by Mark Acres
“Ain’t we proud?” the woman said with a sneer, but the soldier noted with satisfaction that she sauntered off to fetch the water.
“Say, driver,” the soldier called again, “where here is Sir Otto’s gear stored?”
“What, didn’t he tell you?” the driver replied. “Just like them lords; expect us common men to know everything, do everything, and then kick us when we don’t do it right ‘cause we don’t know any better.”
“No soldier can talk like that,” the armed man replied. “Which wagon?”
“Third one back, of course, where it always is. Wagon just before the treasure wagon,” the driver said, as if instructing a doltish child.
The woman returned with a cup of water and handed it to the soldier. “So,” she said, “in a hurry to get back to your battle?”
“No time for you, wench. Not now. But,” he added, removing his helmet and pouring the water over his short salt-and-pepper hair and his bloodied, dirt-smeared face, “maybe later, when the fightin’s done.”
“I’ll be ‘ere,” the woman answered with an attempt at a seductive smile.
No doubt you will, Bagsby thought—for it was he—but there’ll be a few other things missing.
Bagsby sauntered down the line of wagons, smiling, nodding, occasionally rubbing a pretended aching muscle in his arm, thigh, or back, looking for all the world like a Heilesheim man-at-arms fresh from the battlefield. The armor had been easy to come by. He had ridden onto the battlefield, shedding his own armor, then slipped down on the side of his horse as he approached the scene of carnage where Heilesheim knights had been blown to bits by Shulana’s magical ball of fire. There he had simply dropped on the field, letting his horse go free. In a short time he had managed to crawl farther back on the field where some Heilesheim men-at-arms were stripping the dead Argolian knights slain in that first, fatal charge. As Bagsby had worn no armor and no identifying symbols, the Heilesheim soldiers took him for a camp follower who had wandered out onto the field.
“Here, you!” one of the soldiers had called gruffly. “Help me gather up this loot.” The man had tossed a pile of armor toward Bagsby, then begun stripping the tunic off a dead Argolian knight. It had been a simple matter for Bagsby to locate a dagger, isolate the plundering soldier, and quietly slit his throat. Piece by piece, posing as a plunderer, he had dressed in the man’s armor, until he could pass for a Heilesheim man-at-arms. Then he had alternately crawled and played dead across the battlefield until he reached the rear of the Heilesheim lines. A hike down the highway had brought him to the wagons.
The sides of the highway were crowded with the camp followers, all the usual sorts that had so impeded his own progress just two days earlier. None paid him much attention. Soon he came to the third wagon and saw further down the road the fourth. These two were guarded. Five men-at-arms stood slackly around the third wagon, exchanging jokes, gossip, and small talk with the throngs that milled about beside the road. A ring of twenty men-at-arms, Bagsby estimated, stood all around the fourth wagon, where the fabled Golden Eggs of Parona were stored.
The wagons were large—nearly twenty feet long with flat beds that sat a good three feet off the ground. They had wooden sides that extended up about another three feet. Large wooden hoops then arced over the top to form supports for the thick linen and canvas that covered the contents and, presumably, kept them dry. The wagons were made of ash, rather soft and easy to work, and economical. The wheels were solid, not spoked, with rings of copper around the rims to prevent their wearing out too quickly. At the front of each wagon was a driver’s seat, and a large tongue extended, suitable for hitching a team of oxen or mules.
Bagsby’s mind raced over the multitude of problems: how to get in, how to handle the treasure, and above all, how to get it out. Instinctively he positioned himself out of sight of the guards, wandering off the side of the road and losing himself in the crowd of camp followers, until his plan was formed. He paced about, thinking hard, until his stride became more purposeful. A smile spread on his face, and he worked his way through the crowd back toward the front of the column of wagons.
He got back to a point about even with the second wagon in the line and, when no one was particularly paying him any mind, began running as fast as he could, up to the highway, then down the line to the fourth wagon. As he ran, he put on his scowl that had proved so effective on his knights. He hoped it would work as well on lower class men-at-arms.
