DW02 Dragon War (11 page)

The crowd thinned dramatically as it made its way toward the palace grounds; only an occasional mounted soldier sped from east to west down the broad boulevard. Along its sides, the kings of Heilesheim—immortalized in marble—glared dumbly at the passersby, frozen in postures of war. George stared back at them, a mindless fury slowly rising in his breast.

“These are the kings of Heilesheim?” Shulana asked.

“Who else would these barbarians glorify but their war kings?” Marta curtly rejoined.

“Aye, these are our kings,” George muttered savagely. “Look at ‘em. Everyone of ‘em dreamin’ of killin’ and conquest and lands and booty—an’ never a thought for once about them wot ‘ad to do the killin’ and the conquerin’ for ‘em.”

“To have raised this city, and to have created the sheer abundance of things we have seen on the roads from this place, some of these kings must have had some skill or merit,” Shulana said. She had thought George would be proud of the accomplishments of his people. She had noticed many times that George had no love for the nobility, but the intensity of the anger she sensed building in him was incomprehensible. How could he hate his own race? How could he hate the people who bore him?

“Lots of folk ‘ave built cities,” George said, “an’ made themselves rich while doing it. It takes a special sort to delight in the destruction of it all, and an even more special sort to think that men like me got nothin’ better to do than slave away to make men like them more mighty and rich.” George stopped walking; his eyes squinted into the dark distance. “Speakin’ of kings, there’s where the one we got now lives,” he said, pointing with his pike into the dark distance.

Marta strained her eyes as the threesome moved forward again, this time more slowly. Ahead of them, the Royal Road ended in a massive iron gate, about which a group of slouching guards were clustered. The great iron structure, fully eighteen feet high, seemed strangely incongruous, for its mighty stone supports were flanked by a small fence of iron spikes that even a mischievous child could cross in a matter of seconds.

Beyond the fence, the gardens stretched out, gently rolling, with a small stream meandering through them. There were mazes of hedges off to each side, and small paths through carefully sculpted beds of flowers. In the center of the great gardens, the stream fell over a small hilltop and down into a clear pool, forming the backdrop to another small rise on which the great dragon insignia of Heilesheim was sculpted in flowers that, with the aid of Valdaimon’s magic, blossomed black.

Though she could barely see the colors in the darkness of the night, Marta shuddered involuntarily at the sight of the spread dragon-wings design; it was the same design that Ruprecht himself had burned into the flesh of her back that dreadful night that seemed so long ago.

“‘Ere now,” George said, leading the party to a small bench at the roadside between two of the sanguine royal statues. “We’d best bind your arms, Shulana. You’re supposed to be a prisoner, you know.”

“What is your plan?” Marta demanded, in a hoarse whisper.

“Walk in the front door,” George said. “Them gardens is just the beginning, and they let almost anybody in there. Beyond is the fortified wall, where the real gate is.” George casually reached out and took Shulana’s hands. He quickly wrapped a long, narrow leather thong around her wrists, making more than a dozen loops before tying the thong off. “I learned a few things from our Bagsby,” he said, grinning at Shulana. “The best way to get in anywhere is to act like you belong there.” His skillful fingers had woven a tight knot. Only two very short pieces, the ends of the thong, protruded from the knot. “Lookee ‘ere, girlie. If we get in a bad way and you needs your ‘ands, just put one of these ends in your mouth, grab it with your teeth, and pull hard. This whole knot’ll fall apart in a flash.”

“Her you can march in as a prisoner,” Marta said. “What about me?”

“You’re the witness wot saw ‘er spyin’ on the army ‘afor the battle at Clairton,” George said, smiling broadly. “Come to tell ‘is Majesty wot you saw.”

Marta nodded. Anticipating the new environment of the city, she had already toned down her customary costume; she no longer wore armor or carried a visible weapon. Instead, she dressed like a common peasant woman in a coarse, brown, full-length tunic, tied around the waist with a bit of rope. She still wore good boots, though, and had a dagger secreted in the right one. The remainder of her belongings were tied in a large bundle strapped to her back.

“Awright, let’s go,” George said.

The threesome again made their way onto the roadway. George led them at a smart pace straight up to the gate, pushing Shulana in the back from time to time, causing her to stumble forward. It was the effect he desired.

