DW02 Dragon War (14 page)

“Sir, I have the honor to bear news of your son. He is in Argolia with his unit, where there is some fighting against scattered resistance,” Bagsby began.

“Is he well?” the man cut in. “Why are you here?”

“Your son is well,” Bagsby said, reassuring the troubled soul. “The fighting goes well. It is said your son distinguishes himself,” Bagsby reported.

“It is?” the man said, surprised. “I am amazed. My son did not even want to go into the army. But I told him it was his duty....”

“Then you have done well, as he does now,” Bagsby said.

“Ah, ah, my manners. You would care for some refreshment?” the man said, clapping his hands for his servants.

“No time, I fear. My business in Laga must be completed quickly. I have come to tell you how you can help your son.”

“What? He needs money?”

Bagsby paused. It was too easy. But he decided to stick to his original plan. “No,” he replied. “Not exactly. As you may know, the supply lines for the army are overburdened. The lands of Argolia proved less wealthy than we had thought. The army there often wants for food.”

“I have heard, I have heard. And I see the huge orders that leave Laga every day for the Argolian lands. Wagon after wagon of….”

“Yes,” Bagsby interrupted. “Now, I have been sent by your son’s Hundred to raise funds for the purchase of livestock to be driven to Argolia for the benefit of the troop.”

“Well then, you shall have my cooperation. How much have the other families contributed?”

“Sad to say,” Bagsby responded, “my time is very short, and I have not yet been able to contact the other families. I need assistance....”

Shortly after sunset Bagsby, with the help of ten soldiers he’d dragooned from the local grog houses, set out from Laga at the head of a flock of livestock that included twenty sheep, a dozen cattle, and a small horse-drawn cart loaded with crates of chickens. He waited until the sun was fully down and the first stars were visible in the sky before ordering his column to turn widely to the left, leaving the road, and eventually heading eastward to the mountains. Once they were in the open plain at the foot of the steeply rising desert mountains, Bagsby released the men under his command, sending them back to the pleasures of the city. Then, tying the horse to some scrub brush, Bagsby climbed upward.

He did not have to wait long for the sinuous form of Scratch to appear, slithering down the mountainside toward him. Lifefire followed behind.

“You have brought food, as we agreed?” Scratch demanded.

“See for yourself,” Bagsby replied proudly.

“We shall feed,” the dragon said. “Give us the holy man’s powder.”

Bagsby produced the small cloth bag, opened it, and asked, “How do you take this?”

Lifefire reached out one of her tiny forearms and grasped the bag. She snaked her long wet tongue down into the small opening, coating it with the white powder. She held the pouch for Scratch, who did the same. Without another word, the dragons began beating their wings, building up speed with them, until they launched themselves into the night sky.

Bagsby was relieved to see that they stayed low, soaring over the plain below. Soon, he saw several short bursts of flame drop from the darkness of the night onto the ground below. There were a few bellows and bleats, then more short bursts of flame. In all, though, their performance was very restrained. If any watchman along the city walls spotted the brief gouts of flame, he would be unlikely to send anyone to investigate. Bagsby trooped on back up the mountainside to the spot where they had camped the night before. No sounds came from the plain below.

Bagsby shed his armor, checked his packed gear to make sure all was in readiness for the morning, and lay down, a flat rock serving him as a pillow. The dragons had explained to him that they would feed for some time, eating an immense amount of flesh, but that they would then be sated for a week or longer. So long as they were not seen, all would be well. Bagsby gazed up at the stars above, and his eyes drifted shut. Somewhere from the back of his memory, the face of Shulana drifted into his consciousness, and he felt a pang of loneliness as he sank into unconsciousness.

The wind hit him suddenly with its full force. He awoke to the stinging of sand and dust in his nose and eyes and saw his heavy pack go flying off the mountainside, driven by the gale. He clutched the flat rock and tried to dig his toes into the earth; otherwise the force of the wind would blow his body along the depression in the mountainside like a dead weed across the desert. The roar of the rushing air was deafening, a hollow, deep, bass, roaring that pummeled his ears. It was as terrifying as the winds of the gods, which he had once seen called down upon Valdaimon’s wyvern-riding troops

Then the fear struck him—sheer, dumb terror, unlike any he had ever felt before. It was blind, unreasoning fear; Bagsby didn’t even know why he was afraid, only that he was, that he would do anything to get away from that place and that time—anything except let go of the flat rock that anchored him. He did the only thing that animal instinct allowed him to do. He screamed. He screamed loudly, a high-pitched, terrified wail that was blown away by the winds as soon as it left his lungs and mouth, a scream of pure terror dissolved into the nothingness of the night. He screamed until his raw throat was swollen and he could scream no more.

