Authors: Mark Acres
The Ancient One reared herself up and cast her fiery breath upon the heap of gold. Flame shot from her mouth in a cone more than ninety feet long, engulfing most of the treasure, the remains of the accumulated wealth of dragonkind. The gold softened. She breathed again, and rivulets of molten gold began to flow down from the pile toward the edge of the underground lake.
Lovingly, with great care, the Ancient One picked up the first egg and turned it slowly in the glowing river of gold, coating it carefully. When the shell was fully covered with more than an inch thickness of the molten metal, she turned and plunged it into the water of the lake. Steam rose as the metal quickly cooled, and the golden egg sank away, out of sight, into the darkness of the deep water far beneath the mountain. The dragon grunted her approval. Then she repeated the process with the second egg. She watched it, too, drop into the black water until even the glow of the heat of its golden shell was lost to her sight. Again, she grunted her approval.
Now it was her time.
The Ancient One dragged herself back to the heap of treasure, which was cooling slowly into a bizarre lump of gold and jewels, as the metal re-hardened. Her eye raced quickly over the trove, finding a trace of the item she sought. She extended a foreleg, and a huge claw plunged into the soft metal, grabbed the corner of a great tome, and plucked it from its metallic tomb.
Once again the dragon rose and staggered to the lakeshore. She held the great fireproof volume in one set of foreclaws, while a single razorlike claw carefully turned the ancient vellum pages between the worn silver bindings. At length she found the page she sought.
She reared herself to her full height and began intoning the words of dragon magic—words that drifted out over the lake and up into the tunnel through which she had come, weaving their way to the outside air miles above, and threading their way through eons of time, carrying with them the final spell of the mother of all dragons.
She cursed Lelolan, called Elrond, and all his race. She called upon the powers of all the gods and all the spirits of all the gods had made to avenge her race upon Elrond’s. She blessed her eggs and consecrated them to the final battle for the fate of dragonkind. And then with magic known only to herself and to no other creature—neither man nor elf nor god—she set the time for their hatching. But whether her hatchlings would live to rule or to serve, not even the dragon’s magic could preordain.
The Ancient One closed the great tome and tossed it into the lake. She drew her head full back and sucked in all the air her dying body could contain. And with that final breath, she let out her death cry, the death cry of an entire race of creatures so powerful, so awesome, and so terrible that their very name would be a byword for horror and fear long after their actual existence was forgotten. Again the mountain trembled in sympathetic vibration with her cry, but this time the trembling of the mountain did not stop. It spread and spread through the countless tons of granite until the entire mountain rumbled. Cracks appeared in the rocky ceiling above the underground lake, and sheer slabs of granite broke loose to plunge into it, sinking toward its depths. More slabs fell after them; more cracks appeared. Boulders began to tumble from the sides of the great cavern until the entire interior of the mountain collapsed. The Ancient One pitched forward into the water, and the mountain itself fell in upon her to serve her as a tomb.
But the words of her curse, her blessing, and the incantation of hatching wove their way unheard through the magical fabric of time, until their faint, faint echo was heard five thousand years after the Ancient One’s body was pressed into the rock of her mountain.
A Thief’s Time Stolen
BAGSBY STOOD
with his rear to the roaring fire and rubbed his hands briskly on the backs of his soft leather breeches. He lived in an age five thousand years from the death of the Ancient One; he neither knew nor cared about dragons. He did care for money. His quick eyes darted about surveying the tavern room as he worked the damp, early spring chill from his bones. The dive looked like a good place to make a fresh start—there were plenty of easy marks loitering in their cups, and the tavern keeper kept loose coins in the pocket of his apron.
His backside warmed, Bagsby turned toward the popping fire, extending his arms to warm his hands. He listened intently to the babble of a dozen conversations coming from the tables and benches behind him and to the clatter of bottles and pans from the busy back room. As warmth returned to Bagsby’s body, his stomach began to rebel against its long neglect and growled at him, demanding satisfaction.
