Authors: Mark Acres
“Yes, wizard!” the king agreed. He ran toward Valdaimon, only to stop short several feet from the mage and raise an arm before his face, a futile gesture against the foul stench the wizard exuded.
“Aaagh,
by the gods, you stink more with each passing day! Now, tell me plainly. How much did I pay for this famous treasure?”
“A small price compared to its true value,” Valdaimon said, purposely moving closer to the king. Offense would be given, but it would lead to a swift conclusion to this interview, which was not going well at all. “Only one million gold crowns.”
“A million gold crowns,” Culdus sputtered. “A million? In gold? All at once? With funds like that our armies could be three times, no, four times their current size, maybe more. How did you get a million crowns in gold? How did you transport it to Parona?”
“How dare you spend such a sum without my knowledge?” the king said coldly. “We are much displeased.”
“The sum is large,” Valdaimon agreed, continuing to walk toward the king, driving the youth back toward his couch. “All the more reason to delay our attack to protect Your Majesty’s investment.”
“Go! Both of you,” Ruprecht commanded. “”This subject much vexes us. We will talk of it in the morning.”
“As you command, Your Majesty,” Valdaimon replied, beating a hasty retreat to the tent’s entrance. “Enjoy the fruits of your victories, Your Majesty.”
Culdus bowed curtly and followed the wizard out into the cool, clear spring night. He intended to confront Valdaimon, but the wizard was nowhere to be seen. Culdus snorted and stomped past the ring of guards. He watched with disgust as the day’s catch of females was paraded into the tent. The old warrior stalked off to a nearby deserted hilltop and gazed out over the fields and forests of Kala, soon to be part of Heilesheim. He sighed deeply, sat down on the cool earth, already damp with dew, and raised his eyes to the star-filled sky.
“What,” he asked his gods, “is that wizard plotting?”
Bagsby rode at the head of his column of knights with Shulana on his right and a page bearing the great square standard of his company on his left. The sun was already well up in the morning sky; Bagsby judged that it was near mid-morning, about halfway to noon. Bagsby whistled a light air as he rode. Things were going well again, and he anticipated a great event today.
The previous day’s march had gone without problems. His instinctive decision to group his fighting men together as a formed force and leave the camp followers behind, except for those bearing essential supplies, had proved wise. The company was making good time; the camp last night had been orderly, with the supplies grouped in the center of a ring of tents and watches posted. His scouts sent one rider back every three hours to report. That man was relieved and another sent up in his place. In this way, the ignominy of being forced to serve as a scout was reduced, since the apparent “dishonor” was shared throughout the company in rotation.
Now his command was good score of miles or more north of Clairton. Morale had improved with the establishment of order. Even Sir John, who rode without his helmet with his bloody head bandaged, would occasionally banter with his fellows. Bagsby expected that today his scouts would encounter the Heilesheim convoy; by late afternoon, or tomorrow morning at the latest, he would attack. It should be a quick battle; by all accounts most of the Heilesheim guards were footmen. All that was needed was a nice level field where his knights could charge. The footmen would scatter; the convoy would be overrun, and Bagsby would grab the treasure—and some kind of papers showing that the Heilesheimers were spies, of course, to keep King Harold happy.
The only cloud on Bagsby’s horizon, as he thought about it, was the changing nature of the terrain. The “great highway” had never been more than a wide, well-beaten track; now that they were well north of Clairton, it narrowed. Earlier in the morning Bagsby had ordered his column to switch to two abreast rather than four. As the highway wound its way north, it curved more and more, first to the right, then back to the left, meandering through the increasingly high and rocky hills that made up much of the north of the kingdom. Here there were few of the wide, flat meadows that characterized the southlands. Instead, fields were hacked out of the steep slopes of the hills, and furrows wound their way around outcroppings of rock too heavy to be removed. In many places, the land was untilled, and the highway wound through patches of light forest. The trees here were not the tall oaks, elms, maples, and yews of the southlands, but short, stout firs and pines, with an occasional scrub oak competing for the nutrients of the thin soil. Finding a level field for battle might not be easy. Whenever they passed an appropriate section of terrain, Bagsby made a mental note of it and of the distance to the next level ground.
