Authors: Mark Acres
“I see what you mean,” she said slowly. “It may be that these things are... more than just a treasure.”
“Well, what do you propose?” George said, staring with flat, dull eyes at Bagsby.
Bagsby ignored George’s gaze. He kept his eyes focused instead on the man’s hands. This was a dangerous moment. Nobler men than George had killed for much less gold than was here.
“I propose...” Bagsby began, then paused. What could he propose? How could he learn the secret of this treasure? How could he prevent George from cutting his throat in the middle of the night? How could he keep Shulana satisfied? How could all of them escape Valdaimon, who no doubt was even now using magical means to seek them out?
“I propose that this question is important enough that we take it to the head of the Elven Council,” Bagsby said at length, a friendly smile forming on his face.
“Well, okay then, we take ‘em to the Elven Council. That’s wot me and the elf there been saying,” George replied, smiling broadly.
“Not exactly,” Shulana said, “although I accept Bagsby’s proposal. If the head of the Elven Council agrees to divulge the secret to you, I will be in complete agreement with him.”
Bagsby’s smile grew broader. He knew that the one thing that might divert Shulana from her mission to bring back the Golden Eggs would be a chance to rescue Elrond.
“Then we’re off to the Elven Preserve,” George sang out merrily. “C’mon, get your gear, mates. Sun’s down now, and we can move more safely.”
“It’s not quite that simple,” Bagsby said, walking about the clearing, gathering up his own belongings. “The head of the Elven Council, a fellow named Elrond, is not at the Elven Preserve.”
“Where is he?” Marta asked.
“In the dungeons of Ruprecht of Heilesheim, in the king’s palace in his capital city of Hamblen,” Shulana said. “We can follow the River Rigel for part of the way, at least until the cover of the forest gives way to the open land.”
“Ten thousand hells,” George muttered. Somehow, he’d been hoodwinked.
“George!” Marta bellowed, bending over a large pile of furs, blankets, swords, daggers, spears, slings, and stones she had salvaged from the battlefield of Clairton. “Help me with this lot.”
“Ten thousand hells,” George muttered again.
Shulana, with her natural abilities to move in forests and her magical cloak which could afford her partial or even total concealment under some circumstances, took the lead as the group struck out under cover of darkness. Shulana was glad to have the point position, some fifty yards or more in advance of the three humans. She needed time for her own thoughts.
She was glad, of course, that Bagsby had suggested going to free Elrond, even though such an adventure seemed, at first blush, hopelessly beyond the capabilities of their small band. To strike the most powerful kingdom on earth, in the palace of its king, in time of war, with a force of four—most of whom had known one another only a few days—seemed the height of folly. Yet she had seen Bagsby do the impossible more than once. He had risen in a matter of weeks from a petty street thief to become the most respected knight in the now–doomed kingdom of Argolia, and he had masterminded the plan that put the Golden Eggs of Parona within her grasp. What was more, he had become her beloved, a fact that Shulana acknowledged, but did not understand.
The rescue of Elrond was a brilliant idea, actually, for it allowed her to continue her strange, growing relationship with Bagsby, while also remaining true to her mission to the Elven Council. The Council could hardly be displeased if she returned with not only the Golden Eggs, but also the very head of the council itself: Elrond, the oldest living elf, who had personally slain the Ancient One, the Mother of Dragonkind, some five thousand years ago.
Many times in the past few months, Elrond had communicated with her from his hideous cell, using the strange communion with plants that the most powerful elves had developed to a true psychic art form, to penetrate her mind with his most urgent thoughts. Haste had been foremost among these—haste to obtain and then, she presumed, destroy the Golden Eggs. Now she would bring the Golden Eggs to him, since she could see no way to destroy them herself. And in the process, she would win Elrond’s freedom from the tyrant Ruprecht and the tortures of his dungeon.
What, Shulana wondered, would Elrond think of Bagsby?
Would the acknowledged leader of all elves approve of her strange and growing affection for this human? Love matches between humans and elves had occurred in the past, but usually with disastrous results—and for that reason they were frowned upon by elves in general. Yet Shulana could no more deny her feelings than she could her duty. Despite herself, she was drawn emotionally to this human. She thrilled at his touch, wanted to care for his wounds and pains, share his worries and woes, and take part in the brief adventure of his life.