“Tavern keeper!” Bagsby bellowed over the din. “What’s in that great black pot over this fire? Is it fit to eat?”
Laughter erupted from the tables behind him. “We always come here for the fine food,” one drunk shouted, thoroughly taken by his own wit.
“Better wash it down with some ale,” a second friendly voice chimed in. “In fact, better have the ale first—and skip that poison!”
“All right, all right, that’s enough from the likes of you,” the burly tavern keeper shouted from behind the crude wooden counter that served as bar, serving counter, and focal point for the cramped room. “It’s venison stew, and it’ll cost you threepence to find out if you like it.”
“Bring us a bowl, then, and plenty of ale to wash it down,” Bagsby shouted. The short man, warmed all over at last, turned from the fire and strode to the nearest long table. He wedged his brown boot between the backsides of two drunks whose heads were already hanging stupidly over their mugs and shoved one aside. The drowsy fellow landed on the stone floor with a thud. Bagsby snickered and took the seat, grabbing the unfortunate’s mug of ale and pouring it over the man’s face.
“Time to go home, old friend,” he said, letting a broad, friendly smile form on his pudgy, square face. “Come along now, there’s a good fellow.”
The other drunks at the table stared stupidly for a moment, then broke into laughter again. But William Clayborne, the tavern keeper, failed to see the humor. He didn’t like this little loudmouth who was pushing around his regular drunks without so much as a bit of respect. He angrily slopped a ladle of the stew into a wooden bowl and stomped up to Bagsby.
“Look here, you apologize to this man and get your own seat. Don’t be coming in here raising—”
Bagsby flinched at the tavern keeper’s words and jumped up in alarm, being careful to drive his elbow up under the bowl of stew so that it landed, steaming hot, on the fat tavern keeper’s face.
“Ooowww!” Clayborne howled, letting the bowl clatter to the floor and grabbing at his apron to wipe the scalding liquid from his eyes.
“Oh, oh, I’m sorry,” Bagsby clamored. “Let me help you!” The little man grabbed at the apron and tried to swipe at the tavern keeper’s face with the dirty rag. By now, gales of laughter had erupted from every table in the room. And, of course, Bagsby had successfully removed all but two of the coins from Clayborne’s apron pocket.
“Get away from me, you loudmouthed little dunce!” Clayborne shouted, shoving the short thief away. Bagsby staggered backward and then tumbled over, exaggerating the force of the push he’d received. He contrived to fall squarely onto three other customers at a nearby bench; they were only too eager to help him to his feet and shove him again toward the enraged Clayborne, who by now had the stew wiped from his eyes. Bagsby stumbled forward, shouting, “No! No! Oh, my!” and staggered past Clayborne into yet another bench full of laughing onlookers.
“That does it,” Clayborne shouted. “Out you go! Out, I say!” The man’s fat fingers closed on the back of Bagsby’s cloak—which he had been careful not to remove—and yanked the little man up until his feet dangled above the floor. “I’ll put you out like a damned cat, I will!” Clayborne declared, racing with his kicking, pleading burden toward the tavern door.
“Oh, no!” Bagsby shouted. “No! Please! Not out into the cold! I only wanted—”
Bagsby felt Clayborne’s free hand close on the back of his breeches, and before he could finish his cry of protest he was flying face first through the tavern door. He landed nimbly in the slop and mud of the filthy, dark back street and was up and running, still protesting, before Clayborne had slammed the door of the tavern.
Bagsby kept running; he wanted to be well out of this section of the city within minutes. As long as he stayed in this neighborhood, with its collection of brothels, cheap sleeping rooms, sharpster merchants, gambling houses, and dives, he was in danger. That was the risk of the method he’d used: recognition. He’d attracted a lot of attention. On the other hand, he’d relieved one tavern keeper and eight patrons of the bulk of the cash they were carrying. If his estimate was correct, he’d have more than enough for a good night’s entertainment in a classy place with a higher grade of personnel. By tomorrow night, at this rate, he’d be hobnobbing with the rich in this fine city of...