“You there, guard!” he called to the first of the guards he spotted as he trotted up to the treasure wagon. “What in the name of all the gods of Heilesheim have you and these other fools done?” he demanded.
The guard lowered his spear as best he could. “Who are you?” he demanded, confused. His fellows in line also became alert, readying their weapons.
“I’m sent from Sir Otto himself to ask you louts how you managed to lose the treasure, that’s who I am!” Bagsby announced at the top of his lungs. Murmuring began immediately among the throng of camp followers. Bagsby was confident that before this conversation was over, the entire crowd would know that the treasure was missing, the guards were in deep trouble, and there was danger in store for all.
“I’m to send you to the front, now! Start marching! The lot of you—go on now! Sir Otto’s orders!” Bagsby bellowed.
“Wait a minute, wait a minute!” the first guard rejoined. “That treasure ain’t gone nowhere, see? It’s right ‘ere in this wagon.” The guard’s firm declaration elicited a chorus of affirmations from his fellow guards, who had now approached Bagsby in a cautious ring, their long spears pointed skyward as they relaxed their guard to see the outcomes of this conversation.
“Then maybe you can explain why the enemy is riding off the field of battle with them golden eggs, plain as day, throwing taunts back at us,” Bagsby said sarcastically. “Maybe you’d like to explain that to Sir Otto yourself.”
“Well, maybe I would,” the guard shouted back. “I’m telling you, that there treasure is ‘ere in this wagon, right where it belongs, where we been guardin’ it, and it ain’t gone nowhere.”
Bagsby threw his hands in the air as if exasperated by dealing with a complete fool. “All right, all right, have it your way. You say the treasure is safe inside that there wagon?”
“That’s right. It’s right ‘ere, inside this ‘ere wagon.”
“All right, all right. I’m a reasonable man; I don’t want to see you boys ‘anged for no good reason—although them is me orders, you understand, to bring the lot of you to the front for an ‘angin’,” Bagsby said. “Show us the treasure, then,” he demanded.
“An ‘angin’?” the chorus of guards echoed. Exhortations broke out among the suddenly white-faced men.
“Go on then, show ‘im, Alfred,” pleaded one man. “Right, show ‘im, Alfred. That treasure is in that wagon.” Similar cries were echoed by all the guards, until Alfred, both frightened and angry, held up his arms for silence.
“Right then, right!” he said. “I’ll show ‘im the treasure, all right. C’mon back ‘ere, you, and just you take a look inside this wagon.” The guard stomped back to the rear of the wagon, loosened the iron chain that held the back gate shut, lowered the gate, climbed up on it, and threw back the flap of the canvas top. “C’mon, it’s right in ‘ere,” he called to Bagsby.
Bagsby hopped up onto the gate and peered into the wagon. The interior was loaded with wooden barrels, reinforced with iron hoops.
“I don’t see no treasure,” Bagsby said, folding his arms and looking the guard coldly in the eye.
“Of course not,” the guard said, with a look that indicated Bagsby must be the stupidest man in Sir Otto’s service. “You don’t think we’d leave it lyin’ about out in the open, now, do you? It’s in them two barrels in the middle. ‘Arder to get at, that way.”
“Well, then, let’s go open ‘em,” Bagsby said, st
epping into the wagon bed.
“Aaaggghhh,” the guard grunted. He tossed his great spear down to another guard, raised his hands, and rolled his eyes, as if to say to the large crowd that had gathered around the sight, What does it take to convince this fool? Then he turned and followed Bagsby into the wagon.
Bagsby already had his dagger out, digging at the lid of the first barrel. The guard joined in the effort, prying at the iron hoop that held the lid tight, until at last the slab of wood rattled loose. Then the two dagger blades slid between the lid and the side of the barrel, and the top lifted off.
“There!” the guard said, triumph on his face. “There’s one of them golden eggs.”
Bagsby stared at the contents of the barrel. The sides and bottom were lined with loosely packed cotton to cradle the contents. And poking up from the packing was the gleaming gold top of what appeared to be a large, golden nodule in the shape of an egg, fully three feet tall when stood on its end. A ring of gemstones was set near the top of the egg, and fine lines of some design were etched in the gold. Bagsby caught his breath. This was it! Then he noticed the play of the faint light from the rear of the wagon in one of the diamonds.
