DW02 Dragon War (16 page)

“Reunited?” George shouted, his eyes grown wide at Bagsby’s seemingly obvious wealth. “Reunited? Caught is more like it!” The soldier stomped across the room in Marta’s wake, his eyes glowering. “Wot’s you done wit’ it?” George demanded. “Where is it, and where’s me cut?”

Astonished at such conduct, anger flashed on the faces of the assembled lords; only King Harold, knowing many details of Bagsby’s past, realized something of the implication of George’s words, and flinched. The King of Parona rose, motioning to the company of guards kept within eye and earshot of the council room.

“My lords, my lords,” Bagsby quickly interposed. “Do not be alarmed if this gentleman shows neither manners nor knowledge of our more civilized customs, for this poor wretch who stands before you has personally engaged in battle the entire company of the guard of the demon Valdaimon, and was successful in penetrating the very palace of Ruprecht himself in order to free the head of the Elven Council—held there in torments in direct violation of the Covenant—though he was once nothing more than a common soldier in that same army of Heilesheim, which now threatens us all.”

George stared dumbly at Bagsby, his angered mind trying to sort through the little man’s syntax. George wasn’t sure, but he thought he’d just been complimented—something that had never happened to him before in the presence of nobles.

Bagsby, however, kept his attention focused on his audience for this speech, carefully gauging the reaction caused by the double shock he just thrown on the table: one, that Heilesheim had violated the Covenant, inviting war with the elves; and second, that a Heilesheim commoner had succeeded at feats of arms that had so far defied the abilities of the greatest knights of the Holy Alliance. The murmurs of disapproval at George’s conduct quickly died as the implications of Bagsby’s speech sank into the somewhat thick skulls of the assembled lords.

“Yes,” Bagsby said slowly, beginning to stride in a grand circle around the table, stopping from time to time to gesture for emphasis or to look in the face of one of the highborn who was slow to grasp the point, “this common Heilesheim soldier, no longer content to fight dumbly for the evil represented by Ruprecht and Valdaimon, has twice been able to overcome forces many times his number. If but one Heilesheim soldier can do that, what do you think an army of them will do to Parona, once they are allowed to cross its border?” Bagsby stared at the king of Parona who, for the first time, looked interested in the proceedings. “And if the elves—who have every right under the Covenant to unleash all the magic at their command against all of mankind—have refrained from our certain destruction to seek rather our assistance in punishing those few humans who are guilty of this infraction, should we not gratefully embrace the proposals now brought before us not by just any elf, but by the head of the Elven Council who was himself the single most injured party by this violation of the most sacred pact ever entered into by mankind?” Bagsby bowed gracefully with a gesture of invitation toward Elrond, who had watched this performance in mute amazement.

Slowly the old elf advanced into the room. He had never laid eyes on Bagsby, but he knew that the strutting Sir John must be he. And amazed as he was at the eccentric but effective performance of the little thief, he had no intention of allowing this moment of advantage to slip away.

“Noble lords of the Holy Alliance,” Elrond began, “I bring you greetings of peace from the Elven Council. Peace,” he added gravely, “despite the clear violation of the Covenant which would entitle my race to launch a war of extermination against man.” Elrond paused, allowing that simple thought to hold the attention of his human audience. Then, smiling ever so slightly, he added, “That, however, is not what I have come to propose.”

“Another draught, barman, and keep the ale flowing,” Bagsby called cheerfully across the crowded tavern room. He sat with George at a small wooden table near one of the tiny establishment’s two windows. The crowd was already roaring drunk—laborers, their women, and a handful of thieves, Bagsby noted. It was as well. This was the type of place where George would feel comfortable.

“You still ain’t tol’ me nothin’ about me cut,” George said, his words only slightly slurred. “So you ‘ad to go find out about the treasure—I unnerstan’ that.” He was genuinely sympathetic with the empathy provided by ale. “But you ‘adn’t no cause to go run off like that an’ take our treasure wit’ you. That wasn’t very nice,” he added, wagging his finger at Bagsby.

“I’m sorry. I wish I could have told you what was up, but it was something I had to do by myself,” Bagsby said, wondering whether this stab at an explanation would suffice.