Bagsby paused for a moment to catch his breath and remember the name of the city. Clairton—that was it. Clairton, in the central lands of the minor kingdom of Argolia. Well, by tomorrow night he’d be hobnobbing with the rich of Clairton. The thief glanced back down the dark, narrow street. He saw nothing unusual. He took time to check his soft leather breeches, his fine gray linen tunic, and his heavy black cloak for damage. Nothing serious, he noted, brushing some mud and dung from the cloak. Nothing that couldn’t be cleaned by a good lackey when he had enough money to hire one.
There was no alarm coming from down the street—those louts must be really drunk, Bagsby thought. His confidence rising and good cheer beckoning to him, Bagsby sauntered down the street, his hand working beneath his cloak to note the shape and size of the coins he’d stolen. Ah, he thought, this is good. This is better than I’d thought. He counted copper and silver coins, an amount equivalent to at least two gold crowns. More than enough for his purposes tonight. Bagsby began to whistle as he made his way out of the rowdy neighborhood into a more genteel district. He was so pleased with himself that he didn’t notice the slim, short, boyish figure, wrapped in a too long cheap black cloak, that darted from a doorway to follow him down the street.
Shulana worked her way cautiously down the street. At times it was difficult for her to believe she wasn’t noticed; as an elf who’d had little exposure to humans, she was not yet accustomed to the fact that humans could not see well in the dark. The narrow alley was filthy and crowded with a variety of humans, none of whom seemed appealing. There were the obvious prostitutes, the obvious thieves who eyed anyone who passed, looking for a poorly guarded coin purse, and a large number of drunks who loitered against the walls, urinated in the street, or fell down to sleep, passed out cold, only to be stepped on by others who staggered over and past them. Yet out of this mass of humanity, none paid the slightest attention to Shulana. That, of course, was what she wanted.
Still, the area made her feel uncomfortable. How could humans live in such filth? How could any creature with intelligence—and humans had intelligence, there was no denying that, even though they lacked any semblance of wisdom—how could any creature of intelligence live like this? What malicious joke of some god made them so destructive of themselves and anyone and everyone else?
Shulana shook off these questions and refocused on her mission. The little thief had stopped, brushed off his clothes, and obviously counted the money hidden beneath his cloak. So, as she had assumed, he had, as his kind said, “worked” the dive. He’d never had any intention of spending a long time there. Just as well. She wished he’d hurry up and get to some other section of the city, a section where the Covenant would be respected should her true identity be discovered. The scum in this section of the city would have no second thoughts about killing an elf just for the pleasure of the deed. That was another concept Shulana found strange—killing for pleasure.
No matter. Her quarry was moving again now. She couldn’t believe her ears—he was whistling! Why didn’t he just light a torch and carry it down the middle of street, shouting out “Notice me!” As she trudged along carefully, staying out of sight well behind him, she wondered if she’d made the right choice.
True, she had inquired of the seers on the Elven Council, and they had been unanimous. Every portent of their magic, every gift of foresight pointed to this Bagsby as the one she must choose. And she had studied his operations in Kala and been impressed by his skills, even though his behavior was abominable by elven standards. In
that city he had managed to swindle the entire cabal of thieves that controlled most illegal operations there. He had netted himself a fortune—and an enemy for life in the person of Nebuchar, the leader of the Kala cabal.
But then success had made Bagsby careless, in Shulana’s judgment. He had journeyed north through one city after another, always just a few days ahead of Nebuchar’s hired assassins, never even bothering to check for signs of their presence. He ate to excess, drank even more, and squandered a fortune on low-class women in high-class gambling houses. He didn’t even bother to steal to replace his losses. Shulana could not understand this behavior. And now, when he knew—or should know—that within moments an angry mob of drunks would be racing up the street searching for him, he was whistling! What kind of thief was this Bagsby? How could she trust him?