The wind ceased as suddenly as it had begun. There was silence, and then... then... as sober consciousness slowly returned to the little thief and the terror receded into the deep recesses of his mind from whence it had come, he heard it. He heard the deep sounds of breathing, of huge quantities of air being sucked into living lungs and snorted out again through wet nostrils. Bagsby waited, still clutching his rock, his eyes still shut against the terror, waited to see if the horrid breathing would go away, or if....

“Bagsby.”

The voice was deeper than the deepest bass he had ever heard, deeper even than the bass tones of the priests who chanted the praises of Wojan in the temples of Heilesheim, deeper than the sound of thunder, deeper than the rolling sound of an exploding fireball. And underneath that incredibly deep sound was a gravelly rattle, as though a million small stones were being shaken inside an earthenware jar.

“Bagsby,” the voice called again.

Slowly, Bagsby forced himself to open one eye, then the other. He kept both eyes glued to the earth, not ready, just yet, to see the source of that sound.

“Bagsby. Wake up,” the voice boomed again.

Bagsby raised his head and looked out at the depression in which he lay. In front of him, it was swept clean, as if a broom wielded by a god had swept away every large rock, every bit of scrub brush, every loose grain of sand. The voice had come from behind him. Bagsby thought about looking around but decided not to, not just yet.

“Aaahhh,” Bagsby gasped. He tried to say, “I’m awake,” but his raw throat could not form the sounds.

“Bagsby, what is wrong? It is time for us to travel,” the voice called.

It couldn’t be, Bagsby thought. It was not possible. The exhausted, trembling man drew on all his courage, all his physical strength and, with a great effort of will, flipped himself over onto his back, his eyes open, ready to confront whatever it was that addressed him so.

The first thing he noticed was that the dragon’s head alone was bigger than he was. In fact, the dragon’s snout alone was bigger than Bagsby.
It could swallow me whole without ever having to chew,
he thought. Nor would Bagsby ever allow a dragon to nuzzle him again. The nostrils at the end of the long snout were protected by two huge crescents, covered with red scales, their edges sharp as razors. The same type of ridges protruded outward over the creature’s eyes, which were set wide to the sides of its enormous head. The teeth were truly a marvel, visible as it sat with its mouth only slightly open, double rows top and bottom of gleaming white, sword-sharp, pointed teeth, flecked now with blood and bits of flesh after the dragon’s feeding.

Bagsby gathered the courage to sit up. He made no effort to speak. His fear was ebbing now, being replaced by sheer awe. He wanted to see the beast in its entirety, to be able to say he had once seen such a sight. He looked down the length of the sinuous body on its right side. The back, of course, was covered with sharp ridges that jutted outward, protecting the spine. The sides bulged, bloated by the just finished feeding frenzy. Even in the pale light of the cold night, Bagsby could make out the ruddy hue of the countless thousands of scales that armored the beast. Its underbelly, barely visible as the creature lay on the sandy, rocky ground, was a lighter shade, perhaps even a yellow—Bagsby couldn’t tell in the dark.

Then there were the wings, which Bagsby slowly realized were the cause of the gale-force winds he had experienced. They were folded now, two great spikes of black blotting out the stars. Extended, how far would they reach? Bagsby couldn’t tell. He stood, mouth agape, and walked slowly to the side of the creature, gazing upward at the peaks of the wings. He tried to gain some perspective, but could not; the dragon’s spine was higher off the ground than his head, and Bagsby could not measure how much farther the wing fold truly was.

The little thief walked the length of the giant’s body. Almost forty paces he counted before he came to the end of the tail, with its magnificent, deadly barb. Bagsby circled behind the beast and came up along the opposite side. He saw the bulging muscles of the great rear haunches. Protruding from beneath the body were the long, armored toes, culminating in claws so large and sharp that a scrape from one of them could split open an armored man.

