Authors: Mark Acres
Bagsby sat bolt upright, his mouth wide open. His left arm raised the covers as he sat up; by the time he was fully up his right arm was already swinging, attempting to slash the figure leaning over him with the dagger in his hand. Shulana had expected this move—she had watched Bagsby for months—and the dagger slash slid harmlessly off her magical cloak.
“Be still, Bagsby,” she said in her most commanding voice, standing erect and glaring at him from beneath her cowl.
Bagsby’s lips moved and his mouth opened wide and shut several times, but no sound emerged from him.
“Call out all you want; it will do you no good. You are magically silenced. You can make no sound no matter what you do,” Shulana said sternly.
Bagsby scowled, glanced about wildly, and then hurled his dagger with all his might at the glass window of his room. The glass shattered noiselessly, and the dagger sailed out into the night. Bagsby watched in amazement as the shards of glass fell silently to the floor. He turned his head and looked at Shulana, his brow furrowed, his dark brown eyes wide, his mouth formed into a small “O.”
“You see that what I say is true,” Shulana said severely. “Now know this, Bagsby, thief, con man, and scoundrel. I mean you no harm. If you will not betray my presence, I will release you from silence so that we may talk. But you must guarantee that you will take no action against me. If you do, the penalties will be severe. You can see that I am a mage of some power. Do not think I come to this interview unprotected. What is your answer?”
Bagsby thought quickly even as the voice was speaking. His eyes were still adjusting to the dark; he had no idea who or even what this assailant might be. His immediate fear was an assassin sent by Nebuchar; he quickly dismissed that idea. If the intruder were an assassin, he would already be dead. In any event, his word was virtually meaningless, and his word to an intruder was certainly not binding. He had nothing to lose by agreeing and everything to gain. Bagsby nodded his assent to the intruder’s terms.
Shulana made a subtle gesture with one hand, and Bagsby found his power of speech returned.
“Who are you, and what do you want of me?” he asked. His eyes squinted, straining against the darkness to see the face that confronted him.
“My name is of no concern to you, thief. What is of concern is what I want,” Shulana said simply.
“Fine,” Bagsby said, shrugging. “Mind if I get up?” Without waiting for a reply he threw the blankets off his legs and swung his feet to the floor. He leaned over and dug through the pile of clothes by the side of the bed.
“No, I don’t mind if you rise. But if you’re searching for another dagger, it will be the last thing you ever find.”
Bagsby’s hand froze. He looked up at the face which was now becoming more clear as his eyes adjusted, and grinned broadly.
“Do you blame me for trying?” he asked, chuckling.
“No. I expected it. I hope you understand that it is pointless to resist me.”
“I understand for the moment. Now, about what you wanted.”
“Just this. To make you rich,” Shulana said. A cold shudder ran through her body as she spoke the words; it was totally against her nature to lie, even to a swine like this thief.
“Well then, welcome, friend. Leave the riches as you leave the room, won’t you?” Bagsby retorted.
“You must work for this wealth,” Shulana said briskly. “I want you to steal something.”
“A contract job?”
“Precisely.”
“What is the item you want stolen?” Bagsby asked. He could see the face now, and he carefully controlled his own face so as not to betray his deep shock and surprise. At first he thought perhaps his eyes were mistaken, but as he gazed at the face, there could be no doubt. The high cheekbones, the narrow, pointed nose, the short cropped dark hair, the narrow elongated eyes, and the deliberate attempt to hide the ears, all these could mean only one thing. The intruder was an elf. Whether male or female Bagsby could not yet tell, but there was no doubting the species. Bagsby had only seen two elves before in his life, and one of them was dead at the time.
“Yes, I am an elf. A female, to answer your real question,” Shulana said casually.
Bagsby cursed silently. He had been trying to control his reaction. Maybe the old tales were true. Bagsby had heard many stories from old thieves about how elves could read a human’s thoughts by the expression on the face, even when the human was deliberately dissembling. How the elves could do this, when they understood so little about humans, was a mystery. Bagsby decided that a temporary surrender was the best approach.
“So, I see there is no point in trying to deceive you,” he acknowledged. “What is the item you want stolen? At what risk to me and of what value to you?”
“I want you to steal the Golden Eggs of Parona,” Shulana stated bluntly. His reaction was exactly what she had expected. Bagsby burst into laughter.