“Bring that out on the gate where I can see it in the light,” Bagsby ordered. He turned and walked back out to the gate, leaving the exasperated guard to obey.
“All right, you bloody bastard, I’ll lug it out there. Don’t think to give me an ‘and; I’ll manage all right by me self,” the guard groused. Tugging and straining, the guard worked the large barrel through the narrow wagon bed to the lowered gate.
As soon as the open barrel was in the clear daylight Bagsby knew the mission was for nothing. He glared at the top of the egg and the gems embedded in it, thinking quickly. Was it better to accept the guard’s “proof” that the treasure was here, or was it better to create chaos? His own recent experiences in command led Bagsby to opt for chaos.
“See, the treasure!” the guard was proclaiming to the crowd and his very concerned fellows.
“That ain’t the treasure,” Bagsby said indignantly.
“What!” the guard screamed. “You can see it! What in all the bloody ‘ells of a ‘undred gods do you mean?”
“I mean, that ain’t the treasure,” Bagsby said, drawing his dagger again and gripping it around the pommel with the blade pointed upward. “See them diamonds there?” he asked the guard.
“Yeah, I sees ‘em,” the guard replied.
“Watch,” Bagsby said. He lowered the dagger in a savage blow, using the pommel like a hammer to strike one of the large gems. The alleged diamond shattered into a hundred fragments. “You ever see a diamond break from a man’s blow?” Bagsby asked. “That’s glass. These gems is fake, and so is this egg. That ain’t even real gold, not more than a tiny bit thick,” he added, scratching the surface of the egg with the dagger blade. The gold plate, thinner than a hair, peeled off, revealing dull iron. “No wonder that barrel was so ‘eavy, mate. That there egg is iron, not gold.”
“By all the gods,” the stunned man said, “it’s true.” He looked up, casting helpless eyes on his fellow guards. “This ‘ere egg is a fake,” he said simply.
Bagsby struck his dagger pommel again against the side of the egg, which emitted a metallic ring.
“‘Ollow, too,” he said. “Now, you lot ready to come with me?”
Howls of protest emerged from the guards, who expressed their dismay, their disbelief, and their protestations of innocence. Bagsby let the din continue while the crowd listened with growing horror. At length, he held up his hand for silence.
“All right, then, I know what you’re startin’ to think. But killin’ me won’t make that iron egg into a gold one, will it? An’ if I ain’t back to the front soon with some kind of report, there’ll be ‘ell to pay, there will. Them lords’ll come back ‘ere soon, lookin’ for their golden eggs, and when they sees ‘em gone, they’ll think somebody ‘ere swiped ‘em. They’ll blame the lot o’ you,” Bagsby declared. He gestured broadly out over the crowd of camp followers. “Not just these guards, mind you, but the lot of you!”
As Bagsby had hoped, the result was pandemonium. The crowd of camp followers turned into a frightened mob, screaming, running, looting the wagons, and scattering into the forest with whatever their arms could carry. The guards looked at one another, then at Alfred, then at Bagsby.
“Well,” Bagsby said. “Go on then. It’s better to disappear than to ‘ang. I know you lot didn’t do it, and I’m an okay sort, see? You take off, and I’ll cover it some’ow.”
The guards scattered. Within ten minutes the wagons were stripped of the bulk of their goods and Bagsby sat alone on the tailgate of the treasure wagon, with not another human soul to be seen or heard.
The instant he was certain he was alone, Bagsby ran to the already ransacked third wagon. As he had expected, the personal papers of Sir Otto—his maps and a large book of loose sheets covered with Sir Otto’s scrawl—were untouched. Bagsby picked up this loot and began walking south. A glance at just a few pages of Sir Otto’s notes were enough to prove to any sane man that the Heilesheim troops were also spies. Bagsby closed the book and picked up his pace. He had to make his way back through enemy lines, catch up to the remains of his own force, and get word to King Harold to close the borders.
