DW01 Dragonspawn by Mark Acres Read Free Book Online

eyes were barely adjusted to the darkness; it took him several seconds to see the corpse of old Athelston lying on its back with a crossbow bolt sticking straight up from its chest.
    “What, ho!” Albert shouted, suddenly alarmed. He whirled to face the ford and saw the first of several horses coming toward him, now atfun gallop.
    “In the name of the Count of Dunsford, halt and say who goes there!” Albert called at the onrushing form. His eyes grew wide with terror as the moon passed from behind a cloud and its white light glinted off the flawless, polished armor of fully armed knight, charging directly at him. The warrior’s left hand loosely gripped the reins of his lumbering, barded horse; his right held the haft of a great morning star, a ball of iron with protruding spikes that whirled in the air at the end of a length of chain. Emblazoned on the man’s white tunic was the form of a great black lizard with wings, the Dragon of Heilesheim, as the Black Prince was wont to call it.
    Duty conquered fear in Albert’s brain long enough for him to scream out, “To arms! To arms!”
    “The sport begins!” came the answering cry from the charging form, whose steed closed the gap to the river shore. The whirling morning star struck Albert square in the face with such force the shouting man’s head was ripped from his body, impaled on the swinging ball.
    “Hah!” The knight laughed aloud, swinging his gruesome trophy for the following horde to see. He reared his horse up on its hind legs, pointing with the morning star toward the hapless village, where, the few burghers and several dozen families of peasants were just rousing from their slumbers, wakened by Albert’s call. “Death and flames,” the knight cried. “Put it to the torch and slaughter all!”
    With a great shout, a dozen mounted knights charged down the cobblestoned street, followed by more than a hundred men-at-arms on foot. The knights clustered about the three finer houses, breaking down the doors and entering to kill and pillage. The foot soldiers contented themselves with setting fire to the more than two dozen thatched huts that housed the village’s peasantry and practicing their archery as the hapless occupants staggered into the fire-lit, smokey streets.
    The knight who had slain Albert laughed as he watched the scene of blood and chaos. Tossing his weapon with its grisly trophy to the ground, he raised his beaver and then lifted off the great helm, decorated with spread dragon wings of thin gold-plated steel. This he handed to the young squire who had come to stand at attention beside his mount.
    “My lord,” an ancient voice called from the river ford, “is the battle already won?” The touch of irony in the question was lost on the young man, who laughed aloud again as two of his foot soldiers stamped to death a young peasant who had tried to flee down the village street.
    “Come, Valdaimon, see how easily we tread on old Dunsford’s lands and what sport we have!” the youth called.
    “My lord is in good spirits after his victory, I see,” Valdaimon commented, carefully threading his way across the last portion of the ford and stepping gingerly onto the riverbank beside the leader’s mount. “An easy victory. May all your battles be won so easily, Black Prince.”
    The young man turned and looked down at the old wizard who had tutored him through his youth, carefully teaching him the fine arts of government, war, and refined cruelty. “Don’t patronize me, old man,” the Black Prince snapped. His dark eyes blazed with a cold fire, and his long black hair snapped in the dawn breeze as he tossed his head arrogantly. “This was no battle, and you know it. Killing helpless peasants is mere sport. I was testing my men for their hardness, nothing more.”
    “As you say, my lord,” the old man replied calmly. “In any event, a clear signal to Dunsford that he has little choice but to accommodate your larger designs.” The old