Authors: Mark Acres
“Why,” Scratch commented to his mate, “does he not fight back?”
“Perhaps they are frolicking,” Lifefire suggested.
“Hmmm,” Scratch replied. “Perhaps that is why she does not use magic to destroy him.”
“Just so,” Lifefire agreed. “See?” she added, nodding toward the continuing bout.
Shulana, her fury spent, had collapsed into a tearful heap on Bagsby’s chest. The little man, sucking air furiously, moved his arms to place them around her back and shoulders, his bruised hands patting her softly.
“How could you? You knew I loved you—how could you?” Shulana gasped in tearful whispers, her voice muffled in Bagsby’s shoulders.
“It is the only way,” Bagsby managed to whisper back. “But I swear it will not mean Elrond’s death.”
“How?” Shulana asked in a voice breaking with grief. Bagsby sat up in the dirt, pulling Shulana to a sitting position in front of him. He took her small face in his hands and raised it until her eyes met his.
“I have done all this so far for you. Now you must make a decision. You must choose to trust me—or not,” he said calmly.
“But Elrond....” Shulana protested.
“Will live,” Bagsby replied calmly. “As will we all if this mad scheme of mine works. So far, I’ve had reasonable success with mad schemes, as long as you were there to help me....”
Shulana stared long and hard at Bagsby.
Who was this human who had so captured her heart? Were there no young elves in the Preserve that she should be brought to this pass with a human?
Every ounce of her being told her that this was madness. She should flee, warn the elves, warn Elrond, and raise a force to destroy these dragons. And yet deep within her, an instinct older and stronger than survival flowed toward a different path.
“I....” she began, then hesitated. She lowered her head, gently removing Bagsby’s hands. She stared at the earth, then at the powerful beasts just beyond, who stared back with eyes of wonder. Finally she stood, extending a hand to Bagsby, who stood up beside her. She stared straight into his soft eyes, and said, “I choose to trust you. May the gods pity us both if I am wrong.”
Bagsby encircled Shulana in his arms and drew her to him until their lips met.
“There,” Lifefire announced, pleased to have been right. “You see, it is a frolic of sorts, though they do seem to take a while to get about the real business.”
Shulana soared on Lifefire’s back, high above the clouds that shrouded the mountain peaks. Bagsby was right; flying on a dragon was exhilarating beyond compare. It was different even than flying under a spell of magic, for in that case there is no great beast beneath one’s body and within one’s control. The sheer power was thrilling. No wonder Bagsby had chosen her—an elf—to share it. Few humans, she knew, could ever be trusted with such awesome force.
“Now, Lifefire,” Shulana shouted into the winds, “let’s try it again. Remember, the blast must appear chaotic but actually be controlled.”
“You are demanding, elf,” Lifefire growled. “But you are correct.”
The creature flexed her shoulders ever so slightly, and a ripple of tension ran down her back toward her tail. An instant later, her wings tilted slightly, and the huge bulk of the beast began to dive downward, the angle becoming steeper and steeper until Shulana was forced to push off against the handhold of her saddle to keep from pitching forward. Dragon and rider plunged downward into the thick, white nothing of the clouds, lost in time and space with no sense of motion, until suddenly the mist parted and the granite earth gaped beneath them, littered with a forest of evergreens.
“Only the right half!” Shulana called, gripping the saddle of her mount even tighter as she felt the huge chest begin to expand beneath her.
An instant later, a stream of fire belched forth from the dragon’s mouth and, ever expanding, dropped earthward where it exploded against the tops of the trees, bathing almost exactly one-half of the copse in flames that, in a second, left nothing but charred, falling trunks and smoking black earth.
“That’s it! That’s it!” Shulana shouted. “You’ve got it, exactly! This is how you will destroy foes on the battlefield, but leave your friends unharmed!”
At last, Lifefire thought. The countless practices had tried her patience with this tiny creature with whom, however, the dragon sensed a strange kinship: the kinship of those who both are fighting for the survival not only of themselves, but also of their very race.
Slowly, the dragon descended the rest of the way to the ground, coming to an especially gentle landing for the elf’s sake.
“I have learned. You have taught me as Bagsby said you would.”
“Yes,” Shulana answered. “But now there is Scratch. He must learn before the appointed time. And he despises me still.”