“Sometimes a man’s gotta do things by hisself,” George slurred back. “I unnderstan’. Now, w’ere is it?”

“George, that treasure is as safe as if it were in the hands of a whole family of dragons,” Bagsby began.

“Yeah? Where?”

“Far to the north. That’s where I’m going soon, when the Council is finished with its business.” Bagsby leaned forward and whispered confidentially into George’s ear, “I’m heading for the north country. Be back in about a week or so.”

“An’ then I’ll get me cut?”

“Of course,” Bagsby reassured. “You’ll get riches beyond anything you’ve imagined.”

“’Ow can I trust you? You ran out on us once,” George remonstrated loudly.

“Well,” a new voice responded from behind George’s shoulder, if he’s going to the north country he can’t get into too much mischief.”

Bagsby’s head popped up at the intrusion, and George whirled about unsteadily on his bench. The stranger was a tall man, over six feet in height, with broad shoulders and a well-muscled frame showing beneath his simple white linen blouse and brown breeches. He wore his dark brown hair long, far past his shoulders, and his broad face was of slightly pale complexion, setting off his large dark brown eyes.

“You have keen hearing, friend,” Bagsby said, sitting back on his bench across from George and slowly working his hand down toward the top of his boot where his dagger was concealed.

“No need for that weapon,” the tall man replied, smiling at Bagsby. “I couldn’t help overhearing—we northerners are known for our keen ears,” he explained. “And eyes,” he added. “Just looking for an empty bench, and you’ve got the only one in the place.”

The stranger sat down next to George, without awaiting an invitation.

“So you’re traveling north?” he asked Bagsby.

“My business,” Bagsby snapped back.

“As you say. But that’s my country, up there, and I could tell you many things that might be useful—if it’s your first visit, which it clearly is,” the stranger replied.

“Who are you?” Bagsby demanded. “And how do you know where I’ve been and where I haven’t been?”

“Arnulf of the Northwest Canton,” the man replied. “You’ve never been north or you’d know about the hearing and eyesight of my race.”

“Wot else would he know,” George challenged, a surly look crossing his face. This intrusion was most unwelcome to the little soldier.

“He’d know we’re a clean, honest, hard-working and free people who bend the knee to no lord, not even to Sir John Wolfe,” Arnulf replied merrily.

“You know me?” Bagsby gasped.

“Who in Parona does not know of Sir John Wolfe, whose place is the most honored in the Council of the Holy Alliance, next to the place of kings themselves?” Arnulf replied.

“Wot’s that you said about no lords?” George asked, his interest piqued.

“The Cantons are the northernmost provinces of Parona,” Arnulf explained. “We’re tucked right under those icy mountains, in foothills rich with spring flood soil and forests rich with game. We are free provinces; we acknowledge no landed lord, save the king—may the gods bless him!—who agrees to honor our rights as free men.”

“We’d better be going,” Bagsby interjected. “Another time,” he said, nodding to Arnulf as he slammed his mug firmly on the wooden table.

“No, no,” George protested, “wait a minute. I want to ‘ear more about this land wit’ no lords. Don’t seem possible to me. Them bastards always takes wot they wants.”

“Are you including Sir John in that assessment?” Arnulf asked, laughing. “You seem a strange companion for a noble knight, and this seems a strange place to find a knight so distinguished,” he added, draining his mug in one huge gulp between phrases. “Barman!” he roared. “More drink!”

“Oh, well, Sir John ‘ere,” George said, warming to the stranger, “‘e’s alright. ‘E ain’t like them others. But ‘ow do you keep ‘em out?” George inquired, staring in wonder at Arnulf’s broad, smiling face. “More ale!” he bellowed, adding emphasis to the previous orders.

“We keep them out with our bows,” Arnulf said firmly. “We northerners are the best archers in the world—better than the elves, they say, though I’ve never seen an elf—and one of our men can knock down an armored knight on horseback at over a hundred yards. After a while,” he continued, winking knowingly, “they learned better than to mess with us.”

“Who rules your lands, then?” Bagsby asked, intrigued by a possibility that had flashed through his brain with the speed and heat of summer rain.

“We govern ourselves. Don’t need much government, really,” Arnulf said. “We’re hunters and farmers and fighters. Who needs much governing for that?”