Instinctive reaction suddenly froze both Shulana’s thoughts and the movement of her body. She stood stock-still in the dark, moonless woods, her skin tingling strangely. Slowly, she raised her right arm, extending it from beneath the protective covering of her cloak, and motioned with her hand for the group behind her to halt. She heard a few rustles of leaves and branches as the three humans let down their burdens, went to their bellies on the forest floor, and readied their weapons. For a brief instant, Shulana wondered how humans had managed to survive—their movements were so noisy! Any good elven patrol would have heard them from hundreds of yards away.
But the men ahead, whose approach Shulana’s very skin had sensed before she heard or saw them, were not listening for the rustling of a few leaves. They tromped loudly through the forest, talking as they came, mindless of the dangers that might lurk in the darkened wood.
“It’s no good, I tell you,” a gravelly voice grumbled. “We don’t know nothing about the east country. For all we know, there may be stinking elves to the east.”
“We know what’s here and what’s behind us, don’t we,” squeaked a second man with a shrill, high voice. “Hanging is what’s here. Hanging for desertion—not to mention murder, rape, pillage and thieving!” The high voice broke into scratchy, irritating, high-pitched laughter.
“Shut up and march, you two,” boomed a third low voice, one Shulana judged was accustomed to command.
“You ain’t no leader of a hundred now,” Gravel Voice challenged. “You ain’t no leader of nothin’.”
“Yeah,” Squeaky Voice added, “you ain’t no leader of….”
Shulana heard a soft swishing sound followed immediately by a wet slicing and cracking sound. An instant later she heard a soft thud, followed by a loud crash.
“I’m a leader of one now,” Command Voice boomed.
Gravel Voice breathed heavily, then replied, “Didn’t have to chop his head off. But a nice swing. And your point is well taken. East is just fine with me. Even if there are scum and elves there.”
“Hmmph,” Command Voice grunted.
Shulana slipped forward through the darkness until she had the two men clearly in sight. They had interrupted their march and their conversation to rifle the dead man’s pack and clothes, stuffing their own bags and packs with anything of value on him. The decapitated corpse still twitched occasionally, as if protesting the robbery, and his spilled blood glowed brightly in Shulana’s elven vision as it trickled over small branches, fallen leaves, and countless thousands of brown pine needles. At length, satisfied that their former comrade had nothing else of value, the two stalked on eastward, passing within ten yards of the three humans behind Shulana, who wisely maintained that degree of stillness that among them passed for silence.
Shulana doubled back and followed the murderous pair for nearly a mile, then returned, running at a medium pace as silently as a very soft breeze through the evergreen and hardwood trees. She uttered not a word, but by gesture alone indicated to the threesome that it was safe to move forward. Then she hurried ahead again, resuming her place on point.
Three more times that night the intrepid foursome encountered stragglers from the Heilesheim army, renegade soldiers turned plunderers, murderers, and thieves. Such, Shulana realized, were always a by-product of human wars, and it would be years after peace was restored before the last of these were tracked down and killed by what the humans called “lawful authority” —which from her point of view was little more than a group of murderers and pillagers whose actions were for some reason approved by the majority of men. At the moment, these small parties of renegades, infected with Heilesheim’s anti-elven propaganda, presented little threat as long as her group was vigilant and remained hidden. But the encounters did retard their already painfully slow progress.
The Golden Eggs, of course, were a major impediment to their movement. Their sheer bulk meant that it was all one person could do to carry one of them, and their weight made that an arduous task. Bagsby carried one of the eggs in an enormous cloth sack slung over his shoulder. Marta carried the other in similar fashion, while George was laden with the cache of furs, blankets, weapons, and clothes that Marta had collected from the dead (and sometimes the living) of the recent battle. Moving quietly through even light woods thus encumbered was slow, trying work. So, on the first night, they covered less than twelve miles, before dawn peeped over the horizon, the signal for the party to find a remote clearing, camp, and post guards.
