with pain and rage, he had ordered his bearers to take him away to the shelter of the governor’s mansion. There, in a matter of hours, he had let himself be overtaken by affairs of the moment. He had missed the chance to find the desert shaman, and he had let go his intention to have the child Bagsby sought out and killed.
Critical mistakes, Valdaimon thought as he sat in the cheap chair in the thatched hut, listening again to the pouring rain. When one is among mortals as a mortal, one must keep track of who one kills, who their relations may be. Mortals are essentially powerless beings, Valdaimon mused, but they can be a deadly nuisance when one grows careless.
This particular human whelp had become a great nuisance. Valdaimon had heard his name from time to time in his contacts with the thieves and cutthroats of a dozen baronies. It was Bagsby who had stolen the gems of the Countess Pomeran, whose husband now commanded the First Legion. It was Bagsby who had kidnapped the daughter of the leading merchant of Grullheim, whisked her off all the way to the lands of the Rhanguilds, then, when he ransomed her, stolen a ship and sold it to her father for their return journey! He had even dared touch the League; it was that fool mage Grundelson who had let Bagsby steal one of his books of incantations and then sell it back to him before he realized it was missing.
Now this Bagsby was in league with some elf—could there be any connection to Elrond? Would he know, would he dare go after the treasure of Parona? Could he know what it truly was? Valdaimon could only wonder. Once more he cursed the name of Bagsby. Then he opened his eyes, rose, and leaned over the table, turning his attention once again to his scrying ball. Bagsby must die. Until that could be arranged, Valdaimon would keep a watchful, secret eye on the activities of this thief. And he would worry until the treasure of Parona was safely through Argolia, where Bagsby now resided, on its route to his own anxiously waiting hands.
Battle Joined
THOMAS ARBRIGHT, Count of Dunsford, single-handedly hefted aloft a full keg of Heilesheim-brewed ale, a feat of strength few living men could have equaled. Roaring with frustration and rage, he hurled the keg down the rocky hillside, heaving for breath and watching with satisfaction as the copper hoops snapped, the wood splintered, and the brew imported from his new and hated enemy spilled out onto the rocky ground.
“So shall we do to Heilesheim’s army, which dares to invade our land!” the count cried out to the assembled knights and minor lords who lined the hillcrest behind him.
A lusty, throaty cheer arose from the throng of warriors. Swords were raised in salute to the prowess of their leader. War hammers were banged against the backs of great shields. A stiff, cool, morning breeze conveniently snapped the count’s large standard out to its full, colorful glory. The count’s gasps formed steam that rose toward the pale blue spring sky, and the bulky war leader smiled. His men were ready for battle. It would go well.
“Barons, meet me for my council of war,” the count shouted. “All others, attend to your men-at-arms. The enemy is not far distant. We will attack today!”
A second round of cheering, grunting, and weapon rattling rang out as the count tramped up to the top of the hill and off toward his large tent that served as sleeping quarters, mess, and military headquarters when he was in the field. A flock of barons fell in behind him. The remaining nobility—baronets and knights—shared back slaps and mock clouts and gradually drifted toward their waiting foot soldiers, who had neither seen Count Dunsford’s display nor understood the reason for the battle they were about to fight.
Dunsford, always a careful warrior, believed he had done all he could to enhance his chances of winning the coming engagement. He had arisen early, bathed in the cold stream nearby to shock his system to full
Critical mistakes, Valdaimon thought as he sat in the cheap chair in the thatched hut, listening again to the pouring rain. When one is among mortals as a mortal, one must keep track of who one kills, who their relations may be. Mortals are essentially powerless beings, Valdaimon mused, but they can be a deadly nuisance when one grows careless.
This particular human whelp had become a great nuisance. Valdaimon had heard his name from time to time in his contacts with the thieves and cutthroats of a dozen baronies. It was Bagsby who had stolen the gems of the Countess Pomeran, whose husband now commanded the First Legion. It was Bagsby who had kidnapped the daughter of the leading merchant of Grullheim, whisked her off all the way to the lands of the Rhanguilds, then, when he ransomed her, stolen a ship and sold it to her father for their return journey! He had even dared touch the League; it was that fool mage Grundelson who had let Bagsby steal one of his books of incantations and then sell it back to him before he realized it was missing.
Now this Bagsby was in league with some elf—could there be any connection to Elrond? Would he know, would he dare go after the treasure of Parona? Could he know what it truly was? Valdaimon could only wonder. Once more he cursed the name of Bagsby. Then he opened his eyes, rose, and leaned over the table, turning his attention once again to his scrying ball. Bagsby must die. Until that could be arranged, Valdaimon would keep a watchful, secret eye on the activities of this thief. And he would worry until the treasure of Parona was safely through Argolia, where Bagsby now resided, on its route to his own anxiously waiting hands.
Battle Joined
THOMAS ARBRIGHT, Count of Dunsford, single-handedly hefted aloft a full keg of Heilesheim-brewed ale, a feat of strength few living men could have equaled. Roaring with frustration and rage, he hurled the keg down the rocky hillside, heaving for breath and watching with satisfaction as the copper hoops snapped, the wood splintered, and the brew imported from his new and hated enemy spilled out onto the rocky ground.
“So shall we do to Heilesheim’s army, which dares to invade our land!” the count cried out to the assembled knights and minor lords who lined the hillcrest behind him.
A lusty, throaty cheer arose from the throng of warriors. Swords were raised in salute to the prowess of their leader. War hammers were banged against the backs of great shields. A stiff, cool, morning breeze conveniently snapped the count’s large standard out to its full, colorful glory. The count’s gasps formed steam that rose toward the pale blue spring sky, and the bulky war leader smiled. His men were ready for battle. It would go well.
“Barons, meet me for my council of war,” the count shouted. “All others, attend to your men-at-arms. The enemy is not far distant. We will attack today!”
A second round of cheering, grunting, and weapon rattling rang out as the count tramped up to the top of the hill and off toward his large tent that served as sleeping quarters, mess, and military headquarters when he was in the field. A flock of barons fell in behind him. The remaining nobility—baronets and knights—shared back slaps and mock clouts and gradually drifted toward their waiting foot soldiers, who had neither seen Count Dunsford’s display nor understood the reason for the battle they were about to fight.
Dunsford, always a careful warrior, believed he had done all he could to enhance his chances of winning the coming engagement. He had arisen early, bathed in the cold stream nearby to shock his system to full
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