“I think it best,” Lifefire growled slowly, “if I teach Scratch. He still barely understands the terms of our alliance—terms that were difficult for you, too, to comprehend.”
Shulana nodded. The dragon was correct. It would be best for Scratch to learn from Lifefire, even as both of them had learned the true meaning of their alliance and the true seal that would guarantee the peace between their races.
But time was pressing, Shulana knew. Soon would be the day of battle—and she would see Bagsby again. Somehow that thought was almost as exhilarating as flying on a dragon.
“Shouldn’t we wait? I mean, until Sir John returns?” Marta gasped, her face flushed and her breath coming in short, surprised gulps.
“Why wait for some noble?” George replied. “Besides, Bagsby’s okay; ‘e’ll understand ‘ow it is. A man’s gotta do wot a man’s gotta do. And right now, I gotta do this.”
They stood in the midst of the vast training field with the noontime sun streaming down on them. It glinted off the steam rising from plate of hot stew Marta had prepared and brought to the hard-working George.
George grabbed the plate and stuffed a wooden ladle of stew into his mouth. “Good,” he declared. “You ain’t given me an answer yet.”
“Well, a woman in my position has to consider this very carefully...” Marta began.
“Wot position?” George demanded hotly. “You’re taggin’ around wit’ an army, that’s wot you’re doin’. And while you got me to protect you, that’s all well and good. But wot about later? It ain’t fittin’, I tell you. A woman like you deserves an ‘usband, and I may not be the best, but I ‘ave one great virtue,” George declared.
“What on earth is that,” Marta teased, trying to hide the depths to which she was truly overjoyed.
“I’m available, and you already knows me. ‘Ell, that’s two virtues.”
The wedding that evening was a simple affair. Marta chose to wear something other than full-battle regalia, which pleased George to no end. For his own part he had carefully chosen a day when his pants and tunic were both clean. A simple priest, originally from Clairton, officiated at the ceremony—which George found mercifully brief, unlike most of his previous exposures to religion. As the words of the final blessing were said, George and Marta released skyward one dove each, symbols of the love and peace between them, symbols that they offered to the gods in hope of their blessing. A cheer went up from the numerous low-level officers who had gathered to witness the occasion.
“Now lads!” George called out grandly. “A tankard of ale, or two if we need them, and we’ll celebrate in a way that will make the gods jealous of our happiness!” More throaty cheers resounded under the star-studded sky, and four men came forward, bearing a great barrel of brew.
“I think not!” Marta shouted, stepping forward to place her substantial person between George and well-wishers. “You’re a married man now and have better things to do than carouse with soldiers! And especially,” she added more softly, “on your wedding night.”
“‘Ere now, love, just a quick tankard, then I’ll
be straight….”
“You’ll be straight-off with me right now, George, if you know what is good for you,” Marta growled, the glow of love turning to anger in her face.
George hesitated, but only for an instant. “Go ahead boys, celebrate all night!” he cried, sweeping his bride up in both arms. “As for me, I’ve got important business to attend to!”
The loudest cheer of all rang out in response as George carried Marta off toward a nearby tent.
“Oh, George,” Marta whispered. “You’ve made me so proud.”
“Thank you, love,” George said, panting from his burden.
Ten thousand hells,
he thought.
Wot ‘ave I got myself into?
“Close it up there! Close it up!” George shouted. By all the gods, had these men never fought in battle before? It was bad enough that, even with the treasury of Parona to plunder, he could come up with pikes for only half the footmen. And that was with Elrond’s help—the old elf seemed to know how to get the artisans of Parona to redouble their output of spear shafts and pike points—but even then it wasn’t enough. Many of the men were still armed only with long bills, or worse yet, short spears. Most had little or no armor; many wore nothing more than a leather cuirass over their everyday tunic. They grumbled continuously about the drill George had imposed, and the Paronans, especially, seemed incapable of grasping the concept of keeping their ranks closed while they marched forward at a slow, steady pace.
“You see, Sir?” George asked, turning to Bagsby who had come to witness the day’s activity on the drilling field by the great camp outside Parona. “You see? They won’t keep in closed ranks, and I ain’t goin’ to be responsible for the result.”