“Oh, my! Oh, my!” he exclaimed between belly laughs. “For a moment I thought you were serious. Who sent you? Who are you? What manner of prank is this? Did old Sixfingers send you?” Bagsby stood and pulled on his breeches. He caught his tunic on his big toe and kicked it up into his hands. “Come on, now, you’ve had your fun. Tell me. Who sent you?”
“No one sent me,” Shulana replied honestly. “I came of my own accord on my own initiative. This idea is entirely my own.”
“Come on now,” Bagsby said, pulling on his tunic. “Enough is enough. You’d better get out of here before the servants hear our chatter.”
“I came to hire you for a job, and I intend to see that you do it,” Shulana said.
“What job?” Bagsby snapped. He was getting worried now. It wouldn’t do at all for the viscount to hear of him entertaining an elf under the viscount’s own roof. Bagsby had great plans for his newfound friendship with the young noble.
“I told you. I want you to steal the Golden Eggs of Parona,” Shulana replied patiently. She had known Bagsby would not believe her at first. It was one of the things that made dealing with humans so difficult; they were so suspicious, because they were so untrustworthy. Although in this case, she reminded herself, Bagsby’s suspicions were entirely justified.
“I see,” Bagsby said, bustling about the room now as he finished dressing. “By the way, my other dagger’s there on the floor,” he added, pointing to the weapon. The elf did not glance down at the place he indicated; she already knew where the dagger was, Bagsby concluded. “So,” he continued, “let me get this straight. An elf, who refuses to tell me her name, breaks into my room in the dead of night and wishes to hire me to steal the most closely guarded and famous treasure in the world. Is that about right?”
“Yes,” Shulana replied.
“And why,” Bagsby asked, “should I not call out right now and summon the servants and the guards and have you put out of here and out of my life?”
“Because if you do,” Shulana answered, “I will help Nebuchar’s assassins find you. I have followed you for the last several months. I can tell you every word that passed between you and Nebuchar. I can tell you how you squandered the fortune you obtained from him. I can tell you how much you stole from those louts in the first tavern you visited tonight. I know how you duped young Pendargon out of four hundred crowns. And I know how you plan to use the viscount to gratify your own greed. Have me thrown out and I will stick to you like glue until Nebuchar has his way with you.”
“I see,” Bagsby said. “And if I do steal this treasure for you, which is patently impossible, what reward is there for me?”
“Name your price.”
“The Golden Eggs of Parona are worth at least several hundreds of thousands of crowns. But only if one could sell them. Of course, they could be melted down, and the gemstones pried out, and so on. But that would reduce the value by more than half. How can you sell something that the entire world will know is stolen?”
“What I do with the Golden Eggs once you have stolen them is my affair and mine alone,” Shulana said.
“Show me the money you will pay me, then,” Bagsby demanded.
“I cannot. You have not yet said how much your services would cost.”
“Let’s say, just for sake of argument, two hundred thousand crowns.”
“I agree to your price.”
“Show me the money.”
“I cannot,” Shulana said honestly.
“Of course you can’t, because you don’t have it,” Bagsby crowed.
“You are correct,” Shulana said, nodding.
“What! You admit it?”
“Of course. What would be the point of denying it? Most of the kings of the human world could not raise two hundred thousand gold crowns in cash. I certainly cannot.”
“So your offer is a fraud.”
“No. If you succeed, the Elven Council will present to you its entire treasure, which is easily worth the amount you demand,” Shulana said. In fact, this was the truth. Despite the reports of their own seers, which seemed to favor Bagsby, the Elven Council had agreed that, if Shulana could engage a thief who actually did procure and turn over to them the Golden Eggs, the entire treasure of the council could be given as payment to that thief. This they did because in their hearts they did not believe the thing could be done. Even then, they were in no danger of losing their treasure, for Shulana had no intention of allowing Bagsby to live once his task was completed.
“Even if that were true, and I don’t think it is,” Bagsby said, “why should I even think about accepting such a contract? The eggs are more closely guarded than the lives of kings.”
“Because,” Shulana said patiently, “the Golden Eggs have been purchased from the King of Parona by the Black Prince of Heilesheim. Even now they are being transported from Parona in the north to Heilesheim in the south. The route of the transport passes through this city.”
Bagsby sat down on the edge of the bed, hardly daring to believe what the elf said. If it were true, if it were true, such a theft just might be possible.