The second night’s march brought them still closer to the edge of the forest, the open fields of Dunsford, and the main road that crossed the Rigel at Shallowford—the very village where Marta had once been revered as the wife of the commander of the Count of Dunsford’s Yeoman Border Guards. They came closer, too, to the operating rear area of the Heilesheim army. Though the main force was still far to the north in Argolia, its principal route of reinforcement, communications, and supply ran up the Shallowford Road. During the second daylight period, the foursome had to move their camp twice, and quickly, to avoid detection by wandering bands of soldiers straying from the road to hunt, carouse, and generally seek a day’s leisure from the more demanding brutalities of army life.
Marta snapped on the third night. Shulana, as usual, was on forward point. The three humans saw her suddenly halt, and moments later give the sign to which they were so accustomed. Like the two men, Marta went to earth, sliding her large sack onto the ground beside her and cradling a twelve-foot stabbing spear in her right hand. After what seemed a very long time—it always seemed like a very long time to Marta—the threesome could hear the voices of the men whose presence Shulana had detected.
“Shallowford—what a dungheap!” one man exclaimed.
“Glad I joined the army, so I could see fair wenches like those cows!” a second giggled.
“Even a cow needs a good bull once in a while,” a third offered, chortling lustily.
“They didn’t seem to care for your company much,” the first teased.
“Isn’t like they have much choice, is it?” the third voice responded, his laughter growing uproarious.
Marta’s mind flashed back to her fine wooden house with a manservant and a maid, now a heap of ashes in Shallowford. She saw in an instant the plump daughters of the prosperous farmers of the village, now also put to ruin by the soldiers of the demon-spawn Ruprecht. And she saw again the night when, within sight of her dead husband’s severed head, soldiers just like these had held her while Ruprecht personally burned into her back the dragon insignia that was his coat of arms. Then Marta thought no more.
“Death to Heilesheim!” she screamed and rose from her position, charging forward before her full bulk was off the ground. “Death to you beasts and bastards, one and all!”
The party of green recruits, five in number, turned their heads toward the light woods behind the open field where they stood. Shulana saw their expressions—the looks of men who are about to burst into laughter at the sight of something at once hideous and ludicrous. Fat Marta charged ahead out of the woods, straight at the knot of men, her war cry one continuous, wailing scream, her spear leveled in her right hand while in her left she brandished a small dagger drawn from her belt on the run.
Alarmed, Shulana looked back at Bagsby, who looked forward to George, who stood, shrugged, took up two short swords, one for each hand, and began to run forward. Bagsby groaned—there was no point in silence now. Shulana shook her head in disbelief.
So ridiculous a figure did Marta cut in the course of her charge—her long tunic flapping around her ankles beneath the short shirt of chain mail, her long hair flying in tangled globs behind her head, and her chubby flesh jiggling with every thundering step—that the soldiers didn’t react seriously in time. The three farthest from her managed to step back when they realized the madwoman was serious; the two nearest her stopped laughing and went for their swords, but it was too late.
Marta’s spear struck the first man square in the chest. The point rammed through his chain mail and leather padding, ripped through his ribs, lungs, and heart, and poked out his back, besmirched with gore. The man flew up and back, blood spouting from his mouth as his just-drawn sword dropped from his dead hand. Marta did not drop the spear, but rather carried it
with its bloody trophy on into the cluster of three, swiping with her sword at the remaining man as she passed him. It was a glancing blow that bit into the top of the man’s shoulder, slicing off a chunk of leather, armor, and flesh as Marta continued forward, ripping the sword free. Her charge did not end until the burdened spear knocked into a third soldier, sending him sprawling, with the impaled corpse of his friend dropping atop him.
The fallen man screamed—his dead companion was the first man he’d ever seen killed—and thrashed about violently to get the bloody corpse off him. The wounded man was stunned, his breath coming in horrified gasps as he realized that the blood spouting from his shoulder, a source of fiery pain, was in fact his own. The remaining two, however, still untouched, were made of sterner stuff.
“Die, you fat behemoth from hell!” one roared, raising his sword as he lunged forward. He let fly a downward blow, aimed at the top of Marta’s head. But the enraged Marta possessed a quickness belied by her bulk. Raising her sword, she was able to strike upward awkwardly—not with enough strength to stop the man’s blow, but with sufficient effect to cause his wrist to turn. So what would have been a skull-splitting deathblow with the edge of the soldier’s blade became instead a blow with its flat that glanced off the side of Marta’s skull, hardly the softest portion of her anatomy.