Bagsby saw torchlight ahead. Cheerfully, he quickened his pace. The narrow street opened on to a small square, bustling even though it was well past sunset and the stars could be seen clearly in the cool night sky. The buildings here were kept cleaner than those in the narrow street, and some rose three stories high. Young swains paraded in their colorful, fancy clothes around the fountain in the center of the square. Bagsby stopped and watched for a while. One youth in particular caught his eye. He was tall, lean, muscular—probably sixteen or seventeen years old. He took great pains to keep his cloak pulled back behind his shoulders, revealing his red-and black-striped blouse with huge padded shoulders and ruffled sleeves, topped by a large, white full-ruffled collar. His breeches were full-length, tight, purple with black vertical stripes right down to the finely polished black leather boots that rose to just above his ankles. He wore a soft felt hat with a huge, drooping brim in the rear and a spray of large purple and yellow feathers on the side. Quite the young suitor, Bagsby decided. And a gentleman, because he chose his jewelry well. Even across the square the trained eye of the thief could catch the gleam of gold rings on three of the youth’s fingers and the glint of tiny gemstones set in the hilt of his rapier.
Bagsby watched as the young man walked conspicuously from one side of the square to the other, stopping now to talk with one group, then with another, all the while casting surreptitious glances at a particular balcony where three young ladies, dressed equally lavishly, tittered and chattered as they watched the male displays below.
Across the square, horse-drawn carriages of persons of modest wealth came and went with some regularity in front of a guarded and well-lit doorway. No doubt a fine gambling house, Bagsby decided, and the place where those young men who failed to attract a lady friend—as well as some who did—would end up passing the evening. Bagsby smiled broadly and strode across the square, eager to ply his trade in this new, more pleasant setting. Perhaps he would gain riches this evening. Perhaps he would even fight a duel, cheat, win, and be toasted and feted. One could never tell where the gods of fortune would lead one, Bagsby thought.
Bagsby drew an inquisitive glance from one of the two rough-looking halberdiers who stood by the open doorway of the hall, but the man made no attempt to stop him. Bagsby passed inside, and his eyes widened with delight. The crowd was largely made up of young men, most under twenty-five, although there were a few men in their thirties and forties to be seen in the great hall. The hall itself was filled with gaming tables of all types—dice and card games were most common, though Bagsby saw one prestidigitator running a shell game with an eager throng egging on the current player to wager once again. Another was running a mousehole game, one of the oldest cons known to the gaming hall business. Smaller tables were scattered throughout the room for those guests who chose to drink or eat and hang on to their money a bit longer. The serving wenches were buxom, scantily clad, and beautiful in a cheap sort of way. Bagsby sighed with contented joy. This was his kind of place.
A backward glance at the square showed that fortune was indeed smiling on Bagsby tonight, for the young swain he had scrutinized so carefully was sitting dejectedly on the side of the fountain, talking with a friend. The balcony, on which he had lavished so much time and attention, was now empty, as empty as the wealthy youth’s heart and head would be while he suffered the pangs of lovesickness.
Bagsby made his way to a small table, plopped down, propped his feet up, and sang out to a serving girl, whom he promptly and affectionately patted on her ample rear while ordering a mug of mulled, spiced wine. Content, he watched the dice game at a nearby table and waited. Strangely, he paid no attention to the slight, short, boyish figure wrapped in the long black cloak that quietly entered the hall.
Shulana kept her head lowered and made her way quickly and quietly to the rear, selecting a tiny table near the darkest corner of the room. She knew she was taking a great risk, coming inside this human place. She had considered waiting outside, where it would be easy to hide in a dark doorway or even in the mouth of the narrow street that led back to the rough part of the city. But her curiosity and her doubts had driven her. Before she could approach this Bagsby, she had to be sure in her own mind that he was, in fact, the right one.