“Who goes there?” one of the slothful guards challenged as the group came into clear sight, heading directly for the gate. The man stepped forward to meet the party, his arm extended in the gesture meaning “halt.” George noticed he didn’t bother to draw his sword, and the rest of the men continued their conversation, not even reaching for their pikes.

“George, miller’s son, of the Fifth Legion, with a prisoner for the royal dungeon and the royal court,” George answered smartly.

“Prisoner?” the guard said, stepping up to George and looking curiously at Shulana, who averted her eyes from the man’s gaze.

“Elf. Caught spying on the main army at the battle of Clairton. I’ve got orders to deliver her personal to the main dungeons ‘ere, and see she’s questioned proper,” George explained.

The guard nodded. An elf prisoner. Well, the officers ought to like that, he thought. The man turned his gaze briefly to Marta. “No camp followers, though,” he said. “Orders is orders.”

“Ain’t no camp follower,” George protested. “She’s a witness. She’s the one wot caught this ‘ere elf in the act. Come to tell about it, she ‘as.”

“Well…” the guard mused.

“And,” George added, leaning forward to convey a confidence, “she’s a great one for sportin’ wit’, if you know wot I mean. Help an old soldier wot’s earned ‘imself a reward stay a bit more comfortable on a warm summer night.” George poked the man gently in the ribs.

“Alright, alright,” he relented “Pass.”

By similar means, the threesome continued through the inner gate at the fortress wall. There, the captain of the guard, more smartly alert than the fellows at the outer gate, detailed one of his men to escort the group directly to the dungeons so the elf could be put safely under lock and key. “Take them to the lower dungeon in the east wing, where they keep that other old elf,” he instructed. Watching the group depart into the bowels of the palace, the captain had a second thought. “Go inform His Majesty,” he told another man, “that an elf spy has been captured at the front and is now being placed in the lower dungeon near the other elf prisoner.”

George, Marta, and Shulana were afforded only the briefest glimpse of the entry hall to the great central section of the palace, the official quarters of the king. What little George saw rekindled his smoldering anger. The hall was paneled with dark hardwoods; the amount of the wood used to make the walls would cost a whole village’s annual earnings. Over these wooden walls were hung tapestries whose threads of crimson, azure, gold, and silver gleamed in the light of great crystal chandeliers, ablaze with countless candles. There were rare furnishings—small tables, chairs, and settees, anyone of which would be worth a thief’s life for six months. Everywhere there was an air of opulent decadence such as George had never before encountered.

“King lives well,” George commented to their guard and guide.

“Hunh,” the stout, slightly flabby man snorted. “Ain’t nothin’. You should see the rest of the place.” The man turned immediately to the right outside the entrance to the hall and led them down a narrow corridor of stone lighted by torches in wall sconces. “But,” he added, “them parts of this place ain’t for the likes of you and me.” The man stopped before an iron-banded, wooden door, fumbled with a jingling ring of black, iron keys, and finally got the door open. “Down ‘ere’s where we go,” he joked.

The group made its way down a narrow, winding, stone staircase. Shulana noticed that the stone steps were well worn, with smooth depressions in their centers. They descended for five full revolutions before coming to another locked door. Again the guard fumbled with his keys, before ushering the group into a narrow corridor, the walls of which were made of cut stone. The sconces were less frequent here, and there was a slight chill
of damp in the air. There were more corridors, more doors, more stairs.

“A fellow could get ‘imself lost down ‘ere,” George commented to the guard.

“Aye, if he don’t know it well,” the man answered. “Part of the plan, I reckon, Once in a great while someone gets loose down here. But I ain’t never heard of no one makin’ it out.”

“Only a fool would test the strength of the garrison in this maze,” Shulana said, the first time she had spoken since entering the palace grounds.

“Shut up, you scum!” the guard barked, shoving Shulana’s head savagely against the stone wall. “Prisoners don’t speak.”

“Careful!” George interjected, wrapping an arm around the elf as she began to sag to the floor, stunned by the force of the double blow to her head. “If you damage me goods, I may not get me full reward.” The elf had courage, George thought to himself. He realized she was telling him not to worry about memorizing the maze—she had some other plan in mind for getting them out. That was good, George thought. He certainly hadn’t seen any way for them to get away from this place.