George sat back in amazement. “Well,” he commented, “if that don’t beat all.”

“Yes,” Bagsby said thoughtfully, resuming his seat. “That could very well beat all. Tell me more, Arnulf, about these bowmen of your people....”

Bagsby wiggled his chubby toes in the warm, bubbling pool fed by the hot springs. He leaned back, resting his weight on arms thrust out behind him, and gazed back through the courtyard toward the council chamber where the deliberations dragged on.

“They’re debating now who will lead the combined forces,” he said wryly. “That should take them another week or two to decide.”

Shulana ran her hand over the surface of the closely trimmed grass. “The thing of importance is already decided,” she said. “Parona will fight with the Alliance, and both will fight with the elves.”

“Yes, thanks in part to some brilliant diplomacy by a certain knight whom I won’t name,” Bagsby said, attempting merriment.

Shulana, her eyes downcast, did not reply. It was the first time the two of them had been alone in the week of the meetings of the Council. Bagsby had sought her out often, but she had always avoided him. Today, she had decided it was foolish not to confront him—she would have to sooner or later—but now, alone with him, she did not know what to say. How could she express her feelings? They were so much more complex than any feelings she had ever had before. Elves had simple emotions. They were usually guided either by reason or by their inherent sense of the cosmic flow of the life force throughout the confusing welter of events. Elves loved their friends, hated their enemies, respected those of honor or prowess, reveled in the flow of life, and reverently manipulated the powers of magic. But Shulana today felt love and hate, respect and scorn. The flow of the life force clearly impelled her toward Bagsby, yet he represented too much danger, too much risk, such a history of betrayal, that she could hardly trust what, under normal circumstances, would have been her surest instincts.

Bagsby studied the lithe, female form that had graced his fantasies so often over the past few weeks. He, too, was puzzled. How had this woman obtained such a hold over his mind and heart? For he now was forced to admit that he loved her—or at least, that life without her was not a life that he would willingly choose. It was for this reason that he had come to Parona, had taken up his guise as Sir John Wolfe, had ingratiated himself once again to King Harold of Argolia, and had even set up the Council of the Holy Alliance so that it could not ignore whatever proposals Elrond was bringing. All the skills of guile, deception, and the con that he had, all his life, used for his own private advantage, he had sacrificed to her cause—and still she could not respond to him.

“I had to know,” Bagsby said softly, shaking his feet dry in the warm summer air. He stood and walked over to her, looming above her, looking down with all the softness his life-hardened face could manage. “I thought you would understand.”

“I do,” Shulana said. “I do not understand your refusal to tell Elrond what has become of the Eggs. You do not understand that they could yet be the vital key to this entire war. They could decide whether my people live or die, and whether yours live in base slavery or maintain what is good in their civilization.”

Bagsby sat on the grass beside her, running his hand through the green blades very close to hers. He had not wanted to reveal that he, too, now knew the secret of the treasure. He had not wanted to reveal that the Eggs had hatched, and that even now, in the mountains of the north, Scratch and Lifefire were beginning the process of reestablishing the dragon race. He had wanted to wait until the need of the elves and men for the dragons was so great that news of the existence would be welcomed rather than feared. He had wanted to wait until he could find a way to bind the dragons to the cause of the Alliance. But now he could wait no longer.

“I do know,” he said, grasping Shulana’s hand.

The elf raised her face in shock, her small mouth forming a simple
O
of surprise. “Then they have....” she breathed.

“Hatched,” Bagsby said, nodding. “Hatched and grown to full adulthood, with a little help from some magic powder.”

Shulana sat straight up, alarm, even fear, showing on her face. Her hand became cold and trembled; her lower lip quivered. “Grown?” she asked. “Grown to adulthood? Capable of breeding? They must already be....”

“They are,” Bagsby confirmed. “At least, I assume they are. I learned not to ask many questions about the personal lives of dragons. I don’t think they would take it kindly.”

“I must tell Elrond!” Shulana cried, leaping to her feet, wresting her hand free from Bagsby’s. “They will strike; they will strike in league with Valdaimon to destroy us!” The slim figure began to run, but Bagsby shot out a hand and grabbed her by the ankle. She sprawled forward, facedown, onto the grass.