His tour completed, Bagsby stopped in front of the dragon. The creature raised its head, and an expression something like a smile seemed to form on its snout. The huge eyes were wide and gleaming, not listless as they had seemed before.

“You admire me,” the beast said.

Bagsby tried to speak, felt a stab in his throat like a knife blade, and gave up the effort. He mutely nodded his assent.

The ground trembled slightly. Bagsby shook, extended his arms, and fought for his balance.

“That is Lifefire,” the dragon boomed.

Again Bagsby nodded.

“We grew,” Scratch told Bagsby—for it was he.

“Aah, aah, how?” Bagsby croaked.

“The magic powder that Ramashoon gave us. An ancient potion of dragon growth. Prepared by a race that was old even before the elves came upon the earth, a race that once lived in the lands beyond the mountains. I am an adult now,” Scratch boomed. “I am the equal of any mighty one of my race. I am in my prime. I am ready for any battle, any challenge....”

“Enough, Scratch,” Lifefire called, her voice not noticeably higher in pitch than his, but somehow less threatening in its rumblings. “We have terrified Bagsby.”

“All creatures are terrified at our appearance,” Scratch bellowed, elated. “Behold us! Are we not the true terror of the world?”

Uh oh,
Bagsby thought.

“Remember,” Lifefire said. “Remember the fate of our father and mother, and temper your pride with humility.”

“Ummmhhhh,” Scratch rumbled. “The elves killed them.”

Bagsby saw the black eyes light up again when the dragon mentioned the elves. And this time, it was not the fire of pride he saw.

“Yes,” Lifefire said. “And they still have the cunning to kill us. Do not terrify one of our few friends.”

“Unnhh,” Scratch growled. “Will you ride now, Bagsby?” Scratch asked.

Bagsby shook his head “No.”

“Then we will sleep. When the sun comes up, you will learn to ride on my back as we agreed, and I shall carry you to the lands of the north.”

The horse saddle fit Bagsby’s seat perfectly, but it didn’t fit on Scratch’s back at all. First, Bagsby climbed up on the dragon, lugging the saddle with him, and tried to place it on the dragon’s back, near the point where the long neck joined the torso. The saddle spread almost flat, and the protective ridges on Scratch’s spine, which Bagsby took great care to avoid scraping against, bit into the bottom of the leather. Besides, Bagsby quickly saw, there was no way to secure the seat to the dragon’s back. Scratch’s girth was much too great to cover with any type of strap, rope, or tie.

The solution Bagsby eventually found took most of the day to implement. First he gathered wood, cutting some of the small scrub trees that dotted the mountainside. From this he constructed a chair-like seat, with a back support, and with great piles of sheepskin beneath it for protection from the dragon’s spinal ridges. This structure he mounted on the dragon’s back, securing it with metal nails and hooks bent from the chain-mail links in the suit of armor he had stolen in Laga. Finally, Bagsby constructed three straps, two of which crossed his chest and passed over his shoulders, the third of which went around his lap, and affixed these to the seat so that the occupant would remain in the seat, even if the dragon flipped upside down in flight.

“Which,” Bagsby said hoarsely, showing the arrangement to Scratch, “I sincerely hope you will not do.”

“I shall try,” Scratch boomed, “to restrain my exuberance. Is it not remarkable that even to ride such a creature as myself you must go to such efforts, while I can take to the skies with the speed of thought, spreading terror at my approach….”

“Scratch, enough,” Lifefire said. “Let him mount this device and let us be gone to the north.”

“Just a few more details to check,” Bagsby said cheerily.

But first, Bagsby busied himself with more of his gear—little items of no interest to the dragons. These moments were important to the little thief, who had quickly realized that he was in the dangerous situation of being a pawn to these dragon-spawn. No matter how friendly or reasonable they might be, there could certainly come a time when Scratch, in a grumpy mood, might decide to end the annoyance caused by Bagsby’s presence with one snap of those huge jaws. Bagsby intended to provide himself some insurance against that moment. The dragons largely ignored him as he laid out items in rows on the ground, counted them, dug some holes, buried a few items, counted things again, then bundled his gear back together, a contented feeling in his breast. The great beasts had not noticed that one of the items he had buried was their hemisphere of gold and gems, which they had entrusted to him.