Bagsby’s mount crested a low rise in the valley between two steep hills. In the distance, Bagsby saw an approaching knight, riding hard, almost charging down the highway toward him. No doubt one of his scouts with a report, Bagsby thought. Shulana, who always rode bareback, whispered a word in her mount’s ear, and the big horse trotted up close beside Bagsby’s.
“The scout comes to report before the usual time,” she said.
“Yes!” Bagsby answered, his eyes lighting up with the implications of the event. “They must have found something.” The lord general of the Second Company of the Royal Guard of Argolia reined his steed to halt and raised his right arm, halting the column behind him. “Dismount!” he cried. “Five minutes for rest!”
Bagsby took a deep breath, drinking in the piney scent of the crisp spring air. The cloppity-clop of the galloping horse’s hoofbeats came closer. Bagsby gazed at the sky; only a few, long, thin white clouds, scraggly and shifting, slowly drifted across that vast field of light blue. It would be a perfect day for battle, he thought.
“What is your plan upon encountering the enemy?” Shulana asked.
“We’ll meet them on level ground, our knights will charge and scatter them, and we’ll take all their stuff,” Bagsby replied with a shrug of his shoulders. “These knight fellows do this kind of thing all the time. Shouldn’t be too hard.”
“You have only a hundred knights,” Shulana objected. “The Heilesheim force consists of five hundred men.”
“Foot soldiers, mostly,” Bagsby said, unconcerned.
“Do you remember the full reports of the battle that Dunsford fought? He had four thousand men, some six hundred knights, against a Heilesheim force with many footmen and only a few knights. Yet he was defeated,” Shulana cautioned.
“Huh?” Bagsby replied, his attention focused now on the approaching rider. “Oh, well, he probably did something stupid. These warrior types are not over bright. Perhaps you’ve noticed that characteristic,” Bagsby said, chuckling.
“Perhaps he did do something stupid,” Shulana agreed. “Like what?”
“What?”
“Like what?” Shulana persisted.
“Huh? What? Like what? Well, you know, probably one of the usual stupid things, like, uh, well, like, uh...” Bagsby stammered and stopped in mid-sentence. His cheeks puffed out and his lips pursed; his forehead furrowed. Then his shoulders slumped. He leaned over in his saddle, bringing his face very close to Shulana’s ear, and whispered, “I don’t really know. But I don’t want these knights to know that I don’t know. So please don’t keep on asking me questions I can’t answer. It’s embarrassing.”
“My Lord General!” the galloping rider shouted ahead. “The enemy approaches!”
“Well, then,” Shulana whispered back to Bagsby, “perhaps it would be well to give it some thought if you intend to lead an army into battle.”
The galloping mount of the scout was reined to a halt not three feet from Bagsby’s horse. The great steed snorted and shook its head, exhausted by the long ride at full tilt. The rider, too, was gasping, even as he gestured excitedly, pointing back the way he had come.
“We have found them, Lord General,” he reported. “Not more than three miles ahead. A convoy of ten huge wagons, drawn by oxen, very slow. They have with them a guard of footmen—we counted them at about four hundred—and a smaller body of knights, not more than sixty.”
“Good, good,” Bagsby said, putting on the scowling face he found so effective in dealing with these knights. “You have done well. How far ahead to the next valley, where there is level ground to deploy our force?”
“About a mile and a half, maybe two,” the excited rider declared. “If your lordship rides promptly, the column can be in the clearing and deployed before they arrive there. They must top a hill before spotting the place; they will not see you. They have no scouts riding ahead.”
“Hah! No scouts!” Bagsby crowed.
“Our own scouts are staying out of sight in front of them, working their way back here while continuing to watch them,” the rider added.
“Good. Take your place in ranks. Rest your horse. We move out in three minutes,” Bagsby declared.
“Very good, Lord General.” The man dismounted and led his horse back toward the throng of knights who, taking full advantage of the rest time, sat or lay on the hard, rocky ground, sharing swigs of wine and swapping tales of battles and of women.
Bagsby turned his horse around and surveyed his men. Soon, he thought, I’ll know their mettle.
“Royal Guardsmen of Argolia,” he cried, “the enemy approaches. We ride to meet them.” Bagsby drew his longsword and held it aloft, its tip straight up toward the pale blue sky. “Prepare for battle!”