“How many troops?” Bagsby demanded quickly.
“An escort of five hundred men guards the treasure. These were furnished by Heilesheim.”
“Well”—Bagsby shrugged—“maybe, there might be some way....”
Shulana smiled. Despite Bagsby’s better judgment, she had him hooked, and she knew it.
Preparations
THE SUN
was not yet up when fat Marta awoke, her slumber broken by the clamor and clanking on the far bank of the river. With an angry grunt she threw back the thick quilts and hoisted her bulk from the fine goose feather mattress. Two short shivering steps brought her to the wooden shutters of the bedroom window. She threw them open and stared into the night, her anger rising as goose bumps crept along her cold flesh. Strangers across the river—a lot of them by the sound of it. And, that worthless, lazy, skinny dullard she’d married had let the bedroom fire burn out as well.
“Albert!” she squawked. “Wake up, you lout! The fire’s cold, and there’s a large party at the river ford.” Without waiting for Albert’s response, Marta opened her large oak wardrobe and drew out a heavy woolen shawl. Tossing it about her shoulders atop her thick blue sleeping-gown, she stooped, grabbed the fire irons, and began a futile effort to poke life from the dead embers. “I said, wake up, you slothful nobody!” she shouted, sharply stirring the crumbling, burned logs.
Albert, who had awakened at her first call, gave a dull grunt in response. “Go back to bed, cow,” he muttered, pulling the covers up tightly about his head. As the commander of the Count of Dunsford’s Yeoman Border Guards at Shallowford and the highest official in that tiny village, Albert owed loyalty and obedience to the count. He neither deserved nor took lightly the abuse of his spouse, who enjoyed—thanks to his industriousness, bootlicking, and embezzling—this fine wooden house, a man- and maidservant, and a status far above that to which she was born. So
,
Albert thought, let the old cow bellow. He’d sleep till sunup, and if her ass was cold, she could make the fire herself.
“Are you deaf?” Marta screeched. “Can’t you hear that clatter across the river? There must a hundred or more men over there—and you’d better see what it’s about. I don’t intend to have you lose the position I’ve worked so hard to get you into just because you’re too lazy to roust yourself out of that soft bed.” Having failed to find life in the ashes, Marta turned the irons and her attention to the blankets under which her husband’s legs were curled. Three sharp whacks brought him howling to his feet, hopping first on one foot, then the other. As he continued his dance of pain, he massaged the spots on his shins where bruises were already forming.
“You cursed old swine,” he shouted. “What devil has seized your brain to treat me thus in the middle of the night?” Albert gave up his dance and flopped over backward atop the bed, drawing up his legs and rubbing both shins at once. “You might have broken—”
His whining was cut short by the sound of a loud shout in the distance—a shout that clearly came from a huge number of men.
“Great gods of Dunsford, Marta, what is that?” Albert exclaimed, forgetting his pain and sitting bolt upright.
“I’ve been telling you—there’s a great crowd down there across the river,” Marta said, looking at him with a sort of fondness. Once awake, he was still a handsome rogue, she thought, even if he did owe every achievement of his life to her nagging. “Go on, see what the matter is. Do your duty, and I’ll be waiting here when you get back. If you don’t vex me further, I’ll see you have breakfast on your return.”
Albert rummaged through the wardrobe until he found his favorite pair of warm, purple velvet breeches. He pulled these on quickly, along with a clean white linen shirt. With Marta’s help and much grunting and straining, he managed to squeeze his gouty feet into his fine, shiny black boots. From the table by his bedside he lifted the gold necklace that bore his seal of office and placed it around his neck. Marta brought him his best thick woolen cloak and fastened it by the gold clasp that bore the count’s emblem.
“Get that breakfast ready,” Albert grumbled as he strode down the stairs of his fine house. His steps clicked sharply on the cobblestones of the village’s one paved street as he stomped his way to the shack that served as a border station by the river ford. No doubt this was some bunch of deuced nonsense, he thought. Probably some hunting party on the Heilesheim side of the river, with a dozen drunken lords and their attendants, raising a ruckus, rousing his wife, and dragging him out of bed in the wee hours of the morning for absolutely nothing.
