His scouts sent one rider back every three hours to report. That man was relieved and another sent up in his place. In this way, the ignominy of being forced to serve as a scout was reduced, since the apparent “dishonor” was shared throughout the company in rotation.
Now his command was good score of miles or more north of Clairton. Morale had improved with the establishment of order. Even Sir John, who rode without his helmet with his bloody head bandaged, would occasionally banter with his fellows. Bagsby expected that today his scouts would encounter the Heilesheim convoy; by late afternoon, or tomorrow morning at the latest, he would attack. It should be a quick battle; by all accounts most of the Heilesheim guards were footmen. All that was needed was a nice level field where his knights could charge. The footmen would scatter; the convoy would be overrun, and Bagsby would grab the treasure—and some kind of papers showing that the Heilesheimers were spies, of course, to keep King Harold happy.
The only cloud on Bagsby’s horizon, as he thought about it, was the changing nature of the terrain. The “great highway” had never been more than a wide, well-beaten track; now that they were well north of Clairton, it narrowed. Earlier in the morning Bagsby had ordered his column to switch to two abreast rather than four. As the highway wound its way north, it curved more and more, firs
t to the right, then back to the left, meandering through the increasingly high and rocky hills that made up much of the north of the kingdom. Here there were few of the wide, flat meadows that characterized the southlands. Instead, fields were hacked out of the steep slopes of the hills, and furrows wound their way around outcroppings of rock too heavy to be removed. In many places, the land was untilled, and the highway wound through patches of light forest. The trees here were not the tall oaks, elms, maples, and yews of the southlands, but short, stout firs and pines, with an occasional scrub oak competing for the nutrients of the thin soil. Finding a level field for battle might not be easy. Whenever they passed an appropriate section of terrain, Bagsby made a mental note of it and of the distance to the next level ground.
Bagsby’s mount crested a low rise in the valley between two steep hills. In the distance, Bagsby saw an approaching knight, riding hard, almost charging down the highway toward him. No doubt one of his scouts with a report, Bagsby thought. Shulana, who always rode bareback, whispered a word in her mount’s ear, and the big horse trotted up close beside Bagsby’s.
“The scout comes to report before the usual time,” she said.
“Yes!” Bagsby answered, his eyes lighting up with the implications of the event. “They must have found something.” The lord general of the Second Company of the Royal Guard of Argolia reined his steed to halt and raised his right arm, halting the column behind him. “Dismount!” he cried. “Five minutes for rest!”