A cheer went up from the knights, with shouts of “For the gods, for the right, and for King Harold!” The knights began to busy themselves checking armor, straps, weapons, and horses.
Shulana again drew up beside Bagsby. He felt a small chill of excitement as he felt her warm breath touch his ear.
“Better think fast,” she whispered.
Bagsby sat alone on his war-horse, wearing his full armor. Behind him, arrayed in lines deep over a short front of about fifty yards, sat his knights, deployed and eager for battle, but silent at his command. The great banner of the company, with its silver lion emblazoned over red and gold stripes, was held in the center of the front line, the honor having gone to Sir John, a gesture by Bagsby that guaranteed good morale among his men. Shulana and the camp followers Bagsby had placed out of sight, behind the hill to his rear.
Now he sat, patiently waiting for the approach of the enemy. He would call out, demanding their surrender as spies. His demand, of course, would be refused. Then he’d give the order to charge. Naturally, Bagsby thought, it would only make sense if his own mount dropped back during the charge, giving the honor of the first impact to the front rank of his knights.
From the distant north, Bagsby heard the sound of hoofbeats. He strained his eyes to the hillcrest, over which the enemy must pass to enter the flat, narrow valley where his force was deployed. There they were!
A column of knights, their leader carrying a huge square banner featuring the form of a black dragon with its wings extended, thundered over the crest of the hill. Immediately the knights fanned out, and without the slightest pause, formed a single, long, thin line, facing Bagsby’s lines. This line continued forward, then suddenly halted, about four hundred yards in front of Bagsby. Farther away to the north, Bagsby could hear drumbeats in a rhythmic pattern, but the line of knights blocked his view of the hillcrest. The leader of this force continued forward at the gallop, his banner snapping, his black armor gleaming in the near noonday sun.
The rider suddenly halted about midway between the two opposing lines.
Something’s wrong, Bagsby thought. Something’s wrong, and I don’t know what it is. Worse, I don’t have time to figure it out.
Not daring to show hesitation, Bagsby spurred his own mount forward, slowly riding forward to meet the enemy commander. He approached to within ten yards of the man. He was a large man, with swarthy skin and a thin black mustache and beard. Even at a distance of ten yards his eyes conveyed hardness, cruelty, and arrogance.
“Who dares block the path of the forces of King Ruprecht, the Black Prince of Heilesheim?” the knight demanded. His horse pranced skittishly from side to side as the man cried out his challenge.
“Sir John Wolfe, commanding forces of the Royal Guard of Argolia,” Bagsby answered. “Who marches an armed force through the lands of King Harold?”
“Sir Otto von Berne, commanding forces of the Black Prince, Ruprecht of Heilesheim. I have the word of King Harold of Argolia granting safe passage through these lands. Stand aside!”
“In the name of that same King Harold,” Bagsby answered bravely, “I order you and your men to disarm and submit to inspection of your persons and your chattels. If no evidence of crimes against this land is found, you may pass in peace.”
“We shall submit to no such search,” the knight snarled. “If you attempt it, you shall die.”
“To what gods do you pray, Sir Otto?” Bagsby asked.
Sir Otto tilted his head, puzzled. What kind of question was this? “To the war god of Heilesheim, to Wojan who wields the Hammer of Might and the Sword of the Gods,” Sir Otto bellowed back.
“Good,” Bagsby answered. “Then pray to him, and tell him to go to his own hell, where he can try to retrieve your own black soul within the hour!”
Having hurled this taunt, Bagsby reined his horse around tightly, turning his back on the foe, and rode at a trot back to his position in front of his lines. Sir Otto’s curses followed him a short distance across the field, then that knight, too, turned and spurred back to his own lines.
That seemed to go well, Bagsby thought as he approached his own men. Now, let’s see what these Argolian louts can do. He spurred his mount again and rode across the front of his lines, calling to his men.
“These enemies of your king dare raise swords against his name, his orders, and his Royal Guard. Guardsmen, give them your answer!” Bagsby brought his trotting mount back to a position in front of the center of his line. He raised his sword, pointed at the enemy, and screamed, “Charge!”
With one mighty shout the lines of knights surged forward, lances lowered. Those who had no lances waved huge one-handed bastard swords high in the air. Bagsby fell in beside Sir John, who bore no weapon save the great banner of the company.