Albert heard the splash of hoofs in the shallow water as his own steps brought him nearer the water’s edge and the border guards’ shack. His eyes were barely adjusted to the darkness; it took him several seconds to see the corpse of old Athelston lying on its back with a crossbow bolt sticking straight up from its chest.
“What, ho!” Albert shouted, suddenly alarmed. He whirled to face the ford and saw the first of several horses coming toward him, now at
fun gallop.
“In the name of the Count of Dunsford, halt and say who goes there!” Albert called at the onrushing form. His eyes grew wide with terror as the moon passed from behind a cloud and its white light glinted off the flawless, polished armor of fully armed knight, charging directly at him. The warrior’s left hand loosely gripped the reins of his lumbering, barded horse; his right held the haft of a great morning star, a ball of iron with protruding spikes that whirled in the air at the end of a length of chain. Emblazoned on the man’s white tunic was the form of a great black lizard with wings, the Dragon of Heilesheim, as the Black Prince was wont to call it.
Duty conquered fear in Albert’s brain long enough for him to scream out, “To arms! To arms!”
“The sport begins!” came the answering cry from the charging form, whose steed closed the gap to the river shore. The whirling morning star struck Albert square in the face with such force the shouting man’s head was ripped from his body, impaled on the swinging ball.
“Hah!” The knight laughed aloud, swinging his gruesome trophy for the following horde to see. He reared his horse up on its hind legs, pointing with the morning star toward the hapless village, where, the few burghers and several dozen families of peasants were just rousing from their slumbers, wakened by Albert’s call. “Death and flames,” the knight cried. “Put it to the torch and slaughter all!”
With a great shout, a dozen mounted knights charged down the cobblestoned street, followed by more than a hundred men-at-arms on foot. The knights clustered about the three finer houses, breaking down the doors and entering to kill and pillage. The foot soldiers contented themselves with setting fire to the more than two dozen thatched huts that housed the village’s peasantry and practicing their archery as the hapless occupants staggered into the fire-lit, smokey streets.
The knight who had slain Albert laughed as he watched the scene of blood and chaos. Tossing his weapon with its grisly trophy to the ground, he raised his beaver and then lifted off the great helm, decorated with spread dragon wings of thin gold-plated steel. This he handed to the young squire who had come to stand at attention beside his mount.
“My lord,” an ancient voice called from the river ford, “is the battle already won?” The touch of irony in the question was lost on the young man, who laughed aloud again as two of his foot soldiers stamped to death a young peasant who had tried to flee down the village street.
“Come, Valdaimon, see how easily we tread on old Dunsford’s lands and what sport we have!” the youth called.
“My lord is in good spirits after his victory, I see,” Valdaimon commented, carefully threading his way across the last portion of the ford and stepping gingerly onto the riverbank beside the leader’s mount. “An easy victory. May all your battles be won so easily, Black Prince.”
The young man turned and looked down at the old wizard who had tutored him through his youth, carefully teaching him the fine arts of government, war, and refined cruelty. “Don’t patronize me, old man,” the Black Prince snapped. His dark eyes blazed with a cold fire, and his long black hair snapped in the dawn breeze as he tossed his head arrogantly. “This was no battle, and you know it. Killing helpless peasants is mere sport. I was testing my men for their hardness, nothing more.”
“As you say, my lord,” the old man replied calmly. “In any event, a clear signal to Dunsford that he has little choice but to accommodate your larger designs.” The old wizard leaned on the great staff that towered over his head. A smile creased his leathery, narrow, hideously wrinkled face, revealing the gaps between his few remaining teeth. The Black Prince wondered if the old man was smiling at the ease with which the village was sacked, at the continuing cruelties visible in the village streets, or at the fact that he had positioned himself upwind of his ward and the stench of his filthy body was causing the young man’s nostrils to flare in disgust.
“Back off, Valdaimon,” the prince ordered. “The stink of your potions and filth offends our person.”
“May my lord’s enemies be so offended soon,” Valdaimon replied, lifting his staff and slowly hobbling back toward the ford. “There is no need for me here. I will await your presence and your pleasure at your palace. No doubt we shall talk tonight.”
“No doubt,” the prince called after the old man. Someday, he thought, someday he would no longer need the meddling old crocodile’s counsel. Then he would be rid of his stinking carcass once and for all. But until that time, Valdaimon would be safe. His wisdom and his magic were both necessary for the great plan that was hatching in the prince’s mind.