“Hunh!” the guard was saying. “Awful protective of that little thing, ain’t you? Is she good for a bit of sport, too?” he grunted.

“Not after your lot gets done wit’ ‘er,” George jested back.

“Hunh,” came the reply. The man stopped in front of yet another narrow, locked door, selected the key, then opened it. “Through here,” he said, throwing the door open.

The smell hit all three of them at once—a damp, fetid smell, mixed with the pungent, sharp-but-sweet odor of rotting flesh and slowly decaying dried blood. Only Shulana detected an underlying odor of something green and living, even in that environment of death—the smell of damp moss growing in the cracks between the stones in the floor.

“This here is where we keep the instruments,” the guard explained. He grabbed a torch from the nearest sconce and bounced into the room, lighting the wall tapers as he chattered merrily. “There’s the rack,” he said, pointing to a large wooden table equipped with iron cuffs for the feet and hands and surrounded by a complex series of iron chains and wooden cogs. The man lit another taper. “This here is the prisoner’s wife,” he said, pointing to an upright chest that was rather like a sarcophagus, with a vaguely feminine shape. It stood open, and from the interior of both the top and bottom iron spikes protruded in abundance. The guard went on to illuminate the rest of the large room. There was a large fireplace, with rows of knives, spears, pokers, and brands neatly arrayed nearby. A wooden chair sat off in an open space, equipped with a thumbscrew. Large iron buckets were scattered about the floor, some filled with water, some with foul waste.

“We hear many a fine song in here, you might imagine!” the guard said. “There’s a wheel, too—right through that door,” he added, gesturing to one of the three exits from the room.

“Impressive,” George played along.

“Yes, but where do they keep the elf prisoners?” Marta whined. “I’m tired,” she clamped a firm hand on George’s shoulder, “and I need something to eat and some sleep. And you promised me I could see any other elf prisoners.” The fat woman contorted her face into a pathetic pout.

“Alright, alright,” the guard said, answering George’s unspoken plea. “We keep that other elf right through this door,” he said, fumbling again with his key ring. “The old wizard, Valdaimon, is mostly in charge of him. He keeps him here so we don’t have to take him very far when we want to hear him sing,” the man said, chuckling.

George glanced at Shulana, who nodded in the affirmative,

“No you don’t,” Marta said aloud. “This one is mine.”

“What?” the guard said, turning from the door where he had just inserted the proper key.

Marta rushed up to the man, grabbing him around the waist from behind. “You’re so cute and funny,” she said, “I want to give you a little hug!”

Marta lifted the man off his feet and, against his laughing protests, carried him back across the room.

“Hey, now, I thought you was with him,” the man said. “C’mon, put me down, and we can work something out.”

“First, you’re going to get your hug,” Marta protested, releasing the man, spinning him around, and slamming him backside first into the bottom of the prisoner’s wife.

“Aaawwk!” was the only sound the stunned man could manage as the iron spikes dug into his flesh. Blood spurted from a dozen wounds, and the man flapped his still free arms, trying to grasp the edges of the device to gain leverage to pull himself off the points.

“No, no, stay still,” Marta scolded, deadly fire in her eyes. “Here comes your hug.”

Marta slammed shut the lid, then threw the full weight of her body against it, pressing hard. Stifled wet sounds came from within, then silence. A pool of blood slowly formed as the red fluid trickled through the crack in the bottom of the device.

“Let’s go,” Marta said.

Shulana had already unbound her wrists and sprung to the doorway. She flipped the key in the lock and pulled open the door. There, in the darkness, cruciform in manacles and hanging against the far wall, was the frail, horribly thin, white-haired form of Elrond, leader of the Elven Council and the oldest member of his race. His face was pressed flat against the cold, wet stone, and his pale eyes were rolled upward so that only the whites were showing.

George peered into the chamber over the stooped Shulana. He could see little in the darkness and motioned for Marta to bring a torch. As
his eyes adjusted, aided by the sputtering light Marta held above the threesome, George shook his head.

“We’re too late,” he said. “‘E’s dead.”