“You’ll whip them into shape,” Bagsby replied. “You can’t expect them to learn the whole Heilesheim system in a week.”
The commanding general of the Holy Alliance looked out over the drill field to see that the other units were doing about the same as the one to which George was currently devoting his less-than-loving attentions. The sun-drenched field revealed that the attempt to teach the men to fight in pike-blocks had so far resulted in ragged square formations that fell apart when advancing. Still, Bagsby saw reason for hope.
“Look there, George,” he said, pointing with his riding whip across the field to one unit that was drawn up in close order; the front two ranks kneeling with pikes extended, the ranks behind with pikes forward, set to receive a charge. “Those fellows seem to have the hang of it while they’re standing still.”
“Can’t win a battle standin’ still,” George retorted. “An’ what about them blokes over there?” George demanded. He jabbed a finger in the direction of a wedge-shaped formation of northern bowmen. “They won’t even take orders, they won’t. Won’t give up them stupid bows for a trusty pike. Won’t learn to march in any kind of formation. Won’t....”
“True, true, but that is at my order,” Bagsby said. “I told you they were exempt from your training.”
“Well, I’m cursed by all the gods if I see why,” George answered. “Out there in the field, all in loose order like that, they’ll get ridden down by the first cavalry charge, mark my words,” the soldier predicted.
Bagsby smiled. That was exactly what he’d hoped George would think, and he hoped the enemy would think that as well.
Bagsby looked on as George went back to drilling his unit, cursing the men, kicking them, thwacking them with the blunt end of his own pike, which he handled with the skill of a seasoned veteran. As Bagsby had thought, promotion and a meaningful task had brought out George’s better qualities.
The title of Commander for Training of Footmen had flattered him, and the rich salary Bagsby had liberated from Parona’s treasury for him had mollified his desire for treasure. Any time the man had left over for doubting what had happened to the Golden Eggs was taken up by Marta. She was more than gratified to see her new husband advanced to such a position of importance and she would never allow him to breathe a word against dear Sir John who had made it all possible.
No, George was not a problem, Bagsby thought, as he watched his director of training kick a stumbling farmboy in the belly. The kings were a bit of a problem, though; neither they nor their nobles—which included the entire mounted force of the Holy Alliance—had the slightest grasp of Bagsby’s plan. There were constant grumblings from them, and King Alexis in particular was spreading his own discontent with the enormous costs associated with Bagsby’s plan—whatever it was. Then, there were the dragons. The timing of their appearance was everything. For the third time that day, Bagsby touched the small gold ring on his left fourth finger, a gift begged of Elrond which allowed him to touch the mind of Shulana.
Instantly, he saw before him the icy peak of a great mountain coming toward him with great speed. Suddenly the peak turned upside down. Bagsby staggered, dizzy. Then, as abruptly, he somehow passed over the peak—or under it, depending upon point of view.
“Shulana,” he said “how is the training going?”
“It’s wonderful!” A thought came back in Bagsby’s mind, and a warm glow of elation and peace suffused his being. “It’s wonderful!”
“George!” Bagsby called, disengaging his mind from Shulana’s, “George! Come here.”
George trotted across the field, curses raining from his lips.
“George, I want you to try the men in much larger formations. All the footmen we
have in three mass formations, three huge blocks.”
“Sir,” George responded, his dark eyes widening, “they can’t even drill in hundreds yet! ‘Ow in ten thousand ‘ells they gonna drill in blocks that big? Look ‘ere—there’s thousands of ‘em.”
That there were, Bagsby saw with satisfaction. All in all, the footmen mustered from the conquered lands and Parona came to a force of almost thirty thousand men combined. If Bagsby’s calculations were correct, he would be outnumbered in the great battle by odds of less than three to one, which he considered quite good given the plan he had in mind.
“Never you mind, George. Just teach them to form huge defensive blocks that can take a charge, and all will be well.”
“As you say, sir,” George replied. He would have liked to say quite a bit more, but Marta wouldn’t like it.
Bagsby walked from the field toward the great camp, past a sea of tents, fires, wagons, and all the other paraphernalia required by a huge army. He tromped across the muddy ground toward the greatest tent, a large white affair with three poles holding up the giant roof, and with the improvised banner of the Holy Alliance forces, fluttering from atop the center pole.