Free DW02 Dragon War by Mark Acres Page A

cattle. It was said that the winds that constantly swept Laga’s sandy streets would have long since blown those streets away were it not for the manure constantly worked into the sand by the passage of thousands of feet over the droppings of thousands of animals.
    Bagsby’s first order of business—aside from protecting his belongings—was to find a room. The main street near the gate was lined with elegant hostelries, competing for space with the richest of the merchant shops, which in turn were half hidden by the carts of countless vendors whose hawking could be heard well into the small hours of the night. But Bagsby was a native; he knew that any such elegant place of repose would soon leave him stripped of everything he owned—either by outright theft, which was common enough, or by the clever means of pandering to his every human desire and adding it to the bill he owed. Escape from such bills was virtually impossible except for the most experienced of scoundrels, for each hostelry employed teams of cutthroats who specialized in collecting.
    No, not there, Bagsby thought. To find a safe room, he would need to go deep into the city, into streets where the endless rows of whitewashed buildings were mainly the shops and residences of artisan merchants and tradesmen. Somewhere there, he would find a shop run by a widow or orphaned daughter, who would gladly give him safe room and board in exchange for a few coins and the relative safety of his presence.
    Bagsby made his way from the main street down the maze of connecting side streets into such an area. His fine, new boots were covered with dungy grit and the sand stung his eyes, but he felt a warmth that had been lacking in his soul for many years as he surveyed the shop fronts and smiled at the enticements of the women who leaned from the occasional upper balcony. His progress was so pleasant that he hardly noticed the gangly, awkward soldier until he nearly walked into the man.
    “Oops,” Bagsby said absently.
    “Bagsby,” the mail-clad form growled. One arm shot forward and grabbed the reins of Bagsby’s horse from the little man’s grasp; the other put forth a hand that closed with a crushing grip on his windpipe.
    “Bagsby,” the form muttered again, lifting him off his feet with the one strong arm. “Time to die, Bagsby.”
    The little man kicked out violently, felt the toes of his boots strike the chain-mail shirt, then the jarring, sickening thud of impact as his toes met the rigid flesh beneath the armor. Bagsby’s eyes bugged out wildly; the strangely rotting face of this odd behemoth filled his vision, and the constant scents of animal dung, men’s sweat, and cheap perfume were driven from his consciousness by the sickening stench that came from the man’s mouth as he spoke.
    Then Bagsby heard wild cheers. Even as the vision slowly faded and his lungs filled with pain, he knew at some deep, distant level what was happening. Thieves were coming, swarming from the countless doorways and windows, stripping the horse, knocking aside the soldier’s restraining arm, stealing the mount and all that was on it. The native of Laga, however, had no vain illusions that any of these thieves would for an instant do anything to help him.
    Bagsby’s kicks became more feeble, and he felt the cold, greasy death-grip on his throat become even stronger, if indeed that was possible. Only one thing to do, he thought, his vision starting to swim. He kept his eyes locked as best he could on his foe’s face and kicked ever more weakly to distract the strange man. Fumbling with his arms and hands, he finally purchased a grip on one dagger with his right hand, which was already starting to tingle and grow numb. He raised the knife high and struck the strongest blow he could, cutting into the man’s arm just above the wrist. The blade bit into the cold flesh and sliced through the meat, but it jarred to a stop against the bone. Again Bagsby raised the dagger, striking