DW02 Dragon War Read Online Free Page B

Rigel at Shallowford—the very village where Marta had once been revered as the wife of the commander of the Count of Dunsford’s Yeoman Border Guards. They came closer, too, to the operating rear area of the Heilesheim army. Though the main force was still far to the north in Argolia, its principal route of reinforcement, communications, and supply ran up the Shallowford Road. During the second daylight period, the foursome had to move their camp twice, and quickly, to avoid detection by wandering bands of soldiers straying from the road to hunt, carouse, and generally seek a day’s leisure from the more demanding brutalities of army life.
    Marta snapped on the third night. Shulana, as usual, was on forward point. The three humans saw her suddenly halt, and moments later give the sign to which they were so accustomed. Like the two men, Marta went to earth, sliding her large sack onto the ground beside her and cradling a twelve-foot stabbing spear in her right hand. After what seemed a very long time—it always seemed like a very long time to Marta—the threesome could hear the voices of the men whose presence Shulana had detected.
    “Shallowford—what a dungheap!” one man exclaimed.
    “Glad I joined the army, so I could see fair wenches like those cows!” a second giggled.
    “Even a cow needs a good bull once in a while,” a third offered, chortling lustily.
    “They didn’t seem to care for your company much,” the first teased.
    “Isn’t like they have much choice, is it?” the third voice responded, his laughter growing uproarious.
    Marta’s mind flashed back to her fine wooden house with a manservant and a maid, now a heap of ashes in Shallowford. She saw in an instant the plump daughters of the prosperous farmers of the village, now also put to ruin by the soldiers of the demon-spawn Ruprecht. And she saw again the night when, within sight of her dead husband’s severed head, soldiers just like these had held her while Ruprecht personally burned into her back the dragon insignia that was his coat of arms. Then Marta thought no more.
    “Death to Heilesheim!” she screamed and rose from her position, charging forward before her full bulk was off the ground. “Death to you beasts and bastards, one and all!”

    The party of green recruits, five in number, turned their heads toward the light woods behind the open field where they stood. Shulana saw their expressions—the looks of men who are about to burst into laughter at the sight of something at once hideous and ludicrous. Fat Marta charged ahead out of the woods, straight at the knot of men, her war cry one continuous, wailing scream, her spear leveled in her right hand while in her left she brandished a small dagger drawn from her belt on the run.
    Alarmed, Shulana looked back at Bagsby, who looked forward to George, who stood, shrugged, took up two short swords, one for each hand, and began to run forward. Bagsby groaned—there was no point in silence now. Shulana shook her head in disbelief.
    So ridiculous a figure did Marta cut in the course of her charge—her long tunic flapping around her ankles beneath the short shirt of chain mail, her long hair flying in tangled globs behind her head, and her chubby flesh jiggling with every thundering step—that the soldiers didn’t react seriously in time. The three farthest from her managed to step back when they realized the madwoman was serious; the two nearest her stopped laughing and went for their swords, but it was too late.
    Marta’s spear struck the first man square in the chest. The point rammed through his chain mail and leather padding, ripped through his ribs, lungs, and heart, and poked out his back, besmirched with gore. The man flew up and back, blood spouting from his mouth as his just-drawn sword dropped from his dead hand. Marta did not drop the spear, but rather carried itwith its bloody trophy on into the cluster of three, swiping with her sword at the remaining man as she