Of course, he thought, he’d been a fool. It was too obvious for the treasure to be in a heavily guarded convoy. A snake like Valdaimon would never have done anything so risky and so simple. No, Bagsby thought, the treasure is right now somewhere where no one would think to look for it; probably near the southern border of Argolia on its way to Valdaimon’s hands. The little thief shook his head in disbelief. He must be getting old, he thought. He’d been duped twice in one day, and lost both a battle and a treasure.
Surprising Outcomes
BAGSBY’S victory parade through Clairton was as great a surprise to him as it was to the four assassins, paid by Nebuchar, who had been scouring the city for him. The family Pendargon, too, privately voiced considerable shock when, as the triumphal procession of the Second Company of the Royal Guard marched through the square nearest their spacious home, young Reynaldo recognized the Guard commander as none other than the swindler who had conned him out of four hundred crowns not many days ago.
The victory had been even a greater surprise to Bagsby. It had taken Bagsby almost a day to circle the enemy forces and return safely to his own small command; by the time he arrived, Sir Otto von Berne had negotiated terms of surrender with Sir John! The Heilesheim force, having discovered themselves deep in what was clearly now enemy territory, with no supplies and with a major army gathering south of Clairton, was forced to seek terms. The only alternative would have been to try to survive in hostile territory without food or vital supplies, surrounded by a vastly superior foe. Sir John, valiant in battle but not overaggressive at the negotiating table, had agreed to accept the surrender of the Heilesheim force’s arms. In exchange he extended a promise that the entire force could march unmolested out of Argolia. Further, each Heilesheim man-at-arms and knight was made to swear an oath before Wojan that he would not bear arms against Argolia for the duration of the current conflict. Bagsby had merely ratified the agreement upon his return to his own force, where he had been hailed as a hero, revered as something of a military genius, and suspected of being that rarest of rare things, a human wizard with prowess in physical combat.
Sir John of Elamshire, who had pondered as hard as his sore knightly brain would allow on the strangeness of his commander, found the courage to give voice to the new assessment the knights had of Bagsby. When he had returned to camp, Bagsby had set things in order to his satisfaction, dispatched a rider to the king with the captured documents and instructions to quickly close the southern border, and retired to his tent for the night. Sir John had begged permission to enter.
“Come,” Bagsby had called in answer
to Sir John’s entreaties.
The knight, still in full battle gear, had stepped hesitatingly into the tent, where Bagsby sprawled, exhausted, on his bed, with Shulana seated cross-legged on the floor by his side. “My lord,” Sir John had begun.
“Speak your speech, Sir John,” Bagsby had said wearily. “I am tired and need to sleep.”
“My lord, on behalf of the company, I have come to... say—to say that... well, we had thought, my lord, prior to the battle, that my lord was, well—”
“You had thought,” Bagsby had interjected, “that I was a fool who knew not what he did. You also doubted my prowess at arms, given that my defeat of yourself in personal combat was, as you thought it, unconventional.”
Sir John’s face beamed. He nodded. “You understand perfectly, my lord.”
“And now that I have single-handedly caused the destruction of the enemy’s supply train and forced his surrender,” Bagsby had droned on in a fatigued monotone, “your estimation of me is quite different.”
“Just so!” Sir John had agreed. “By the gods, you are a man of understanding.”
“A tired man of understanding,” Bagsby had said, yawning.
“Your wizardry tires you,” Sir John had suggested.
“Wizardry?” Bagsby had asked, forcing himself to sit up in bed as the back of his brain felt the approach of danger in that remark.
“The magical fire,” Sir John had explained.
“My lord does not discuss magic with those who do not practice it,” Shulana had said quietly.
Bagsby had quickly nodded his agreement.
“Well, no harm intended,” Sir John had said agreeably.
“None done. And may our future relationship be one not only of commander and his second in command,” Bagsby had said, confirming Sir John’s de facto role, “but also one of friendship. Now go, good Sir John, before I rudely fall asleep in your presence.”
