Free DW02 Dragon War by Mark Acres

this city. Laga had never been kind to Valdaimon. He remembered an earlier journey here, many years ago, on this same mission. Maddened by the constant, swirling sand that infested everything in Laga including eyes, shoes, hair, and lungs of anyone so foolish as to be in the city, Valdaimon had killed a passing man who crossed him—only to be attacked by the man’s brazen five-year-old child. The little monster had escaped Valdaimon’s wrath then, and he had lived to become the thief, Bagsby, who was proving Valdaimon’s bane now. That earlier mission had been cut short. Valdaimon had never found the holy man he sought. But this time there would be no Bagsby, and there would be no failure.
    It had taken the zombie a long time to journey from Lundlow Keep to Laga—two weeks, for its progress on foot was slow, and its coordination too poor to allow it to ride. The journey on foot had not been kind to the corpse. A few very simple magics disguised the extent of its corruption, but a careful observer would note that the lips hung limply, never tightening except when the man would speak, and the strange, ugly patches of purplish green discoloration about the eyes and beneath the nostrils, neither of which ever widened or contracted. Had anyone save the gods been watching, they would have noticed, too, that this soldier never slept. He simply walked the streets, looking, looking, always looking. But the citizens of Laga paid no heed. Men in armor were a constant sight, what with the war and all. Soldiers came to Laga, raised recruits, and led them out. More soldiers came; other soldiers left. It was all the routine of war; the merchants, harlots, and thieves of Laga prospered, which meant that most everyone in the city prospered, for few of the permanent inhabitants failed to fall into one of those classes.
    Bagsby was exuberant when he passed through the gates into the city of his birth. The desert sun poured its yellow gold with special favor on the sandy streets, and the endless parade of people in their colorful garb—each costumed more extravagantly than the one before—lifted his spirits even more. After a long odyssey, Bagsby was home at last.
    He did not remember the city well from his childhood days, and it had grown much since. But the basic flavor was the same, that he could tell at a glance. Here was the place where the dark desert nomads came—each tribe once a year—to barter the goods of dwarfs from the eastern mountains and even the unknown lands beyond for the necessities of their roaming desert life. Here, thieves in bulky silk trousers of yellow, blue, or red and short open vests ran barefoot and bare-chested through the streets, skillfully cutting the purses of those same nomads. Here were the great gambling houses, where the merchants of the caravans could while away their leisure hours losing all the profits of their long journeys from the western coast, while being charmed by the most beautiful, seductive, flattering, and thieving of women.
    Bagsby breathed deeply of the aromas of the city before starting down the great, wide street. He led his horse, carrying two daggers conspicuously in his belt, and in one hand held a staff that he had fashioned on his trip from a tree limb. When a horde of laughing, naked children came running toward him from his right, Bagsby quickly stepped to his right and swept low with the staff, sending the leaders of the wave sprawling. His own guffaws blended with theirs, and the urchins sped away toward the next mark coming through the gate; this one knew their ways.
    “At least I thought I knew their ways,” Bagsby said half aloud, lifting his foot to look at the sole of one of the fine leather boots he had bought en route. He had successfully avoided the thievery of the children, but not the steaming piles of dung that littered the main thoroughfare everywhere. When the desert men came into the city, they brought with them everything—their goats, camels, horses, and