“Lord!” a knight called, galloping up with a fat, screaming wench in tow by her hair. “This is the last—I saved her for you to slay yourself.”
The knight released his grip on the woman’s hair, and fat Marta flopped to the ground. Her blue nightclothes were a mass of filth and blood, and she trembled and wept for the fate of her village, her home, and her life. Then she spied the head impaled on the morning star that lay in the mud beside her and shrieked her grief to the uncaring heavens.
“Hmmm,” the Black Prince grunted. “This must be the wife of the leader of this village. I’ve a good idea. We’ll spare this fat pig to do our will elsewhere. Bring me a torch and hand me your shield.”
Puzzled the knight grabbed a torch from a passing man-at-arms and handed it to the Black Prince. Then he removed his great shield, with the sign of the dragon raised in metal upon it.
Laughing, the prince put the torch to the front of the shield, heating the dragon form until it glowed a dull red.
“Bring that fat wench here and bare her back,” he commanded.
The knight dismounted and grabbed fat Marta under both her arms. He slung her against the side of his horse, and with his dagger, ripped down the back of what was left of her nightdress. The Black Prince dismounted and stood behind Marta.
“What is your name, wench?” he bellowed.
“Marta, Marta, wife of Albert, the highman of this village, whom you have slain,” Marta answered, hatred in her voice despite her tears.
“Well, Marta, I’m going to let you live,” the prince said grandly. “I want you to go to Dunsford and tell him all that has happened here. Tell him that what happened here will happen to his entire realm unless he gives fealty to me and complies with my wishes in every regard. Do you understand?”
Marta nodded her head against the sweaty flanks of the knight’s horse. There was no point in fighting now—she would live to oppose this young bastard devil’s son another day.
“Good,” the Black Prince said. “And now, just so old Dunsford will know that everything that is his is now mine...” The young man pressed the red-hot front of the shield against the flesh of Marta’s back, branding her like an animal with the dragon insignia. Marta screamed and fainted.
The Black Prince tossed the shield to the ground and remounted his horse. “Leave her,” he ordered. “Reform the men and return the bulk, leaving a small guard. Send a bridge party here at once. I’d have a bridge built here in two days’ time.”
“Yes, sire,” the knight replied.
Laughing again with his high-pitched, whining laugh, the Black Prince rode off across the ford. Today was going to be a very busy day. He was glad it had started so well.
Baron Manfred Culdus whirled around, his face contorted with rage, and hurled his dagger full force at the form of the wizard who had just materialized behind him and called his name.
“Curse you, Valdaimon!” he shouted. “Leave your wizard’s tricks behind when you come calling on me. Knock on my door like any normal man.”
Valdaimon casually turned his head as the dagger passed harmlessly through his shriveled body. He watched with feigned interest as the deadly missile flew on across the large, octagonal room to impale itself in a thick wooden beam next to the heavy, ten-foot-high door. “Accurate, as always,” he commented. “But, Baron, futile rage hardly becomes a military leader. You must learn self-control. Besides, your door is much too heavy for one of my frail strength to open, and to knock would have torn you away from your studies.” With a grand gesture, Valdaimon indicated the huge oak table on which were unfurled more than a score of parchment maps.
Culdus snorted. “I don’t like you, wizard,” he said plainly. He drew himself up to his full height of six feet three inches. Clad as he was in his chain mail and battle tunic, with a great bastard sword strapped to his side, his great helm and mailed gloves lying beside him on the pile of maps, the baron cut an impressive figure, even at the age of forty-eight. “I don’t like your magic or your ways or that stench that hangs about you like a cloud. I don’t even know what you really are.”
“All true, Baron,” Valdaimon said, smiling and chuckling. “All true.” Valdaimon fully appreciated the lethal nature of this man. He was a perfect warrior, in the wizard’s opinion: a strapping, cunning hulk bred and trained to obey and to kill. But he could be dangerous if given too much freedom of action. “And you don’t know how to kill me, either,” Valdaimon subtly reminded this perfect tool of war.
Culdus scowled, and his great salt-and-pepper mustaches drooped down around his chin. “Well might you pray that I never learn how,” he muttered.
“Prayers are for priests, dear Baron,” Valdaimon said calmly, approaching the table and gazing over the maps. “My profession has little to do with religion, although at times we invoke powers that mere mortals might well consider divine.”